"Yes," Beck smiled warmly. "I was just coming from services; perhaps you would care to join us for a cup of coffee."

"By 'us' you mean you and Ms. Picard."

"There will be two others, Mr. Marten. A good friend of mine from Italy, a woman named Luciana, and a friend of yours, Dr. Foxx."

"Foxx?"

Again Beck smiled. "He asked me to find you. He wanted to resolve any 'misgivings' you might have had following your conversation in Malta. The restaurant in the hotel here has a small, private room where you and he can speak openly."

"Restaurant?"

"Yes, unless you'd prefer to meet somewhere else."

Marten grinned at the irony. Here they were trying to get Foxx to the restaurant, and now he was inviting him to the same place. The private room might be a problem, but with Beck and Demi and Luciana right there it would be all the easier to tell Foxx he preferred to talk to him alone and suggest they take a walk outside.

"The restaurant's fine, reverend," he said graciously. "I'd be more than happy to hear what Dr. Foxx has to say about my 'misgivings.' "

• 1:00 P.M

"Welcome to Montserrat, Mr. Marten," Merriman Foxx stood as they came in. Demi and the witch, Luciana, sat opposite Foxx at a round linen-covered table, coffee steaming from cups before them, a small plate of shortbread cookies or polvorones in the center of the table. There was a chair for Beck, and a waiter brought another for Marten. The room was as Beck had said, both small and private.

"You know Ms. Picard," Foxx nodded congenially across at Demi. "And this is Signora Luciana Lorenzini, a dear friend of some years' standing."

Marten nodded at Demi, then looked to Luciana, "It's a pleasure, signora."

The restaurant was indeed part of the Hotel Abat Cisneros and was, as Miguel had described it, just down from the basilica and built against the towering mountainside. The singularity of the private setting meant that the president would not know where Marten was until he and Foxx left and Marten tried to steer him toward the door that led to the pathway outside. If the president got nervous and came looking for him, he might walk right into the room itself, something, which besides exposing him physically, would put them at a severe disadvantage in trying to get Foxx alone.

Marten glanced at the doctor, trying to read him as he sat down. The physician-scientist-murderer was dressed in a close-fitting tweed jacket with dark slacks and matching mock turtleneck sweater. The Albert Einstein mass of unkempt white hair was like a trademark. Marten had only to look at his hands to again hear Caroline's voice, suffering and filled with fear-The way he touched my face and my legs with his long, hideous fingers; and that horrid thumb with its tiny balled cross.

Marten realized now there was something else to Foxx's appearance. His physical stature. He was bigger and stronger than he'd first seemed when they'd met at the Café Tripoli in Malta and he was dressed in the bulky fisherman's sweater. From the way he'd stood and greeted him when he and Beck had come in, Marten could see an agility too, an athletic ability, the thing he'd sensed earlier when he'd thought about Foxx's selection of Malta as a place to live because of the mountains of steps that had to be climbed simply to get around. As if staying in top physical condition was something instinctive to him, a habit from his military days in the South African Defense Force. It meant, as the president had warned, that he would be difficult to subdue. Marten would have one chance at him, and it would have to be fast and decisive and a total surprise. What happened afterward wouldn't be much easier, and the president would have to be right there to help.

"How was your trip, Mr. Marten?" Foxx asked congenially as the waiter set a cup and saucer in front of Beck and filled the cup with coffee and then did the same for Marten.

"From Barcelona or from Malta?"

"Either," Foxx smiled.

"Both were fine, thank you," Marten glanced at Demi, who avoided his look by picking up the plate of polvorones and offering them to Luciana. Marten watched her for a brief moment longer, trying to get some sense of whose side she was really on, then turned back to Foxx.

"Reverend Beck invited me to join you because of what happened in Malta. He was concerned that I might have had some misgivings about our conversation there and suggested you might like to clear them up."

" 'Clear them up,' that is a good way to put it, Mr. Marten," Foxx smiled lightly. "I would be happy to do so and will; my only difficulty is that there is someone who should be here but who is not."

"What do you mean?"

"You came to Montserrat with someone else did you not? John Henry Harris, the president of the United States." Foxx smiled again. He was relaxed and matter-of-fact, a simple comment about a guest who was not there.

"The president of the United States?" Marten grinned broadly. "That's hardly the company I keep."

"Until lately, Mr. Marten."

"You know more than I do."

Marten picked up his coffee and sipped at it. As he did, he shot a glance at Demi. It was grave and accusatory, as if she was the one who had told them about the president. This time she did not look away; instead, she gave a faint shake of her head. It meant how they knew was not her doing. She'd told them nothing.

"Might I suggest you locate your companion and ask him to join us, Mr. Marten?" Foxx lifted his coffee cup and held it in both hands, his long fingers wrapped around it, "I think you will both be quite interested in what I have to show you. Perhaps even a great deal more than interested."

For a moment Marten didn't respond. Clearly they knew the president was there, or at least were assuming he was. Denying it would only prolong the situation, dangerously if Foxx had alerted the president's "friends" and the Secret Service or the CIA were on the way. So the question was what to do about it. The original plan had been for the president to remain in the background until Marten could get Foxx alone outside, but with the doctor's sudden and surprise demand for his presence, all that had changed. Even the idea of Marten getting Foxx alone was all but gone. That left them with no plan at all and the president wholly at Foxx's mercy, which was something Marten couldn't let happen.

"I'm not so sure I know where he is. Or even if he's still here. It might take some time to find him if I can find him at all."

"At the risk of sounding presumptuous, Mr. Marten, I think it's safe to assume that the reason the president came to Montserrat was to see me." Once again Foxx smiled pleasantly. "So I rather doubt he would leave before we met. Nor do I think he would be pleased if you denied him the opportunity."

Marten studied Foxx for a heartbeat, then took a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and stood.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you, Mr. Marten. Neither you nor the president will be disappointed, I promise."