And after all these years and all that work, the best he'd been able to afford was a basement apartment in Reims. Was he hoarding all the money? Helping to support someone? Or did he have certain . . . weaknesses. . . that siphoned off his income? These were interesting questions, but all Hansen needed to know was, first, had Fisher gone to see Boutin (as it seemed he had), and, second, did Boutin know where Fisher was headed.

Boutin's apartment was located just west of the center of Reims, on the corner of rue de Vesles and Marx Dormoy, behind a clothing store and several other storefronts. Hansen was glad they'd made a dry run, since there was no parking at all on rue de Vesles because of some road construction and repair. There were signs posted up and down the street, with red railings fencing off the torn-up cobblestones. The maps had not revealed that.

A tunnel-like alley called the passage Saint-Jacques lay between a small pharmacy and several ATM machines. A wrought-iron gate with a security touch pad secured the entrance to the tunnel, and that gate stood in sharp, contemporary relief against the passage's ornate stone arch, which made you feel as if you were walking through someplace very ancient and somehow sacred. Hansen and Ames had already decided that at least one, possibly two, of them would gain entrance to the courtyard beyond, either by hopping the gate or picking the lock. A second inspection revealed motion detectors, so those and the lock would have to be neutralized.

Hansen took them around the block one last time. Within the courtyard near Boutin's apartment was an old church, and behind it an ornate carousel ride with bright lights and gleaming horses. Once again more fences lay between them and the courtyard where Boutin's apartment was located, so entrance from the north would also require some climbing or lock picking. No big challenge. Just a nuisance.

Ames finished taking his pictures and lowered the camera. "You see the ass on the girl back there?"

"No, I was too busy reconnoitering the target and considering our plans for tonight."

Ames shrugged. "You missed quite an ass."

"Where in the training manual for covert field operatives does it say that you need to be loud, the class clown, and the center of attention?"

"Dude, it's in the footnotes. You don't read the footnotes?"

Hansen snorted. "If you don't take this operation seriously--"

"Benjamin? Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Shut up! Listen to me. The quips are just irritating and they need to stop."

"Whatever you say."

"And leave the women alone. Maya will kick your ass, and I won't stop her."

"I'm just trying to have some fun. You people are so uptight. We could die out here because, yeah, maybe this whole thing's a setup. Maybe Grim's a traitor. Maybe we're being used, so we might as well have a little fun along the way--because you know what, Mr. Hansen? Life's too goddamned short. All it takes is one little spark, one little flame, and it's all burned away. . . ."

"You don't think I know about that?" Hansen asked, wishing he could fix Ames with a hard look but keeping his eyes on the road. "We're all spies here. You found out Gillespie slept with Fisher the same way I found out about your family dying in a fire, about that Zippo you carry around, about your little problem with anger management. I even read Fisher's report about you and your bad temperament."

Ames began shaking his head and laughing. "You really think you know me, huh? You really do!"

"You're about as uncomplicated as they come."

"All right. I'll accept that. Just a blue-collar kind of guy . . ."

Hansen stole a glance at the man and just sighed.

THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

ANNAGrimsdottir stiffened as the door opened and in strode Nicholas Andrew Kovac, deputy director. Kovac had an expression on his face that he assumed would intimidate her--but he should have thought again.

She nodded curtly at the regal-looking man, his hair the color of sea salt and perfectly coiffed, his eyes stunningly blue and suggesting he'd had no trouble with the ladies in his youth. His suits were tailor made, his shoes professionally shined, his ties picked out by his personal assistant. His watch cost more than the average commuter car, and, speaking of cars, he drove several different exotics to work, taking turns between the Lotus, the Porsche, and the "Lambo." It was all remarkably egocentric, and far too flaunting for Grim's taste, and Kovac had already inspired a legion of haters among the low-level analysts. But the deputy director didn't care. He was and would forever be terse, demanding, and unflinching, and he had on more than one occasion lectured his subordinates about how hard he'd worked to reach his goals.

He was an ass. No two ways about it.

In fact, while he knew most people referred to her as Grim, he never once called her that, relying only upon Ms. Grimsdottir, spoken in the tone of a private schoolteacher addressing his unfortunate pupil.

"Hello, Ms. Grimsdottir."

She winced and fired back, "How you doing, Nick," in her best New York accent, as though addressing one of the boys.

He took a long breath. "I've come for an update on Fisher."

"I would've been happy to call or e-mail you. . . ."

"You still think Fisher is in Reims?"

"We do. The team's already begun its investigation."

"But Fisher could be long gone."

"He's not."

"You're certain? Why?"

"Because I know Sam. If he made a mistake, he'll wait around, shake the tree, see what falls out."

"Well, I expect daily, even hourly, updates."

"Of course."

"Where's Mr. Moreau?"

"We had a problem with one of the servers and he's down there supervising."

"Well, tell him I want to see him in my office before the end of the day."

"I will." Oh, this is going to get interesting,she thought.

He started for the door, hesitated, turned back. "Ms. Grimsdottir? We don't have to like or trust each other to do the good work of our country."

"But it would make things easier."

"What position would you have me take at a time like this"

"A supportive one, sir."

"You have my support."

She took a long breath. "But not your trust."

"When Fisher is taken out of the equation, we'll all be able to breathe easier."

"If only it hadn't come to this."

"But it has. And I would hope that you've instructed your team to neutralize the problem with extreme prejudice."

"Is there any other way?"

He winked. "Good girl."

She glowered at him as he turned and strode arrogantly toward the door.

17

GRAND HOTEL TEMPLIERS REIMS, FRANCE

KIMBERLYGillespie had just finished an encrypted text chat with Mr. Moreau when the man himself walked into the hotel room, holding his own key card and smiling like a bull shark.

Gillespie looked at the LCD screen, then at him, and had a WTF moment before finally opening her mouth.

But he beat her to the punch. "What's up, Pippi? You done chatting with me?"

"What the hell?"