During World War II, Verdun and Reims were informal sister cities, together having been fortified into a loosely connected defensive line. Verdun's other claim to fame, one which was not found in many guidebooks, was that Adolf Hitler had served briefly in Verdun during World War I.

Fisher found Emmanuel Chenevier in a postage-stamp courtyard off his ground-floor apartment, apparently asleep in a redwood lounger, a copy of The Count of Monte Cristolying open on his chest. As Fisher approached, Chenevier turned his head, shaded his eyes with one hand, and smiled.

"Afternoon, Sam."

"Emmanuel."

Chenevier was not only the one man in France who knew his true identity, but also one of the only "off the books" friends he had here. An old Cold War veteran, Chenevier had spent thirty years in the DGSE, the Direction generale de la securite exterieure (General directorate for external security). They'd become friends in the early nineties and had stayed in touch. Chenevier was a loyal Frenchman down to his bones, and while he knew Fisher had been disavowed, they'd struck a bargain: Fisher wouldn't harm Chenevier's beloved "Hexagone," and Chenevier would keep his secret.

"Please sit down, Sam." Fisher took the other lounger. "You cut your hair," Chenevier said. "And your beard . . . I can't recall the last time I've seen your face. You're moving on?"

"Soon."

"You need documents?"

"Alteration."

"Our bargain still stands, yes?"

"Of course. Had a situation in Reims yesterday, but nothing you wouldn't have done."

Chenevier pursed his lips. "I saw something on the news this morning. Some injured men in a warehouse?"

Fisher nodded.

"They deserved it?"

"They deserved worse."

"I have trouble imagining such a thing, Sam. As I recall, one of them had his arms and legs broken: tibia and femur in both legs, radius and ulna in both arms. They found him strapped to a table."

"I thought there were three bones in the arm: radius, ulna, and humerus."

"So there are. Sam, you frighten me sometimes."

Fisher didn't reply. Chenevier let it go. "Let's go inside. I'll make us some lunch."

AFTERWARD,Chenevier looked through Fisher's take from Doucet's warehouse, separating the items into piles: credit cards, driver's licenses, passports, and, as Fisher had already discovered, a surprise: thirty or so cell phone SIM (subscriber identity module) cards.

"These could be handy," Chenevier said with a low whistle. "I'll have to check them, of course, but if even a few are usable, you'll be like a ghost. As for the credit cards--"

"Just need them for reservations. Hotels and cars."

"I can do that. A few of the driver's licenses might be of use--"

"Forget those. I've already been to see Boutin."

Chenevier frowned. "He's untrustworthy, Sam. And when he sees the news about that warehouse business . . ."

"I know. He won't make the call until I'm gone, though."

Chenevier smiled. "You're right, of course. Monsieur Boutin has a finely honed sense of self-preservation, doesn't he? Why go to him at all?"

"I need to shake the tree. See what falls out."

"Ah, I understand. The passports are your safest course."

"Agreed."

"I can get six to eight out of this bunch. When do you need them?"

"Day after tomorrow."

" D'accord."

"I can give you--"

"You can give me nothing, Sam."

" Merci, Emmanuel."

"You look tired. Tell me: Will you ever be able to go home again?"

Fisher considered this. "I don't know."

FROMVerdun, he drove north and west, meandering his way through the villages of Forges-sur-Meuse, Gercourt-et-Drillancourt, and Montfaucon-d'Argonne before turning back toward Reims. While he doubted he would be using an alternate route to the border, the more familiar he was with the countryside, the better. Chances were, his dash from Reims would take him straight to Villerupt and Russange, but he was also aware of the old adage "No battle plan survives contact with the enemy," and unless he was wrong about Boutin, the enemy would soon be here.

Only two questions remained: How good would they be? And what would be their orders?

HEwas back at Boutin's apartment shortly after five. The forger had the altered licenses ready. Fisher checked them, then handed over the money. "Nice work."

"I am aware. So, where will you go from here?"

"Who said I'm going anywhere?"

"I just assumed. . . ." Boutin gestured to the forged licenses.

Fisher shrugged. "Switzerland . . . Italy. I've got a friend who has a villa in Tuscany."

"A lovely place, Tuscany. When will you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow or the day after."

"Well, safe travels."

FISHERleft Boutin's apartment and walked down the block to Jules, a clothing store on the corner of de Vesles and Marx Dormoy, and spent fifteen minutes perusing the racks by the window overlooking both entrances to passage Saint-Jacques until Boutin emerged from the courtyard. Being the devout indoorsman he was, the forger took the shortest route to the nearest cabine, or telephone booth, where he spent thirty seconds before retracing his route to his apartment.

Good boy, Abelard.

LIKEEmmanuel Chenevier, Boutin the Gnome would have little trouble with arithmetic. The man he knows as Francois Dayreis arrives at his apartment with five driver's licenses, and within hours those same names appear in the news: a brutal assault on the outskirts of Reims. A lone perpetrator. Francois Dayreis was more trouble than he was worth--a customer whose continuing business was more a liability than an asset to Boutin. By the time he'd placed his anonymous call to the authorities, Boutin had probably suspended his business and secreted his tools and materials. If Dayreis was captured and tried to implicate him, all the police would find was an old man running a fly-tying business in his basement apartment. As is the nature of their trade, forgers know how to hide things.

Now came the waiting. Boutin would be visited; of that Fisher was certain. His cutout had been clear about that much. The timelines and scope of the response would be telling. Who? How many? And, most important, what were their rules of engagement?

Fisher checked his watch: almost 7:00 P.M. Boutin was savvy; he wouldn't have said anything to the authorities about forged documents, but rather that he knew of the man described on the news. Francois Dayreis was his name. The report would go to the local police, the Police municipale, who would pass on the tip to the Police nationale. As Doucet and his cohorts would have reported the theft of their driver's licenses (but not the loss of their satchel full of stolen IDs, passports, and SIM cards), the Police nationale would assume the attacker planned to use the stolen licenses, which would necessitate the involvement of Interpol and the Direction centrale du renseignement interieur (Central directorate of interior intelligence), or DCRI, France's version of the FBI. From there, electronic ears would take note of the name Francois Dayreis and alarms would be raised. In all, Fisher estimated he had six hours before someone in the United States pushed the panic button.