When the rental car’s GPS told him he was getting close, he pulled off to the side of the road next to a field dotted with golden bales of rolled hay. It looked like a platter of brioche for a giant. He turned the rearview mirror his way and carefully pressed two adhesive strips of mustache onto the skin above his upper lip. He was already wearing a Burberry safari suit identical to one Phil Duvall often wore. Now he added a pith helmet and sunglasses, and when he studied himself in the mirror, he thought he looked like a fool. Exactly like Phil Duvall. He drove on.

A single-track road led up to the gatehouse of Madame’s château. It was a two-turreted stone structure with a central arch to drive through. Or, rather, to stop at, since the guard came out and stood directly in the path with his palm out.

Barrett lowered his window and passed out the ID he’d cloned from the company’s security files. “Bonjour, Monsieur Duvall,” the guard said. He returned the ID and stepped aside with a gallant arm wave through the arch. “Continuez, s’il vous plaît.”

It was a lucky break: a guard who knew the name and costume better than he knew the face.

The sun dimmed as the lane led through a dense stand of trees, then it brightened again as he emerged into a swoop of manicured lawn that curved around a pond with a fleur-de-lis fountain at its center. Then around another bend and the château came into view.

It was in the classic style, a melding of Gothic and Renaissance architecture, with a steeply pitched roof topped by corbeled chimneys and pierced by gabled dormers, all of it stone-carved with elaborate ornamentation. At the center was a large round tower topped by a conical roof.

Barrett pulled up beside the arched entry. A maid opened the heavy wooden door as he got out of the car. She was dressed in a white tunic and pants and white soft-soled shoes, and he was a bit disappointed that she wasn’t wearing the Halloween version of a French maid’s outfit. He stalked toward her in his heavy safari boots as if on the trail of big game. She said something to him, but even though he had some rudimentary French, the only words he recognized were Bonjour, Monsieur Duvall.

“English, s’il vous plaît,” he said.

She bowed to admit him into a cylindrical reception hall. Its curved walls were painted with chinoiserie murals. “You are lucky,” she said in slow, careful English. “Madame is having a good day today.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Has she been ill?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “You may go up,” she said, and pointed toward the stairs.

He realized he was expected to know the way. If he asked for an escort, his cover would be blown. He eyed the carved-stone staircase and followed its curving path up to the gallery above. The mansion was big but not enormous. He ought to be able to find Madame’s salon. “Merci,” he said, and started up the stairs like he was scaling Kilimanjaro.