He picked up the revolver, peering out past the scullery door. Michard had become an indistinct figure among the shadows. He brought the revolver up, bracing the barrel against his elbow— brush to canvas.

But before he could pull the trigger Michard had brought the shotgun around. The impact tore away the the doorjamb as Gray rolled back.

"Nicholas, if you don't come out I will be forced to come down and get you. Do you hear me? I'm coming down . . ."

There were traces of blood from flying glass, the taste of copper from fear. He lowered himself to the floor, leaning out for another glimpse—still nothing except looming shapes of furniture and shadows.

"Nicholas, your position is hopeless. Do you hear me?" He heard, but suddenly wasn't entirely certain he agreed. Because although he may have lacked the soldier's insight, at least he had the artist's perspective of shadows. Even the critics had noted that shadows were his forte, and these were particularly enticing, what with the long rectangles in blue, suspended ovals in brown, black spheres along the staircase where Michard was crouching, waiting.

Gray hesitated, the last pause before the final touch, the signature before one could call the work finished. Hey, colonel. . . what do you think of my portrait now? As he reached back clutching his coat, hurling it through the scullery door.

Michard's response with both barrels left Gray momentarily dazed, stunned by an aftershock and more flying plaster. But even a colonel from the General Staff couldn't reload fast enough. Gray fired twice, first low into the wainscot, then higher into Michard's stomach, leaving him against the wall . . . for a seated pose.

Gray rose out of the scullery now, moving slowly forward. Michard remained very still, eyes also fixed on the middle distance. There was blood, a lot of it, but he did not seem particularly troubled.

"So, Nicholas. You've finally become a warrior. Congratulations."

Gray picked up the shotgun and tossed it away. Without taking his eyes off Michard, he eased into a chair, the revolver still steady. "I want to know why you did it."

Michard half smiled. "Because I'm a soldier ... a bad soldier, perhaps, but still... By the way, I hate Germany, always have. Hate the English too . . . maybe even more . . . goddamn superior—"

"Where's Spangler?"

Michard shrugged. "He got my warning. He's far away—"

"Your warning?"

"That business with the rabbit . . ."

There were sounds of shutters banging in the wind. Michard's face was pale, beaded with perspiration. "Tell me something," he finally managed to get out. "What did they tell you about me? That I was the supreme traitor of the French people, the snake of the century . . . ?"

"They said you did it for the money."