Stop it.

He pushed farther, until his hips had passed through the frame and he could lean forward, his knees now bent along the inside of the wall to keep him up. He stretched out his hands-briefly hanging unsupported along the wall-and caught the Dupont guardrail. He squeezed harder than he needed to, terrified that now, as he unhooked his aching legs from the window, he'd plummet. But he didn't. Instead, gripping the rail, he straightened his legs, and when they slid out the window and his body dropped, his tightened stomach hit the concrete edge of the terrace floor, making him nauseous. Yet his hands held, and so did the railing. He breathed through pursed lips, trying to get his strength back, then slowly pulled himself up.

His burning arms almost didn't make it, but he threw a leg over the corner of the terrace floor, which helped. All his extremities now worked painfully for one purpose, and soon he was crouched on the outside edge of the terrace, the pain all over him, shocked that he was still alive. He climbed over the rail and squatted, staring at his red, numb, shaking hands.

He didn't have time for this. He grabbed the duct tape and tore off ten two-foot-long strips, plastering them on the glass door until he'd made a square of tape. He punched his elbow into the center of it. Glass shattered, but quietly, and remained attached to the tape.

He peeled off the tape, exposing a jagged hole in the glass, stuck his arm through, and unlocked the door from the inside.

Without bothering to take in the apartment, he walked directly to the front door and, using a key hanging from a wall hook, unlocked it. He went to number six again and rang the bell. Formula One lowered in volume, then the little window opened. The young man gaped at him.

"Sorry again," said Milo, "but I left my knapsack in your bathroom."

The man, stunned, started to reply, then changed his mind and disappeared. After thirty seconds the door opened and he handed over the knapsack. "How did you get out?"

"I was going to thank you, but I didn't want to interrupt your show. And I hope the bathroom doesn't stink-I opened the window to air it out."

The man frowned at Milo 's grimy undershirt and slacks. "What happened?"

Milo looked down at himself, then pointed a thumb toward the open door of number seven. "Marie got back, and… really, man. You don't want to know."

He'd only just started on the living room, with its broken terrace door, emptying a small desk and riffling through an extensive DVD collection full of Angela's taste-The Misfits, North by Northwest, Chinatown, Some Like It Hot-when the door buzzer rang. He slipped off his shoes and padded to the foyer, wishing he'd brought the pistol, but it was only Einner. He was holding out his telephone. "It's for you."

Milo took it back to the living room, and the first thing Grainger said was "You alone?"

Einner had wandered into the kitchen; he heard the refrigerator open. "Yeah."

"I've been sacked, Milo."

"What?"

"Fitzhugh calls it vacation, but it's not that at all. He's furious I tipped you off about Homeland, and he's not happy I showed you Benjamin Harris's file."

"How did he find out?"

"I think one of the clerks told him, but it doesn't matter. I'm packing for a week in New Jersey. I've had enough of the city."

Guilt trickled into his bloodstream-the Company was the only thing the old widower had left in his life, and because of Milo it was now gone.

"What have you got?" asked Grainger. "Einner says you talked to the DGSE."

"Listen, Tom. I'm not even sure I should be running. I might just turn myself in."

"You should stay away," Grainger assured him. "I told you Simmons was meeting with Fitzhugh. She knew you were in Paris and demanded the report on Angela. I didn't show it to her, but I guess Fitzhugh got scared; he'd given in by Tuesday." He paused. "It's all about that blank spot in the surveillance, Milo. You shouldn't have asked Einner to turn off the cameras."

"You're the one who approved it."

"Which is something I'll have to live with. Now tell me what you've got."

Milo explained the most important facts. First, that the whole investigation into Angela Yates had been a ruse. "Yi Lien never brought his laptop out of the embassy. Diane Morel verifies this. That means someone was lying to you. Maybe your MI6 contact. You should get in touch with him."

"Not possible. Fitzhugh has informed Six of the end of my tenure. They know not to share information with me."

"Okay. I'm in a safe house Angela set up. I'm hoping she'll have some records around here."

"Whatever you learn won't mean a thing if you don't have physical evidence. Remember that. What happens if the apartment comes up dry?"

"I'm not sure."

"If you run into a wall, call me in New Jersey. I might be able to come up with something. You have the number?”

“Remind me, will you?"

Milo took a pen and paper from the desk and scribbled the 973 number of Grainger's lakeside house.

"One more thing," said Grainger. "With me gone, Fitzhugh is officially running Tourism. He has no idea where you are, but if he does learn that you're with Einner, you know what'll happen."

Firmer appeared, chewing a Snickers bar he'd found, gazing up at the pen-and-ink nudes Angela had decorated the place with. "I think I do."

Grainger wasn't going to depend on Milo 's predictive powers: "He'll call Einner-he has his go-code-and order him to bring you in. Catch or kill. So I suggest you lose Mr. Einner as soon as possible."

"Understood," he said as Einner gave up on the nudes and smiled at him. "And Tom?”

“Yes?"

"If Tina gets in touch, can you find a way to tell her I'm all right? That I'll be back as soon as I can?"

"Sure. But you know that woman. She never believes a word I say."

Milo hung up, gave the phone back to Einner, and asked him to look through the bedroom.

"I thought you wanted me to watch the street."

"This is more important," he said, though in truth he wanted Einner in earshot, just in case Fitzhugh made his call.

In the end, they only needed twenty minutes. Believing the Rue David d'Angers apartment to be safe, Angela had merely slipped her growing case file on the Tiger into a folder attached to the underside of the IKEA sofa that faced the small television. A stack of maybe two hundred documents, photographs, and handwritten thoughts ripped from notebooks. She'd organized them with paper clips so that anything she found on, for example, Rahman Garang could be added to a paper-clipped section with his photo and basic information on top. Milo was in awe of the lengths to which she'd gone, collecting phone records and occasional photos she'd shot herself.

He took the stack to the bedroom and found Einner in front of the open wardrobe, breaking the heels off of Angela's shoes, looking for hollow spaces. "Come on," said Milo. "Let's get out of here."

They took the papers to a brasserie in Montmartre, and over grilled racks of lamb began to sort through the information.

"You're telling me she did all this on her own?" Einner asked.

"That's what I'm telling you.”

“She was better than I thought.”

“Better than any of us thought."

Starting from the point she had told Milo about, Angela had focused on bank records for Rolf Vinterberg in Zurich. Using her connections, she had accessed the records of three other banks in town, two of which also showed a Rolf Vinterberg opening accounts that were closed soon after by Samuel Roth. She'd written on one page:

RV-Resident of Zurich

Alone?

No.

What Company?

Behind that note-to-self was a twenty-page single-spaced list of Zurich companies, divided by main activity. He had no idea why these particular ones had interested her, or what criteria she'd used. Four pages in, she had circled Ugritech SA with a black marker. How she'd come upon this particular company in the haystack of possibilities wasn't shown here, but he had to believe that Angela had her reasons, which could be hidden in any of the other pages, half of which Einner was reading through.