"There's an expression in the hill country of the United States."

"How does it go, sir?"

"While you're gettin' dinner, I'll get a sandwich."

"Ah! The idiom is clear. And I believe you, sir. But the fact remains that you would lose any battle between us."

"Probably. But you would not escape pain."

"Probably."

"I'll make you a deal."

"Ah! NowI recognize you to be an American."

"Just tell the lady that I want to talk to her."

"She knows you then?"

"No. Tell her I want to talk about The Cloisters and Maximilian Strange." Jonathan looked for the effect of the words upon P'tit Noel. There was none.

"And if she will not see you?"

"Then I'll leave."

"Oh, I knowthat, sir. I am asking if you will leave without disturbance."

Jonathan had to smile. "Without disturbance."

P'tit Noel nodded and left the table.

Five minutes later he returned. "Mam'selle Grace will see you. But not now. In one hour. You may sit and drink if you wish. I shall tell the girls that you are not a fish." His formal and clipped tone revealed that he was not pleased that Amazing Grace had deigned to receive the visitor.

Jonathan decided not to wait in the club. He told P'tit Noel that he would take a walk and return in an hour.

"As you wish, sir. But be careful on the streets. It is late, and there are apacheabout." There was as much threat in this as warning.

Jonathan walked through the tangle of back streets slowly, his hands plunged deep into his pockets. Fog churned lazily around the streetlamps of the deserted lanes. He had made a pawn gambit, and it had been passed. He had lost nothing, but his position had become passive. They now made the moves and he reacted. An hour was a long time. Time enough for Amazing Grace to contact The Cloisters. Time enough for Strange to decide. Time enough to send men. Perhaps he had made an error in not bringing a gun.

On the other hand, the Vicar had said The Cloisters people were seeking him out for some reason, and they had been doing so even before Loo had involved him in this thing. If Strange needed him, why would he seek to harm him? Unless they knew he was working for Loo. And how would they know that?

It was a goddamn merry-go-round.

Near a corner, he found a telephone kiosk. His primary reason for leaving the Cellar d'Or had been to phone Vanessa and make sure she was off in Devon and out of the line of fire. As the unanswered phone double-buzzed, his eyes wandered over hastily penned and scratched messages: doodles, telephone numbers, an announcement that one Betty Kerney was devoted to an exotic protein diet. There was a sad graffito penned in a precise, cramped hand: "Mature person seeks company of young man. Strolls in the country and fishing. Mostly friendship." No meeting time; no telephone number. Just a need shared with a wall. After the phone had rung many times, Jonathan hung up. He was relieved to know that Vanessa was out of it.

It was nearly time to return to the Cellar d'Or, and he had seen nothing of the man in the blue raincoat since he had left him trying to disentangle himself from the coyly persistent Jamaican whore, pay for his drink, and collect his raincoat. All this without arousing undue attention. They were an incompetent bunch. Just like the CII.

During his quiet stroll through the fog, he had decided how he would play this thing with Amazing Grace. There were two possibilities. On the one hand, Strange might only have her try to sound him out-discover his reason for seeking him. In that case Jonathan would let Grace know that he was aware of the activities at The Cloisters and of the fact that Maximilian Strange wanted to contact him for some reason. He would tell her he was interested in anything that might prove profitable, if it was safe enough. On the other hand, Strange might have decided to send men to pick Jonathan up and bring him to The Cloisters. In this case it would be important not to seem eager to get inside. He would have to put up some resistance, enough to make it look good. He would have to hurt some of them, while he tried to avoid hurt to himself. Once inside The Cloisters, he would have to play it by ear. It would be a narrow thing.

Damn. If only he knew why Strange was trying to contact him.

He paused for a second beneath a streetlight to get his bearings back to the Cellar d'Or. The blind alley leading to the side entrance was only a block or two from here. There was a shuffling sound down the street, and he turned in time to see a figure jump from the pool of light two streetlamps away.

The blue raincoat. The last thing he needed was this MI-5 ass tagging along. It would make him appear to be bait, and he'd never talk his way out of that.

There was a second of elastic silence, then Jonathan heard another sound, borne on the fog from across the street. There were two more of them.

He ran.

He had only twenty-five yards on them as he broke into the blind mews behind the club and banged loudly at the back door. The noise echoed through the brick cavern, but there was no response. From the dustbins and garbage cans that littered the alley, he found a champagne bottle, which he clutched by the neck, thankful for the weight of the dimpled bottom as he pressed back into a shadowy niche behind a projecting corner of damp brick. The three figures appeared, strung out across the entrance of the alley. Backlit by a streetlight, their long shadows falling before them on the wet cobblestones, they looked like extras from a Carol Reed film. Jonathan could see their featureless silhouettes, mat black in a nimbus of silver phosphorescent fog. He remained motionless, his heart beating in his temples from the effort of his run and from anger at being endangered by these bungling government serfs.

They stopped halfway down the alley and exchanged some muttered words. One seemed to want to go away, another thought they should enter the Cellar d'Or and investigate. After a moment of vacillation, they decided to enter the club. Jonathan pressed back against the wall as they neared. Getting all three was going to be difficult. As they came abreast him, he brought the bottle down on the head of one with a satisfyingly solid crack. The other two jumped away, then rushed at him with well-schooled reactions. Hands clutched at him, a fist hit him on the shoulder; a shoe cracked into his shin. He jerked away with a broad backhand sweep with the bottle that made them dodge back for an instant. One grabbed up a bottle from a dustbin and hurled it. He ducked as it exploded into fragments behind him.

A shaft of light fell upon the scene as the door behind Jonathan opened and the dominating bulk of P'tit Noel filled the frame.

"Thank God," Jonathan said.

Together they waded into the hooligans, and it was over in five seconds. Jonathan used his bottle on one; P'tit Noel struck the other with the flat palms of his open hands, loud concussing blows that splatted against his head and slammed him against the wall.

One of the men was still conscious, sitting against the brick wall, blood streaming from his nose and mouth where P'tit Noel's palm had flattened them. Another was moaning in semiconsciousness. The last was a silent heap among the garbage cans.

P'tit Noel dragged each up in turn by his lapels and held him against the wall with one hand while he opened the man's eyelids with his fingers, professionally checking the set and dilation of the pupils. "They'll live," he said, as a matter of information.

"Pity."

P'tit Noel wiped his palms on the shirt of one of the downed men. "Why don't you step in and brush yourself off, sir," he said over his shoulder. "Mam'selle Grace will see you now."

"What about these yahoos?"

"Oh, I think they will be gone by morning."

P'tit Noel conducted Jonathan to his small living quarters behind the club and offered him the use of his bathroom to clean up. He wasn't really hurt. There was some stiffness in one shoulder, his trousers stuck to his shin where the kick had brought blood, and he was experiencing the mild nausea of adrenaline recession, but he would be fine. As he stepped from the bathroom, P'tit Noel greeted him with a glass of rum, hot and soothing going down.