Somehow this last morning felt like the first, as if winter had suddenly receded, leaving a glistening spring. The light was clear and white with oyster tones in the narrow lanes. Lost colors seemed to be returning to the trees. Damp roofs were faintly steaming.

"I understand that it's really quite beautiful," Craven said.

"I suppose."

"I mean the forest at Fontainebleau. I think you'll like it. And Michard's place is nicely situated with a marvelous view of the countryside."

Gray let the curtain fall. "How do you know that Spangler will show?"

"Because it's a perfect situation for him. He likes to meet his agents in remote places. He thinks it safer."

"And is it?"

Craven smiled, nearly reaching out and touching Gray's shoulder again. "You mustn't worry, Nicky. If Michard suspected anything he would have never asked you along. As it is, you're to be part of his cover: a country holiday with mistress and artist friend.”

There was a map torn from a guidebook. Craven laid it out on the table, securing the ends with coffee cups and a cigarette case. "We've rented a farmhouse here/' he said. "We'll also have an observation post here. But you'll still have to be our eyes as far as Michard is concerned. Understand?"

"How does it happen? I mean, when Spangler meets an agent, what's the usual sequence?"

"It's all arranged in advance. Spangler slips into the area unobtrusively, often in disguise. There's a brief exchange of safety signals, then the rendezvous. All in all it takes about six hours."

"What do I look for?"

"The little things. Ostensibly Michard will spend his time enjoying the pleasures of country life, but sooner or later he's going to slip away alone. That'll be your signal."

"And then?"

"There's a path from the chateau to the farmhouse—here. It's about a twenty-minute hike over the vale. When Michard makes his move, all you've got to do is trot on over and give us the word. My people will do the rest."

Then there was the revolver. Gray had gone back to the chair, and Craven laid it gently on the table: black and enormous, the cartridges almost the size of a man's thumb. "I can't really imagine that you'll need this, but . . ."

Gray looked at the thing, couldn't seem to move his hand to touch it. "You know, Michard told me that he has this dream about dying like a hero," he said.

Craven shrugged. "So I've heard. I told you he was vain and foolish."