"You're an American. And my English is pretty good. So let's dispense with that."

"How do you know I'm an American?"

The old man grinned, and a twinkle came into his blue eyes. "You've been waiting around all day for me. I went to see my grandchildren. They're getting so big."

"I just have a few questions."

"Of course, you do. Come inside, and I'll make us some tea."

"Just a few questions. It won't take long."

Chenevier lifted his cane, pointed at the door, and eyed Hansen. You don't turn down an offer for tea.

With a nod, Hansen followed the old man into the apartment and was led into a small living room. The sofa, bookcase, end tables, and even the TV stand were beautiful antiques, nothing short of elegant. The artwork on the walls appeared to be original and notably expensive, not that Hansen knew much about art, but he could tell the difference between a print and real canvas. This was class, hardly small-town Texas.

"Please." Chenevier gestured to the sofa.

Hansen took a seat, and the pillows felt hard, as though they'd barely been used.

While the old man prepared the teapot in the adjoining kitchen, he called out, "I suppose you're wondering why no one saw me leave."

"That had crossed my mind."

"Any man who lives in a place with only one door is a fool."

"There's a basement? Tunnels?"

"Of course. I suspect that on any given day there are a half dozen governments keeping an eye on me. A man needs his privacy once in a while."

"I see."

"Don't be coy. You know who I am. And you've come here looking for him."

"Will you help us?"

Chenevier returned to the living room and sat in a chair opposite Hansen. "Why do you need my help? Haven't they turned you into expert bloodhounds?"

Hansen smiled wanly. "He came to you after Boutin. We thought you might know where he's headed."

"And if I knew, why would I tell you?"

"Because we're all on the same side. He's in trouble. And we're here to help."

Chenevier chuckled under his breath. "Our friend is always in trouble . . . or he's taking a day off."

"Can you give us anything? Any indication of where he might be?"

"There is a mutual understanding between men like us. I would hope that someday you would make such a friend and reach such an understanding."

Hansen took a deep breath and stood. "Thank you for you time, monsieur."

"But I've just put on the water for the tea."

"I'm sorry."

Chenevier stepped up to Hansen. "He's just a man who's tired and wants to go home. And so he shook a tree, and you fell out. So young. Just be careful. He casts no shadow, and you won't see him until it is too late."

HANSENwas about to tell the team they had wasted an entire day, and then go on to lash out at Moreau, when the operations manager called to say they were getting on a private charter bound for a small town called Errouville, about seventy-five miles northeast of Verdun. Moreau wanted them on that plane immediately, since there wasn't time to lose. "Fisher was at a Sixt car-rental office in Villerupt. He used Louis Royer's driver's license to rent a car. You need to fly to Errouville, and then get up to Villerupt ASAP."

Louis Royer was one of Doucet's thugs, and Hansen was dubious as to why Fisher would take the chance of using that license when he must've known it'd tip off Third Echelon. No, Fisher wouldn't make that mistake. This was part of the game, and the more Hansen played, the more frustrated he became.

It was already late afternoon as they took the highway designated D903 down to the small executive airport southeast of Verdun and boarded a single-prop Cessna 207. The pilot was a terse Frenchman with a sun-weathered face and permanent scowl. He barely said ten words to them as they boarded.

"French hospitality," said Ames. "Can't wait to bring the entire family back here so we can all be treated like dogs."

"Shut up, Ames." Gillespie groaned.

As they took off, Valentina, who was seated beside him, leaned over and said, "Nice vacation."

"Yeah, right."

"I actually found some shoes while we were waiting for Chenevier."

"Are you kidding me? Shopping while on the job?"

"If you call this work. I feel like an actor."

"Something has to give. Something . . ."

They both leaned back and settled in for the short hop. The engine volume rose, so there'd be little talking inside the cabin. Hansen glanced up at Ames, two chairs ahead of him. The team's favorite operative was rolling a Zippo lighter through his fingers, a nervous habit Hansen had seem him indulge on more than one occasion. He was such a control freak that being forced to sit in a plane and not pilot it was already driving him crazy. The more Hansen thought about it, the more he realized that Ames's presence was actually a good thing. Finding new ways to despise him was a pleasant diversion from the half-truths of the mission.

THEairport just outside Errouville was little more than a dirt tract four miles southwest of Villerupt. As they landed, they left a long plume of dust in their wake. Their friendly pilot, who'd been silent, cursed as the plane bounced over ruts like a monster truck in the Arizona desert.

Gillespie announced that she was going to throw up. She didn't, but Valentina told her to aim at you know who. Ames smirked.

The billowing dust from their landing partially clouded the three outbuildings, but Hansen thought he saw the two SUVs that Moreau had mentioned. He'd rented them yet another pair of transports: Renault Koleoses--one black, the other silver. The SUVs were strikingly similar to the Nissan Murano, and Valentina called dibs on the silver one as they taxied up to the end of the strip, turned, and neared the buildings.

In the distance, Hansen spotted a lone car traveling down the narrow road, but it was too far off to see clearly. The pilot helped them unload their gear; then Hansen went inside the door marked BUREAU and caught the attention of a heavyset woman with red hair.

"Vous desirez?"she asked.

Hansen told her in French that he needed the keys to the rental cars that had been left there by the agency. She handed over the keys and said, "You just missed your friend."

"Excuse me?"

"There was a man here who said he was expecting five friends."

Hansen frowned deeply. "Was he a tall black man?"

Moreau had saidhe was still back in Reims, but Hansen was no longer ready to assume anything.

The woman shook her head. "He was a white man. He was clean shaven, crew cut, tall. Dressed like tourist: red polo shirt and green trousers."

And Hansen was already reaching for the photo of Sam Fisher he kept in his breast pocket. "Him?"

"That's him. Are you the police?"

"No..."

"But your friend is in trouble."

Hansen raised his chin. "Thanks for your help." He ran outside, shouting, "You're not going to believe this! Fisher was just here!"