"What's his name?"

A slight hesitation. ". . . Piper. His name is Piper."

"And why is he doing it?"

"Mmm?" Southerland shrugged. "Well... it could be he believes that Charlie is about to be exposed and he doesn't want to fall with him."

"Is that what he told you?"

"Well, yes. More or less . . ."

The eyes and the voice now seemed as equivocal as the words. Gray had moved to the windows—classic French windows that led to a balcony and a fire escape. The street below was black, and led nowhere except to the mouth of an alley.

Finally, without turning around: "What in bloody hell is going on, Martin?" No answer. "What's going on? Who are we really waiting for?"

"Nicky, I want you to know that I honestly did make inquiries. I honestly tried—"

"Who?"

Southerland wet his lips, glancing from a chair to the floor to a lamp on the table—an ugly porcelain thing with a flowered shade.

"It's just that it's all much bigger than we thought. It's not only Dunbar any more. It's the whole Fourth Floor. They all want her now . . . and I simply wasn't in a position to oppose them. Nor are you, Nicky."

"Which means exactly what, Martin?"

"Which means that Zelle has become a political entity—everybody's favorite spy. Everybody who counts, that is."

Gray turned, putting down his glass. "I see. Then who are we waiting for?"

"Nicky, please try to understand, they just want to talk to you—"

"Who?"

Gray heard them before he saw them, at least a dozen footsteps on the steps below, then the sound of revolvers being cocked. Southerland had also drawn a pistol, but hardly had a chance to cock it before Gray was on him.

He went for Southerland's wrist, jamming it back until the pistol fell... then farther until the bone snapped. Southerland sank to his knees, screaming, and Gray brought his elbow across the man's jaw. But there wasn't time to kill him, not even time to drive a heel into his ribcage before the door burst open.

There were five: four French officers and an Englishman in a bowler and overcoat. Gray heard the first shot as he slipped over the railing to the fire escape, then another as he landed on the pavement. He didn't feel it, however, until he reached the mouth of that alley. Then it was like the impact of a club, or scalding water against his back.

A flesh wound, he told himself. Keep moving, just a flesh wound. He got up, stumbling for the deeper blackness between the tenements. He knew he could never outdistance them, not with a bullet in the shoulder. His only hope was the sniper's solution—to lie silent and motionless in the shadows.