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The Sommelier, brass buttons bright in the candlelight, stood at attention while Lee Stetson sipped the small taste of golden liquid just presented him in the elegant crystal. Lee nodded appreciatively to the wine steward as the drink swirled delicately across his palate. "Chateau Aibling" was indeed the most exquisite of the white wines produced in Germany since World War II. Deirdre had been right. He winked at her across the table. She had been watching the time-honored ritual with both her large blue eyes and her succulent breasts nearly popping out of their moorings with the anticipation.

"Danke, das ist wunderbar!" he thanked the Sommelier in fluent German. "It sets the Bordeaux vintages of the same year to shame."

The steward smiled with pleasure at the compliment. "My sentiments exactly, Herr Stedtsman." The man gave a little bow, clicking his heels together, and began pouring with practiced ease into the glasses.

Lee sat back, enjoying the Old World elegance of the Cologne restaurant. It had been restored to pre-war sumptuousness: deeply polished mahogany with brass fittings, thick velvet draperies, heavy linen, real antique silver, Limoges china. No matter that his borrowed Armani tux was worth at least two months pay and the Agency accountants would have a heart attack when they saw the bill for the bottle of "Chateau Aibling," he was having the time of his life.

Now, if only sweet little Deirdre, Baroness Von Schwearingen, would give him the information he'd come for. It was hard to see how the airhead blonde could know anything the Agency would spend this kind of money on. He smiled at her, enjoying how her dimpled grin met his. As he took another sip however, he felt her silk stocking-clad foot traveling up his leg slowly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Enjoying the food, my dear?" he squeaked, trying to concentrate on the Coquilles St. Jacques on his plate. The scallops suddenly stuck in his throat. He wasn't sure how he was going to make it through dinner. He had already warded off several of the girl's rather blatant advances. Worse, she was really starting to turn him on.

"I can't wait for, um, dessert, mein Herr." Her Bronx accent made the German sound more like "mean hair." Deirdre's name was the most German thing about her, Lee noted amusedly. He wondered how on earth an aging Baron from a noble family, with a genuine, centuries-old European title, had come to marry the dim-witted American golddigger. Even in the sophisticated, strapless Dior gown, with the Von Schwearingen diamonds on her slim fingers, she looked "for sale."

"Before the main course?" He played along flirtatiously, shifting again in his seat to keep his distance. She giggled and shook her mane of blonde hair that would have put Farrah to shame. Greater minds than his thought Deirdre was playing games with the Soviets, selling secrets to them regarding her husbands' factories and their arms contracts with Nato-allied countries. Hell, maybe she was smarter than she looked. Maybe she was trying to keep him off-balance on purpose. He was still puzzling over this when the Maitre d'Hotel bowed low and handed him a folded note on stiff ivory paper. Lee opened it warily.

It said simply: "Come to the lobby at once." It was handwritten, in English, in large wobbly script that looked vaguely familiar.

"Is something wrong?" Deirdre asked.

"I've got to call the office," Lee said good-naturedly. "One of my accounts... some minor emergency, no big deal. I'll be right back."

"I hope so," she practically moaned, leaning over the table to take his hand. She made sure he got a good look at her cleavage before she let him go. "I'll be lonely 'til you come back." She gave him a sexy little pout.

"Me too," he lied, winking. Her pout turned to a smile.

In the lobby, a slim man in a tired raincoat paced in front of the picture windows. He turned as Lee approached.

"Lee?"

Lee Stetson stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen this tall young man with the sad eyes.

"Murphy?" He stared incredulously at his cousin, Murphy Michaels. "Or is it Columbo?" he laughed, taking in the crumpled raincoat. "What are you doing in Cologne? I thought you were some hot-shot P.I. in L.A.? How did you know I was here? Are you alone?"

The words just came tumbling out as Murphy smiled and nodded and shrugged and finally gave him a bear hug.

"Man, it's good to see you."

"You too." Lee stared at him for a moment in silence with a big grin on his face, until he remembered his questions. "So? What's up? Start spillin' those guts."

Murphy glanced around to make sure no one was within hearing range. He lowered his voice. "I'll make this quick. I'm not sure what you're doing here, but your date is in big trouble."

"Wha...?" Lee snorted.

"Hayvenhurst sent me, believe it or not. A client wanted some surveillance done. 'Money's no object,' sort of thing. Started out real routine, but it led me to Cologne and a man named Von Schwearingen. I couldn't believe it myself when they okayed the overseas travel."

"Von...?" Lee's mind was still racing. He turned back towards the dining room, toward the Baroness, but their intimate table for two was blocked from view by a large, opaque glass partition.

Murphy continued. "Turns out the diamond smuggling wasn't just diamond smuggling, it was 'let's build a laser for the Russkies' time. The Baron is not only up to his neck, but I was suddenly knee deep in C.I.A. and Agency boys who didn't appreciate my innate intelligence."

The news about the diamond smuggling sent Lee's brain reeling. After being a member of the Oz network, and after his last few adventures in the field, he'd thought he'd been promoted to full agent status for both U.S. and foreign scenarios. Now it looked like the boys in foreign branch were just letting him baby-sit while they got on with the dirty work. He could feel his temperature rising at the thought.

"How did you get here?" he managed to ask Murphy evenly enough.

"Followed you." Murphy shrugged his shoulders. "Just doing my job. When I saw who was escorting the voluptuous Baroness, I figured I had to warn you. I think she's going to be arrested too. Maybe you'd like to stay clear of it?"

Lee ran a hand through his short-cropped brown hair. The Rolex on his wrist glinted in the subdued lamplight. From the way his cousin was eyeing his designer tux and the diamond stick-pin he wore, he could tell Murphy was full of questions too. Lee was just not in the mood to start enlightening him. "Listen, I've got to get back to Deirdre... where are you staying?"

Murphy named a small hostelry in the old part of town, not far from the cathedral. Lee patted him on the back. "I'll meet you there in the morning. Good to see you, Murph."

"Yeah. Hey, don't do anything I wouldn't do." Murphy's eyes held a glint of humor. He nodded toward the dining room and his waiting companion.

"Don't worry about me."

"Bring the Colonel, too, if you like."

The statement took Lee slightly aback. "Who?"

"The Colonel. You're over here visiting him, aren't you? I just figured..."

"Oh, yeah. The Colonel. With the Baroness and all, I'd almost forgotten the Colonel. He's, uh... he's actually in Wiesbaden right now. I was just here in Cologne to... a..."

"Have dinner?" Murphy finished playfully. "I know... you and the women. Don't worry. See ya tomorrow. And be careful!"

As Lee walked along Bahnhofstrasse hours later, he was still fuming. Deirdre had provided nothing in the way of solid information concerning her husband's dealings. Perversely, she had done everything she could to try and seduce him. He'd barely managed to extricate himself from her grasp after dessert, a couple of cognacs and a slow horse-drawn carriage ride through the old part of the city. As he dropped her off at her imperial suite in the Grand Hotel, he had breathed a sigh of relief.

Murphy's news had disheartened him. Maybe he was expecting too much, he told himself. He was good at what he did, and he knew the Agency knew it. To be treated so poorly by his European contacts was... what? Irritating? Demeaning? A slap in the face... Maybe all those things. He knew he was still young and they felt he hadn't properly paid his dues. After all, the veterans in this region had been playing these cold war games with the KGB since World War II.

He plodded along the cobblestoned street, oblivious to the cold that was hardly kept out by the fringed, plum colored silk scarf wound about his neck. He was lost in thought, staring at his feet in their shiny pattens reflecting in the rain washed cobbles, when the car pulled up alongside him. Before he knew what was happening, rough hands reached out, pulling him into the vehicle. The last thing he remembered was a cloth with a sickening sweet smell to it, being held to his nose.

"Billeten, bitte."

Someone was pulling at Lee's arm. He groaned and tried to push them away. "Not now, Baroness," he mumbled in English. His mouth felt like cotton and there was a pounding, pounding noise all around that would not stop. "Mustn't do that." The entire room was shaking rhythmically. "Your husband's waiting for you," he reminded Deirdre in a whisper. "Why are you shaking the room? Make it stop."

"Eengeliskman, tea-ket, bitte, pleez."

"Go away."

There was a metallic screech and the room around him slowly stopped shaking.

"Tha's better. Doan like noise," Lee muttered.

"Mein Herr, S'il Vous Plait, eef you pleez." The voice then repeated the message in all three languages, becoming angrier.

"Can I be of assistance?" Another voice, cultured German.

"This man has no ticket and is obviously drunk."

"Where is he going? All the way to Paris?"

"Nowhere. The passengers have been complaining... this is his last stop. Filthy drunk Englishman. Help me remove him, please? The stationmaster at this stop is old and would hardly be able... Danke."

Lee heard the exchange as if it came from far away. The meaning of the words barely registered. "Ticket?" he mumbled in German. Then there came the sensation of being lifted up and through the clouds. That was kinda nice. He smiled as he bounded along in the air. "Merrily we ro-o-o-o-ll along," he sang in a clear tenor. Then his bottom came into contact with something hard again. The ride had ended. Too bad. Lee curled up and went to sleep.

Martine squared her shoulders and looked up at the impressive facade of the century old train station. She had made herself late, primping. She knew she wasn't pretty, but still hoped she looked attractive enough... just for tonight, if nothing else. Her hand strayed automatically to the gold crucifix hung around her neck on a slender chain. She caught herself and hastily removed it, trying to keep her thoughts from dwelling on troubling matters.

She had on her best pink sweater under the heavy coat. The one Josef said looked nice. He didn't say that very often. She had carefully curled her hair, arranging it as becomingly as she could. It was a pity there was so much grey in it now. It wasn't like Josef's. His had gone to silver nearly overnight and gave him a handsomeness he hadn't possessed as a youth. With her however, the coarse grey strands only made her naturally dull brown mousier. A glimpse of her pleasant but very worried features in the glass of the station door checked her.

Thirty-five wasn't so old, she told herself sternly. She might not have a trim figure beneath the big wool coat, but at least the full breasts were her own. Josef's wife, Gabrielle, had gone to a clinic in Switzerland to acquire hers. Martine smiled and lifted her chin at the thought, then braced herself and pushed the grand doors open.

"Bonsoir, Martine. Ca va?" Claude, the man who ran the kiosk inside the station leaned forward across the candy bars. "I haven't seen you for a while."

Martine greeted him cheerfully. He was right. There used to be many trains to meet when her brother Josef had first left the village to seek his fortune. Martine had spent pleasant hours in the company of the kindly merchant waiting for those trains. But now that Josef and Gabrielle were married and firmly settled in Parisian society, there were fewer and fewer visits to the station.

"Yes. I'm fine. Thanks, Claude." She returned his smile. He seemed thinner and older since she'd seen him last. Perhaps his sciatica was acting up. Or maybe his wife was sick again. Before she could inquire however, the man began his questions.

"What brings you out on a cold night like this? I thought your brother was staying in Paris till spring?"

"I've come to meet his business associate. He will be doing the audit for the winery this year."

"Josef is too important now, eh bien?"

Martine laughed. "No, he was just detained until tomorrow. Monsieur Leigh is from the British branch of the firm. He is reviewing all the European operations this year. Since he's coming from Cologne, everyone thought it was easier just to meet here."

"Our little village is a welcome change for him, I imagine."

"Yes, I suppose. Is the train in yet?" she asked hurriedly, knowing the answer, but nervous enough about meeting this new man, the one she had hoped for.

"Cologne? Yes, in fact it was early. It just pulled out a few minutes ago. Funny, I didn't see anyone come through."

Martine thanked him. She took hold of the little gold cross once more, the cross that had belonged to Grandmama Albertine. Let it be him, she thought to herself. If this man was everything Gabrielle had said he would be, then perhaps... she rushed through the doors that separated the main hall from the waiting room. The cheerless brown room was empty. She caught the attention of the stationmaster.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Blanc. I'm here to meet a gentleman from Cologne. Have you seen him?"

Monsieur's face wrinkled into displeasure. "Tall, brown hair? Speaks English?"

The details corresponded with the description she'd been given. "Yes, that's him. You have seen him, then?"

"The 'gentleman,' and I use the term with reservations, is sleeping it off on the bench next to track number two." He crossed his arms across his chest and gave her a pointed stare. "There is also the certain matter of a ticket from Cologne main station. If the conductor had not been otherwise occupied, the man would not have made it to the French border. I assure you this would never happen on the Paris run."

This, Martine knew, was a severe criticism of German train conductors in general, from a man who had spent his entire life racking up the 'points' on either side of the border. She suppressed a smile. How odd. Perhaps Monsieur Leigh tippled. She dipped resolutely into her purse for her wallet. "How much?"

He told her. She bit her lip, counted out the money into Monsieur Blanc's outstretched hand and pushed past him to where the sign above the black metal grillwork announced, "To the Trains."

As she stepped forward onto the platform she wondered if she had put on too much perfume.

"Monsieur Leigh?" The man opened one eye, murmured something unintelligible to Martine and rolled over again, dead to the world.

Monsieur Blanc had followed her out on the platform. She turned to him with a perplexed expression.

"He said yes," Monsieur Blanc translated, looking as if there was a bad smell in the air. "He is your Monsieur Leigh. Bonne chance."

Murphy Michaels placed the receiver back into its vintage 1950 cradle and sat back in the overstuffed chair. He checked his watch again. Midnight. It seemed strange to have just spoken to a brisk, wide awake Laura Holt, still hard at work, seated at her desk across the room from his own so very far away. Of course, it was only three in the afternoon in Los Angeles.

She had taken the news of his whereabouts rather well, considering the case should have been hers to begin with. Laura got all the boring, routine surveillance cases now that she had lobbied so hard for more work in the field. Only this time, the client had wanted a man for the job. While he refused to feel sorry for anyone as bright and talented as Laura was, he did ache sometimes on her behalf for the inequities of the system. She certainly wouldn't have lost her subject as early in the evening as he had.

He wasn't sure just how it had happened, either. One minute he was following them, the next he was under a ton of flowers as the vendor's cart overturned. Even now he wasn't sure it had been an accident. So much for glamorous European case work. He still smelled a bit like tulips and damp earth.

He ran a hand through his sun streaked, sandy blond hair and yawned. He hoped Lee had taken his warning and managed to get away from the Baroness. Those Agency boys meant business. Murphy preferred to play by the rules and let the Agency and Interpol duke it out. He wanted nothing to do with this Cold War stuff.

Murphy got up, stretched and walked over to the window. There was nothing to see below in the lamplight except an empty stretch of wet, cobbled street and some bare trees in the park across the way. His breath soon frosted over the glass and he started pacing nervously. It was no use, until he knew Lee was safe, he wouldn't be able to sleep. He didn't know about Lee sometimes. His cousin had seemed a stranger since he graduated and went to work in the export business.

Maybe things wouldn't seem quite so frustrating if he could just speak the language. He picked up the German phrasebook he'd bought for a few marks at the airport and sank into the chair again. He must have dozed a bit, because the shrill ring of the phone startled him abruptly into a sitting position.

"Michaels here." It was the Agency man, Norton Howard, on the line. Murphy fumbled with the notepaper he'd left on the low table in front of him... somewhere under the cold bratwurst sandwich next to the warm beer... there it was. He fished the pen out of his pocket, repeated the foreign words carefully as he wrote them down.

"Yessir. Gotcha. I owe you one." He hung up, suddenly very much awake. This case had taken a curious turn, and it looked as if Lee needed his help.

"Get a husband," Gabrielle would say, in the days immediately following her marriage to Josef. "Get a husband." It was the same tone of voice she used to say "Get a new hair-do" or "Buy a new dress." When that advise had not been taken, she seemed to give up on Martine for a while. Later, when her enthusiasm for Josef had dwindled, the advice changed. Now when she would call, she said, "Take a lover."

But if marriage had been denied Martine, a lover was out of the question. She had seen the village boys her age marry or leave to seek their fortunes elsewhere. To take a lover out of the remaining male population in a small town, where everyone knew everyone else's business, was impossible. No, Martine had faced reality. She would never marry. She had her place here and she was content. Except for one thing. The thing she had yearned for...

Martine pulled the crisp white linen sheet up and tucked it deftly under Monsieur Leigh's chin. Next came the down comforter in the cheerful blue and white cover. She made sure it was secured around him. It got cold during the night when the heat finally clicked off. When she was done she took a moment to study the man.

He hadn't stirred at all when she had first seen him curled up on the hard wooden bench at the station. But when she called his name and shaken him, he had responded with a smile that brightened his youthful features and made her heart leap up. There was a strong sensuality in the curve of those lips. Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. She found herself wondering what color his eyes were.

His dossier said he was divorced with two children, but he looked hardly old enough... well, no matter. She immediately liked his straight profile, the determined chin, and she found an excitement growing within her. Yes, he was the one. He would do. She caught Monsieur Blanc regarding her with his pointed, curious stare and came to life then, recruiting both him and her friend Claude to help her get the man into the waiting taxi.

She was not without experience in these matters. How many times had she rescued Josef in such a condition after a night in the Bierstube? She was surprised that even in the close quarters of the taxi the man did not reek of drink. Maybe only beer drinkers suffered so? She found herself studying the man closely. It had taken years to come to this decision, but all the ingredients were right. He would only be here a few days. He lived far away. If Gabrielle could be believed, he was decent and clean and hard-working. Better still, he had already proven himself capable of fathering children.

Not until the taxi driver helped bring him upstairs to her apartment, had it even occurred to her to question why he was in evening dress, or why he had no luggage with him. These foreigners were so strange. One hardly could tell what they would or wouldn't do. Perhaps his luggage was even now en route. Yet she had wondered even more as she carefully undressed him, peeling off layers of clothes with labels that only a rich man could afford. Even his underclothing had been in an exquisite ivory silk jersey. Monsieur Leigh must be even higher up in the company than she was led to believe, she decided as she helped him into the comfortable old featherbed in the guest room.

Through all this, the man had made no resistance, made no sounds, except once, as she began to undress him. Then he opened his eyes and, failing to focus on her, had merely said a few unintelligible words of English, called her Deirdre and passed out once more. She wondered if Saint Catherine had contrived that to make her feel guilty. No, the Saints didn't work like that, did they? Surely she could be forgiven for what she was about to do, she rationalized. How could it be so wrong to want a child so desperately? She was starting to lose her nerve. Had he been lucid, she would never have dared.

Who was Deirdre? she wondered. The clock struck the half hour. She glanced up. It was half past midnight. There was an ominous roll of thunder from the mountain. Martine's eyes lifted involuntarily heavenward. She twirled the cross on its thin gold chain nervously. Yes, what she was doing was wrong, no matter how she tried to justify it. But... but... there might never be another opportunity... She carefully removed the gilt necklace from her neck. Please forgive me, she prayed now. Forgive, forgive. I cannot help myself.

She continued to stare down at the sleeping man. It was now or never. She left his side for a few moments to make sure the lights were out and the doors locked. Then she stripped off her clothes quickly in the dark and slid between the sheets next to the warm Monsieur Leigh.

Murphy turned his collar up against the cold, gusty wind that blew down the deserted street. He dug his hands deeper into the pockets of the battered London Fog and glanced up at the street sign. 'Bahnhofstrasse' the sign read. If memory served him right, this was the street leading to the train station. He hoped Norton's intelligence was correct. He wasn't sure what his snooping might turn up, but it was worth a try. He shuffled along through the fallen leaves when the toe of his loafers hit something hard. A bright metallic objected skittered across the cobbles in front of him. He bent down to pick it up. It was a gold cigarette case, monogrammed with an "M".

To his amazement, it was familiar to him. It had a dent in it, right where Skip had hit it with the old pellet gun years ago. Lee, Skip, Andy and Murphy had found it down the trail not far from Uncle Jake's ranch and used it for target practice one summer. He had no idea Lee had kept it. His face broke into a smile at the memory, despite the wind.

He cracked open the case. It was filled with chewing gum. He laughed out loud and snapped it shut again. Designer tuxes and cigarette cases filled with sticks of Dentyne. It seemed for a moment he was back in New Mexico where a ten year old Lee was playing secret agent with a toy version of a Walther PPK, lying in wait behind the old barn to jump an unsuspecting Skipper. Maybe Lee was still playing ... secret agent ... Murphy's smile faded as his mind took a strange turn.

He slipped the case into his front pocket and bowed his head to the wind. If he had wanted to disappear, he'd sure pick the nearby train station. He trudged across the street.

Despite the problems in translation, Murphy managed to get his point across to the man with the push broom. He was directed to the ticket counter and a thin, nervous man who was helpful, even eager to answer his questions. He spoke in a rapid, heavily accented and grammatically erratic English. Yes, the man he was looking for had been here. Of course, one could be mistaken, but for a few marks the memory served... the man in the tuxedo had been ill, but some gentlemen had been with him to make sure he got on the train all right. The train to Paris. Of course, one could be mistaken... a few more marks would perhaps jog the memory? No more marks? He would take francs, or lire or dollars. It did not matter. Murphy said thank you and took his leave. The next train to Paris left at five, and he would have a chance to interview the conductor when he got off his shift after the train pulled in at 4:30. Until then he would have to be patient.

He looked at his watch. It was only 12:45 a.m. He could still return to his hotel room and grab a few more hours of sleep. As he wandered back to the hostelry, he fingered the case in his pocket and sifted through the questions in his mind. He just hoped the trail wouldn't be too cold when he picked it up again.

Martine awoke just as the first rays of bleak sun struggled feebly through the parting of the lacy blue curtains. She had not slept well. She felt confused and muddle-headed. She glanced over at Monsieur. He was sleeping peacefully, curled up on his side away from her.

She slipped out of the bed onto the freezing floor, found her slippers and left the room, drawing the door shut behind her. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling only a numbness in place of the conviction of the previous night. Strange, this emptiness. It was unexpected. She thought she would feel light-headed, even happy, to have accomplished the first part of her plan. She thought she would know immediately she had conceived a child. A feeling of panic surged through her at the thought that it might not have happened. Logically, he knew most times it took more than once to become pregnant, but in her desperation she had not considered that aspect. It had to have happened, for surely she would never have the nerve to do this a second time, even if she had the opportunity.

She stumbled into the bathroom, switching on the light. Funny, she looked no different than she did any other morning. The eyes that stared back at her in the mirror were devoid of emotion. She wondered what Monsieur would remember of the night before. She found it difficult to think of him by his Christian name. Guillaume. In his native English, William. William Emery Leigh.

Monsieur... William had kissed her more ardently than she had thought him capable of in his condition. Well, she had done it. She had actually slept with a man... and it had been thrilling, at first. But there came a moment when she longed for him to know it was her, Martine Sylvain. There came a moment when she realized that despite her desperate wish, she longed for not just this one night and the promised child, but that indescribable something people called "love." If there was such a thing, she thought bitterly, she had known little of it in her life.

She dressed hurriedly, consigning her darker thoughts to a far corner of her mind as she began her mental shopping list. The market would be opening soon. She wanted to have a nice breakfast for her brother's associate when he awoke.

Checking once more to see if Mons... William had awakened, and finding him still in the same position, sleeping peacefully, Martine pulled on her coat and braced herself against the chill mountain air. Maybe there would be tulips today at Monsieur Pommier's flower stand. Tulips would be nice.

Murphy awoke to find the conductor shaking him by the shoulders. "Your stop, it is here," the man said in English. Murphy stretched and looked out the window. There wasn't much to see but a lonely train platform with some bare trees beyond. It looked colder than Cologne had been, and darker than he had expected for the hour, but then he was somewhere in the mountains across the border into France now. Well, he was sure getting to see Europe on this trip, he thought with a wry smile.

He thanked the man and rose, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet after his nap in the cramped seat. He hoped he wasn't on a wild goose chase. If Lee wasn't in this tiny burg, he had no idea where to look for him. And if Lee was here, and he couldn't find him, he deserved to be relegated to a desk job at Hayvenhurst forevermore.

There was very little to see in the old stone station itself. A little kiosk stood to the left in the hall near the main entrance, but it was shuttered. Well, the conductor he interviewed had mentioned weekend train schedules were different. There would only be two more trains through today, both this evening. No doubt the stand would open in time for them.

His growling stomach reminded him he needed to find something for breakfast. Murphy glanced at his watch. The green numbers read "7:45." The train schedule had been pretty accurate. He searched his pockets for his pen and pad. After scribbling a few notes on the page he'd assigned to his cousin, he started looking for someone in charge. There had to be somebody who would remember a rather elegantly dressed, nearly unconscious young man from the night before.

Lee Stetson awoke to the delicious smell of coffee brewing. Someone was cooking breakfast. How nice. He snuggled back into the delightful featherbed for a moment, feeling content and snugly warm. He stretched and yawned and stuck an arm out from under the comforter. It was like ice in the room. "Br-r-r," he noised and came slowly into full alertness. He opened his eyes. Where was he?

The pale blue room with the heavy armoire in the corner and the lacy blue curtains did not look familiar. He sat up quickly, ignoring the sudden dizziness as he did so. His clothes were neatly laid out on the chair next to him. He suddenly became aware of faint strains of organ music from the next room. It reminded of his summers at the ranch. Grandma Michaels always contributed to the peace before Gramps got up. She liked the "majesty" of the organ, she said. Lee remembered hating the modern tinny tremolo that usually passed for organ music. This however, was Bach, or Buxtehude. Something strong, authoritative and Baroque.

He reached out for his tux jacket, searching the inner lining to see if anything was missing. Amazingly, his passport was there in the secret pocket. Well, not his real passport, but the one proclaiming him to be "Herr Karl Stedtsman, industrialist." A search showed he still had his wallet, too. However, there was nothing left of the wad of German mark bills he had carried in it. A few coins still jingled forlornly in his pants pocket.

Whomever had jumped him could have easily killed him last night. That they hadn't was a puzzle. Over the faint music, he could now hear the phone ringing. It stopped abruptly as someone picked up the receiver. He yawned again, wondering what he would find in the next room. He could remember nothing of the time after he was pulled into the car on Bahnhofstrasse. Somehow he'd lost hours, at least a whole night. Maybe they were going to hold him here until Von Schwearingen could interrogate him. The thought prodded him into action. Shivering, he began drawing on his clothes. He'd feel better after he discovered the source of the music... and maybe they would let him have some of that breakfast.

When he opened the door, he saw a woman standing with her back to him across a short hall. Beyond her was the open doorway into a small, cheerful kitchen. She still held the phone in her hand. She must have heard him open the door, because she turned towards him slowly.

Hers was a kindly face with gentle features, framed by softly curling brown hair. She wore a blue full apron over a patterned dress. She looked like she had just received some shock however, because her face was deathly white. She still held a spatula in her other hand. It was now dripping grease on her low heeled black shoes. Her eyes grew wide as she turned towards him. She dropped the receiver and began babbling at him, nervously, shrilly, in some language that sounded like French.

French? He smiled and shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "Speak any English?" he ventured when there was a break in the tirade.

"Non!" came her reply. It was almost a wail.

He could see tears in her eyes. He wondered what could have upset this sweet soul so much. He wondered even more what he came to be doing here. "Sprechen sie Deutsch?" he ventured.

She nodded warily.

"My name is Lee," he began in careful German, sticking to the truth. "Lee Stetson. I'm an American. Where am I? How did I get here?"

To his surprise, the woman fainted.

A tour of the tiny station yielded nothing. Obviously the trains were not coming till later, so no one was working. Made sense. Murphy pulled his coat more tightly about him and stepped outside into the misty morning. There was a taxi with a sleepy driver in it parked outside beneath a large sign that said, appropriately enough, "TAXI", in large black letters.

Murphy dug around for his German phrase book. He hoped that people spoke German this close to the border. Naw, what he really hoped was that this dozing hulk of a taxi driver could speak English. He began looking up the words he would need, starting with, "have you see a man in a tuxedo?"

Nice opening for a conversation, he thought. He could sense the underlying silliness of it, and fought the rational mind which told him, as it had been telling him all night long, that Lee was dead and there was nothing this charade could do about it. He stopped for a moment on the curb, drawing a deep breath to drive away the dismals that, tired as he was, threatened to break him. He geared up his courage then, and jogged across the street towards the cab. He had the questions all set in his mind. He just hoped he wouldn't have trouble deciphering the reply.

Lee sprang into action and tried to revive the woman as best he could. But he had no sooner leaped to her side than her eyelids fluttered open. "Vraiment?" she said in French, then switched to German. "Really? You are Monsieur... Herr Stet... Stet... "

"Stetson," he finished. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, her face still wary. She seemed suddenly aware of his arm around her, and slid carefully away from him.

"It's okay, I don't bite." He flashed her a brilliant smile and was rewarded by a tentative one on her part. "That's better," he soothed. "You sure look pretty when you smile. Now, I don't know what's going on, but why don't we discuss this over a little breakfast? I'm starved."

"Breakfast," she repeated slowly in German. "Yes, of course."

He helped her up, and then wiped up the messy spot where the dripping spatula had fallen from her grasp. "What's your name?" he ventured.

"Name?" She seemed totally bewildered for some reason. She stared up into his face with an unreadable expression. "Je m'appelle Martine."

"Martine is a nice name. Martine what?"

"Martine Sylvain." She paused, searching his face for a moment. She must have liked what she saw there, because she seemed to finally relax. Then she gave him a genuine smile. "You like omelettes, Monsieur?"

"Non, little Martine is not involved with international diamond smuggling. It is to laugh. But, maybe she do the kidnapping, Monsieur." He gave a typical Gallic shrug. "But I don't think so. I have know her and her brother, Josef, all my life."

Happily, the taxi driver had spent four years in New York and spoke as fluent English as most cabbies in that city do. Murphy grew a little nervous as the man kept waving his hands as he spoke, in total disregard for the fact he was navigating narrow, twisting streets.

"She is not far. Our village, she is little."

"You are certain this Martine picked up Lee late last night?"

"Oui. The man in the fancy clothes with the purple trimmings? Oui. Tres elegant. It take three of them to get him in taxi. And out, just Martine and me, Yves. Up those stairs. It was dificil... eh, difficult. He very... ivre... ivre... How you say? Drunk. Oui, he was drunk."

The taxi stopped abruptly in front of an old apartment block. Yves stuck his head out the window and pointed. "Up there. The top floor. Number five, I believe."

"Would you mind coming to translate?"

The man's face broke into a smile. "You are afraid of little Martine? Eh bien, I will go with you. She is nice, that one, but so quiet."

Murphy kept his fingers crossed as he climbed the steep stairs behind Yves. It was too much to hope for that Lee was here, safe and unharmed.

"Omelette du fromage." Murphy laughed as he dove hungrily into the coffee, croissants and cheese omelette. "Isn't that a Steve Martin routine? Omelette doo-oo-o Fro-ma-a-age. I like the sound of this French stuff."

"I like the taste of this French stuff. Martine, you are a wonderful cook," Lee added, in good spirits.

"Amen to that," echoed Murphy.

"Oui, c'est vrai," Yves agreed. "This is the best I have since I return from New York."

Martine sat quietly at the head of the table, watching, filling coffee mugs and plates. She understood very little of what was being said between the bad German and incredibly fast English the two Americans bandied with Yves. Her world had seemed topsy-turvy since this morning's call from her brother telling her he had met Monsieur Leigh in Strasbourg instead. He hoped she hadn't been inconvenienced, he said, but they were hiring a car and would be arriving in the early evening. No, she had not been inconvenienced, she replied, with her heart in her throat.

She managed to figure out her Monsieur was really an American who had been in some trouble last night. She had somehow saved him from something, she knew not what, and the other American was his cousin... that was a word she understood, cousin... and he had come looking for the lost Monsieur. It seemed a bit of a puzzle. They seemed like such nice boys, though. She found a blush rising in her cheeks at what she had done.

"Martine, oh, Martine. Why do you have such a pretty blush, eh?" Yves said good-naturedly in French. He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "You did not know, hah? You must learn to speak English, like me. Then these problems, they would not happen."

"Perhaps." The whole situation seemed tremendously funny suddenly. She began giggling. "I thought," she said to Yves. "I thought he was Josef's Monsieur Leigh from London." She laughed until the tears came. She wiped at her eyes with a corner of her apron.

"She thought you were her brother's friend from London," Yves translated into English. "You should be thankful you were kidnapped by a good cook."

"Talk about a case of finding a cuckoo in the nest. No wonder she fainted," Murphy said with a chuckle.

"Tell her I think she's wonderful," said Lee, saluting her with his coffee cup. "To Martine."

"Hear, hear."

"He thinks you are wonderful," Yves whispered to the woman at his side. "So do I. I know it's been a long time, Martine, but would you like to go out with me some time?"

Martine's fingers grasped the little gold cross around her neck and started twirling it nervously. "You really mean that?" she asked shyly.

"But of course."

"Then," she searched his face and found only kindly acceptance there. "Maybe, maybe I will."

"Passport, bitte."

Lee handed over his passport and nudged Murphy to do the same. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. He still wore the pleated dress shirt and tux he had arrived in, with the plum colored scarf around his neck and the matching bow tie now stuffed into his pocket. He felt pretty stupid wearing it. The conductor gave him a long stare, but said nothing.

When the conductor had checked both passes and left the compartment, Lee turned to his cousin. "So, I'm impressed, Murph. How'd you find me?"

Murphy laid a finger alongside his nose. "See this? Like a bloodhound," he said with an impish grin. "Okay, okay. I had help. Some guy named Norton Howard put me on the right track."

"Norton?" Lee looked mystified. "How did the Agency...?" He caught himself, but Murphy had already picked up on his statement and gone from A to Z and back again.

He sat up straighter in his seat. "Was there something you were going to tell me, Cuz?"

Lee looked sheepish. "No... I mean... uh, I was going to tell you eventually."

"Eventually?" Murphy roared. "Maybe not the others, but I can't believe you couldn't tell ME." Then his voice dropped. "So you really did it? You are one of those guys? You're not kidding?"

"I'm not kidding. I really am, uh, one of, uh, those guys." Lee found it hard to say it out loud. It had been such a well kept secret up until this moment. It suddenly felt good to have Murphy share the burden of the truth. "You've probably guessed, but Norton Howard's my... uh, contact here. He's number two in Northern Germany."

Murphy's eyes glistened with excitement. He whistled low. "What were they doing sending me after you, then?"

"Beats me," Lee said. The old doubts were returning. "I guess they were just short-handed, what with all those diamond-smuggling Russians and things."

"I should have Hayvenhurst bill them," Murphy commented. "I doubt they're going to appreciate my little foray into France. They sure aren't going to accept an expense voucher for it!"

"Well, the Agency can at least pick up the tab for the train tickets."

"Don't forget I reimbursed Martine for your trip over there in the first place."

"I won't forget."

"You have the damnedest luck."

"I sure do," Lee said, wondering what his standing was with the Agency right now. He'd been out of commission for over 24 hours. No doubt Howard and the boys had already wrapped everything up. Still, he needed to check in.

They were both suddenly quiet. Murphy turned to stare out the window at the speeding scenery. After a few moments, he muttered, "You know, it's funny. Here we both are, hale and hearty. You'd almost think someone was trying to get rid of us."

Lee awoke from his reverie. "What did you say?"

"I said, it almost seems like someone did this on purpose. Waylaid us."

"What if they did?" Lee's mind was racing.

Murphy turned towards his cousin. "So, what is it we're not supposed to know, see, or do?"

Lee opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Naw, too much imagination, that's what we've got. Still..." Lee's eyes narrowed as he thought a moment. "You said Norton told you where I'd gone?"

Murphy got out his note pad. He flipped back a page or two. "He said you had been seen walking near the intersection where Bahn-something street turns into Leo... Leo-something." He stumbled over the street names and Lee grinned.

"Leopoldstrasse. Just mean's Leo's street. The intersection where Train Station Street meets Leo's Street."

Murphy frowned. "Then why didn't they just say that? Whatever. There wasn't much more to go on, except the station is right there, and luckily someone remembered you. Hard to miss, actually."

Lee looked down at his attire and played with the fringe on the scarf around his neck. "Murphy, there was no one on that street last night except for that black Daimler that pulled up next to me. Nobody followed me."

"You're sure?"

"Murphy, I'm positive. You saw that area. There's nowhere to hide. I would've seen... heck, I would've heard someone walking on those cobbles unless they were invisible and wearing tennis shoes."

Murphy was the first to articulate the next jump in logic. "So, what reason would Norton Howard have for getting rid of you, I mean us?"

Lee cocked an eyebrow in reply. "It's okay. He was trying to get rid of me. You were just... well, maybe he was trying to lose you too for a while. You have to admit it was more than convenient. For that matter, why did he sell you that story about the diamond smuggling?"

"Oh, Norton didn't do that. I got that on my own. Figured it out from tracking Von Schwearingen's business trips to the D.D.R. It's a long story, but I realized I was right after I found myself bumping heads with the C.I.A. and discovered they were following one of their leads."

"And all this began with a divorce case in L.A?" Lee asked in wonder.

"Yeah, ain't it a marvelous world?" Murphy grinned.

A rather garbled voice announced their arrival at Cologne was imminent. Murphy looked at his watch. "I love these European trains. They're always on time. Looks like I'd better take you back to my place and get you a change of clothes. I can scout around your hotel, get your things and see if I can figure out what's happening."

Lee sighed. His head still ached and he found he didn't mind so much that Murphy was making all the decisions. "Okay, but I don't know about changing clothes. I've decided I really like these."

"Yeah, right," Murphy said, standing and drawing on his coat. He moved out into the corridor as the cars slowed to a stop. "Purple was always your color."

Martine watched the train to Cologne and Dusseldorf pull out of the village station with growing apprehension. After her initial shock, she had enjoyed herself while the two young men were around. "Li" and "Mwoorfey" were kind, funny and solid. They had praised her meager hospitality to the sky, and made her feel like someone special. They had laughed and joked, despite the language barrier. What had begun so strangely had become one of the most pleasant days of her life.

Now, as the cars started a slow chug-chug up the hill past the station towards the German border, things seemed so different. She felt an anxiety well up inside her. She'd committed a mortal sin and must pay for it! Not only that, she had inadvertently seduced a young man who even now had no idea he'd been compromised. She felt the agony of remorse as she saw the two young men lean out the compartment window to wave one last good-bye as the train rounded the bend.

She forced a smile and waved back. Beside her, Yves did the same. Funny ol' Yves. He had stayed with her all day as well.

"Eh bien, they are gone," he said, stating the obvious.

"Yes. I suppose I had better get ready for Josef and his friend," she said dully. "They are coming tonight."

"Martine..."

"Yes?"

He looked as if he were struggling for words. "I..." He took off his dark blue cap and scratched his bald head thoughtfully.

"Yes, Yves?" She was surprised how tired and irritated she sounded. Yves had been very kind and protective today. She was grateful for that and the good English he spoke. He had translated faithfully all day. She tried to soften the effect with a smile.

"I... I haven't come calling since I came back to the village."

She shrugged. "It wasn't necessary."

"We were once friends, Martine. We went to school together."

She was silent. Yes, they had once been friends. But Yves had left nearly fifteen years ago for Paris. She had heard about his marriage. His move to Algiers. His divorce. During those years Martine had occasionally run into his mother at the market. The woman would show off the postcards her son had sent from around the globe. Exotic places, like Indo-chine, Brazilia and Tahiti. Last she'd heard, he was in New York.

She sighed. "It was long ago. Thank you for your help today." She turned to leave, but he caught her by the shoulder.

"I have watched you, you know."

She didn't know what he could possibly mean. His grip tightened.

"Don't give me such a look. It's true. I have watched you go to the market, to church, to the library. And I would say, I would say to myself, 'There goes a good woman, Yves. You should ask her to go out with you.' Martine, I have said that to myself a hundred times in the past two months since I've been back. I consider myself brave and strong, but in those two months I have not had the courage to ask you."

She listened open-mouthed to this speech, now she broke free from his grasp. "Don't," she said. "You don't know..."

"Seeing you today, being with you, has been so..." he searched for the words. "I have felt so happy."

A panic rose inside her at the words. Why now? Why this declaration now? Every word seemed a knife turning, turning, in her already wounded heart. A sob rose in her throat. "You are making fun of me," she said, her voice wavering. She began walking down the length of the deserted platform. "Leave me alone."

He followed after her; would not let her go in peace. "I'm not making fun of you. I like you. This is not a crime, is it?" He tried to catch her eye, tried to make her smile, but it was too late. She was confused and angry with herself. She wouldn't turn to look at him, and when she spoke, it was to the wrought iron railing she clung to, rather than him.

"Ah, Yves, you have not changed. You told me you liked me when we were in school too, remember?"

"I remember," he said quietly beside her.

She continued. "I was fifteen. So awkward and clumsy. I believed you. But then we grew up and you left for Paris... to... to marry Isabel. I've seen the pictures. Your mother made sure I saw them."

"Have you never forgiven me for leaving, then?"

She didn't hear him, the memory was too vivid. "Beautiful Isabel with the long legs and the cheekbones like a model," she murmured. She stopped and turned toward him. "I'm no Isabel, Yves. I am Martine. Just ordinary old Martine. I'm not beautiful. I've never even been to Paris. If you just want a companion for the cinema or a home-cooked meal now and then, that's all right - just don't lie to me. Don't lie to me and tell me you have been pining after me!"

The tears finally came. Hot, salty tears for all the anger and frustration that had been brought to the surface by the events of the past twenty-four hours; tears mourning her lost youth and years of being alone. She turned then, so full of her own pain and unsure of what she had seen in his face.

She wasn't sure if he was following her anymore. It didn't matter. She ran through the station, past a bewildered Claude, past a man waiting for a taxi at Yves' taxi stand. When she bumped into Madame Delaine on her way down the street, she didn't even stop to see if the woman was all right. She didn't stop until she was safely up four flights of stairs, inside her little apartment.

There was a light rain falling as the train pulled into Cologne. By mutual agreement, Lee and Murphy said little, skirting the edge of the crowds in front of the station and flagging a taxi down the next block over. Lee scanned the streets they passed with interest. He felt so different than he had ten days ago when he arrived. So different, in fact, that it felt strange to see everything look so much the same.

Surprisingly, there had been no suspicious characters waiting for them at Murphy's hotel. Even so, Lee insisted they take every precaution. They left the taxi in a neighboring street and walked the remaining two blocks, entering the hotel from the kitchen entrance. They managed to take the service elevator to Murphy's floor without running into any staff, or anyone else for that matter. They met no one in the dark hall.

Lee breathed a sigh of relief as Murphy double checked the little traps he had left for signs of an intrusion. Everything came up clean. Murphy finally had to admit that no one had been in but the maid. His clothing and suitcase were untouched.

"Looks like they aren't interested in me, good buddy."

Lee dropped onto the bed, looking pale and exhausted. "Let's hope things stay that way," he mused out loud. He sank back into the pillows on top of the bed and watched as Murphy bustled energetically about. Lee decided it was a rather interesting thing to watch.

Murphy began by dressing carefully in a blue shirt and dark slacks with suspenders. He stood for a long while in front of the little chipped mirror combing his hair up and out of his face, giving it that little swirl his mother had tried so hard for when he was younger. The gel helped. It darkened up the blonde highlights as well.

"What are you doing?" Lee finally asked, intrigued. His head still pounded, and he was keeping movement to a minimum.

"Watch ze master of ze disguise," Murphy said, his eyebrows moving up and down emphatically. He brought out a thing from his shaving kit that looked like a fuzzy brown caterpillar.

"You're not going back to my hotel with a fake moustache," Lee groaned. "Nobody really does that, you know. It's just in the movies."

"If it works, I always say, don't fight it." Murphy stared intently at the mirror, and applied the hair, with great ceremony, to his upper lip. "It works. Believe me. I've done this disguise before a couple of times."

"Murphy Albert Einstein Michaels," Lee quipped. "No, no, wait... turn just a bit, there... Gene Shalit... No, I've got it! Murphy Omar Sharif Michaels."

"Cut it out."

"No, really. All you need are some robes and a thingy on your head." Lee began gesturing in circles around his head to describe the nature of the "thingy" until Murphy threw a pillow at him. He grabbed it and groaned. "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm being rude. I just hate this. I should be doing something."

"You still feel bad?"

"My head is killing me. I wish I had an idea what kind of drug they used on me."

"I should've taken you to a hospital."

"And tell the bad guys I'm back? Not until this is played out."

Murphy stood over him with a frown on his face. The expression made the moustache crinkle a little. "Maybe I should get you something."

"The aspirin's is helping. The drug should work it's way out of my system soon."

"I hope so." Murphy walked over to the closet and brought out a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. He drew it on. Lee had to admit the effect, with the moustache, dark slacks and the suspenders, was immediate. He looked taller, darker and older. He drew out a pair of glasses from a pocket in the tweed coat. The thick lenses distorted his hazel eyes and upped his I.Q. about twenty points.

"I like the glasses. You never told me you were quite so blind."

"They're actually a stage prop. My friend Larry works for one of the studios. What do you think?"

"I think I hate waking up in a strange bed with no recollection of how I got there."

"I mean about the disguise."

"It'll do." Lee looked suddenly serious. "You take care, Cousin."

Murphy nodded. "You betcha." He stopped to fumble about in his large suitcase. "Here ya go. If you feel up to it, see if you can make sense of my notes from what you know of the case." He tossed one of his slim notebooks at Lee on the bed. "See ya in a bit." He gave Lee a "thumbs up" and left the room.

"Good luck," Lee mumbled. He opened it and began to read.

Murphy smiled to himself as he played with his lockpick and the door clicked immediately open for him. He really had the touch, didn't he? Shoulda been a burglar. Woulda made more money. Ha. He'd spotted those goons down in the lobby right away, too. Well, Laura would have been proud of him for that, at least. He'd managed to avoid them all, so far.

Actually, except for the old-fashioned handles and locks, he could've been anywhere in the States, breaking into a hotel for a client. Hayvenhurst frowned on this sort of thing, of course. At least, officially, they claimed to...

It was probably different for those Agency guys. They broke into places as a matter of course. He caught his train of thought and stopped, one hand on the knob. Lee was one of "those Agency guys" now. What a bizarre world it was. He and Lee were more like brothers than cousins. It was hard to think of him as one of "them."

Although he'd called from the phone around the corner to make sure the room was empty, he still listened at the door, just to make sure. All was quiet on the other side. He glanced quickly down the hall to verify he was still alone, then stepped in.

Even the regular rooms at the Metropol were huge compared to his little inn. Here, everything looked starchy and well-kept. The old furniture was polished and the linens had a crispness. He began a methodical search. Nothing. There was nothing to find. Not even Lee's garment bag and briefcase. It was if Lee had never been there.

Murphy made a quick trip back down the service stairs. The suitcases were probably locked up in the Concierge's office. That is, if the Agency boys hadn't confiscated them. The hall leading to the lobby and offices was too busy at this time of the day for anyone to pass through unnoticed.

He checked his watch. He had accomplished his mission in record time and learned absolutely nothing. As he slipped out a side door, he decided it was time to see about the Von Schwearingens.

As Murphy's key clicked the lock into place, Lee settled comfortably onto the bed. He skimmed through Murphy's jots and miscellany with interest. Some of the puzzle pieces were starting to fit together all too well. He knew he should be contacting his superiors in Washington. In fact, he was past due on check in. It wouldn't be long until someone came looking for him. He hoped now it wouldn't be Norton Howard...

He couldn't sit still any longer. It was making him crazy letting Murphy do the dirty work. He pushed himself up with effort, slipping his legs off onto the floor. He still felt tired and weak, but there was no time for him to keep playing the invalid.

He found Murphy's suitcase and flung it on the bed. There wasn't much in the nondescript valise except a pair of jeans, a sweater, a couple of shirts and some underwear. Under the shirts lay a Colt Python revolver. Lee smiled. He wondered how Murph had gotten that piece past customs. A bit out-dated, but still useful, he thought. It was a shame his own Smith & Wesson automatic .38 was in the secret compartment of his garment bag. He was growing increasingly convinced he was going to need it.

Lee felt old as he shuffled off to the shower. The plumbing was ancient and noisy, but the cold shower helped pull Lee out of his lethargy. He still felt old and his head still hurt, but his thinking wasn't as muddled as it had been all day.

As he towelled off, he found himself wondering about Martine and her part in all of this. Was her involvement accidental? Perhaps her brother's business associate was a spy? A wry smile appeared on his face at the thought. No. Something told him that Martine had been exactly as she seemed, a kindly, but rather lonely woman. He would have to visit her again after this craziness was all over. He needed to properly thank her for saving his skin.

To his surprise, he found a small contraption on the wall in the bathroom that made coffee. Curious, he plugged it in. The instant Nescafe came in little single serving envelopes that looked like something served on a cheap airline. It wasn't the gourmet blend he was used to at home, but he blessed German ingenuity as he drank down the scalding liquid. The caffeine seemed to do the trick. Maybe that, or the poison was starting to work itself out of his system. Whatever. The tight hold of the headache finally loosened.

He helped himself to some of Murphy's clean underwear and the jeans. The Levi's were a little tight and maybe an inch short. He pulled them on anyway, sucking in his stomach in order to get them buttoned. The long-sleeved knit shirt was comfortable. He drew on the jacket Murphy had left behind. It wasn't as warm as the raincoat with the heavy quilted lining, but it would do. Then he slipped the Colt into his pocket for good measure.

He looked in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, but otherwise he looked normal. Murphy's shoes were unfortunately too narrow for Lee, and the pattens looked a bit odd with the purple socks and the jeans. Perhaps no one would notice. Hell, perhaps they would notice and just think he was a Donny Osmond fan.

It was colder outside than he remembered. As soon as he left the heated lobby of the hotel, he regretted not having a warmer coat. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He set off on foot down the crowded street. He had enough change to make bus fare and that was about it. He wondered where Murphy was; he hoped he wouldn't be back real soon. He dug his hands into the pockets of the jacket, and set off in the direction of the Grand Hotel. Luckily, it was only a brisk twenty minute walk across town. If his guess was right, Deirdre would be back at the Imperial Suite. He needed to have a talk with that girl as soon as possible.

The tall, antique grandfather clock in the corner chimed the hour. Martine stopped picking at her food to look across the dinner table at her brother. His silver head was still bent over his plate. He had hardly spoken during the entire meal. As a matter of fact, she thought with amusement, he'd hardly spoken since he and his business associate, William Emery Leigh, had arrived. Monsieur Leigh sat on Josef's left. He too was quiet, claiming fatigue from the day's journey.

She contrasted this morning's meal in her mind. During breakfast with total strangers, the mood had been light and playful. This evening, except for the click of the silverware against the china, it was painfully silent.

She fought the desire to start laughing. Here sat the grand Monsieur Leigh, the object of all her hopeful fantasies and desires. Reality however, had shown him to be a self-absorbed dolt. He barely acknowledged her with a greeting, if one could count the surly twist of his bottom lip as a proper smile. Once they had been introduced, he'd spent his time on the phone before succumbing reluctantly to Josef's requests he join them for dinner.

That in itself, had offended Martine's innate sense of hospitality. Watching him during the last hour, Martine found herself longing for the unaffected cheerfulness of her friend, Yves. Next to him, Monsieur Leigh seemed wooden, dead. Yves loved life and showed it in the excited wave of his hands while he spoke and in the playful glint of his eye when he looked at her. Monsieur might be stylishly attired in a beautifully cut suit and tie. He might even be considered attractive, but his chill manner did nothing to recommend him.

"Martine."

"Excuse me?"

"You are in a fog tonight, hein? Make yourself useful, s'il te plait. More bread, for Monsieur."

"Of course."

"He is hungry after his long trip."

"Eh, what?" Monsieur Leigh sputtered to life in English.

"Bill," Joseph replied in the same language. "I just say, Martine, she fill the bread for our guest Anglais."

"Oh, yes. Very good," Bill answered, twisting his bottom lip again for her benefit. "Excellent meal, Martine. Credit to your country of fine chefs."

Understanding none of the brisk English, Martine gave a weak smile, nodded in response and excused herself. She dashed into the kitchen to refill the serving platters, wondering why Josef had bothered to bring his Monsieur Bill here for dinner instead of taking him to the neighboring village with its Michelin certified, three-star restaurant.

At least they weren't staying in her little apartment. Josef had casually informed her they had rooms at the new inn on the edge of the village by the main road. Of course, she had replied, blushing and thinking of last night's mistake. Of course, it is more convenient.

Slicing more bread, and slopping more of the hearty cassoulet into her serving dish, Martine wondered briefly if Monsieur were Gabrielle's type these days. Last she heard, Gabrielle preferred the company of younger men... she caught herself and stopped with her ladle in mid-air. Repentant and cognizant of her own guilt, she promised herself to try and be kinder to Gabrielle in her thoughts. Still, she couldn't imagine Monsieur Bill Leigh stirring anyone's heart to passion.

That big lug, Yves, on the other hand, despite his large, Gallic nose and bald head, made her feel like a vital, desirable woman just by looking at her. It both confused and delighted her to feel that way, a way plain old Martine Sylvain had never felt before in all her thirty-five years. She realized the old Yves would never have looked at her that way. It was the patina of his travels and his rich life experience that had turned the awkward Yves into the charming and fascinating man he was today. Now, despite her own stupidity with the young American, and the fact that her reaction at the train station had no doubt hurt Yves deeply, she found herself wishing for a chance to see him again.

As she shuffled back into the dining room however, she realized that if he ever knew the truth about her, he would never... ever... ever... ever...

"Dash it, Sylvain, your sister's a good cook, but a bit of a strange bird, don't you know?" Monsieur Bill said calmly between bites of stew as Martine burst into tears and ran from the room.

As Lee brashly navigated the corner of the grey stone building, he nearly ran into the object of his pursuit. Literally. Deirdre, the Baroness Von Schwearingen, hanging on the arm of a man in a dark, ankle-length coat, brushed past him. She was bundled into a Norwegian fox fur, looking one hundred percent platinum. Lee pressed himself against the wall, lowered his head to avoid being recognized. He heard the sweet tinkle of her laughter, but when he looked up, she was half-way down the street. He exhaled slowly. That was a close one.

He began shadowing the couple, keeping a block behind them. He barely had a chance to catch sight of the man, but he recognized him at once. Feodor, the dashingly handsome attache with the Soviet Embassy, was well known as a bit of a rogue. Lee also knew the man had a habit of turning up at times when secrets were being stolen.

No wonder Deirdre had been accused of selling information to the Soviets. All she was interested in was having some fun with Feodor. He was sure she had no idea she was being used as a pawn in a larger game.

At the next corner, a white limousine pulled up to the curb. Deirdre kissed the man goodbye, passionately and publicly. Feodor gave her a swat on the behind and got into the waiting car.

Deirdre turned towards the shopping street. With the fur, her dark glasses and the tooled, white leather cowboy boots, she could easily have been mistaken for a celebrity.

"Goin' my way, Baby?"

She turned, her raspberry-colored lips forming a perfect "O". When she saw it was Lee, she squealed and threw herself into his arms. "Lee, baby, they told me you were gone for good."

He steadied himself against the pillow-soft onslaught. It was hard to tell where her fur left off and the girl began. He gave her a hug and stepped back. "Naw, I'm fine."

Deirdre looked at him skeptically. "Sure? Feodor said..." She stopped in mid-sentence.

"Feodor said what?"

"Are you in some kinda trouble?" She looked panic-stricken all of a sudden, looking up and down the street, as if searching for someone. "Did I tell you some guys have been following me and asking about you? You better leave me alone." She began walking towards the closest Boutique.

"Deirdre, you've gotta help me."

"Why?"

"Cuz I think your husband's in deep trouble, that's why. And I think Feodor's involved."

She stopped. "Feodor? And... Herman?"

"Deirdre, just tell me when the next diamond shipment is coming through."

As he spoke, he watched her eyes grow a bit wider, till he felt a gun barrel pressed into his back.

"Welcome back, Herr Stedtsman, or is it Stetson? I am so poor with names," a gravelly male voice said in heavily accented English.

Lee cocked his head to see who was holding the gun. "Feodor Kalkin? You're not going to try anything in broad daylight?"

"Of course not. Keep your arms where I can seen them! That's better. Now walk with me, towards the limo. I am already late for an appointment. That's it. Slowly. Keep smiling. Now, Deirdre, you will join us, my dear."

"Sure, Feodor," the Baroness said gaily. But as she took Lee's arm, he could tell she was shaking.

The last of the large copper-bottomed pans had been scrubbed and returned to its hook on the whitewashed wall. Martine slowly wiped the sink dry with her dishrag. She was tired. It had taken all her energy to clean up the kitchen after Josef and Monsieur Bill had left for their hotel. She began to unbutton her blouse. She could use a hot bath and a toddy before going to bed. She switched out the light in the kitchen and in the hall as she passed.

In her bedroom, she kicked off her shoes. What a day. Before she could go any further, there came a knock at the door. Curious, she rebuttoned her blouse and went to answer it.

"Martine, it's me," he was calling softly through the door. "I know it's late, will you let me in?"

Her heart leapt into her throat. "Just a minute," she called. She took a moment to study herself in the mirror, tuck a few of the loose tendrils of hair back into place and wipe the smudges of mascara from under her eyes.

She opened the door slowly. "Yes?"

Yves stood there with his coat in his left hand and a bottle of champagne clutched in his right. He had even put on a clean white shirt for the occasion. Seeing her, he shrugged apologetically. "I know it's late, Martine, but, may I come in?"

"I don't know..." she began, her heart still thudding in her ears.

"We have some things to talk about, you and I."

"I know," she said quickly. "I'm sorry about the way I yelled at you at the station."

"Do you want to discuss it in the hallway?" he said with a smile.

"Of c-course not," she stammered, closing the door to take off the safety chain, then opening it wide to let him in.

The ancient building that housed the diamond merchant and jewelry store was only a few blocks from where Lee had met the Baroness. However, it represented a more formidable challenge than Murphy preferred. He had managed to follow the limo this far, however, and refused to be daunted by a few architectural nooks and crannies. He knew Lee and the girl were being held on one of the top floors. Sound carried well in the secluded courtyard. He had watched from his perch on the rooftop next door long enough to figure that out.

What worried him was a high level meeting appeared about to take place. All the players were there except for Norton Howard. Murphy had a feeling the American would show up soon, and he was not disappointed. As he watched, a man slipped through the gates on a scooter. Even with the scarf and goggles, Murphy recognized the agent who had been so kind to him. He felt his stomach go into a knot.

The elaborately carved cornice next door seemed rather difficult to scale without a rope. He gritted his teeth and tried it anyway, nearly losing his grip as he jumped and slid. He forced himself not to look down the six stories to the courtyard below. Sweating with the effort despite the cold, he managed to hurl himself over the edge to the safety of the roof.

A few moments later Murphy hung over the parapet as far as he could, trying to look in through the clerestory windows. Even upside down he could tell the room was empty. The window was tightly shut. He slid carefully down the next length of the roof and tried again. This time he was in luck. The window was wide open.

Somehow he managed to lower himself in. When he was inside and safely on the floor, he sank to his knees and caught his breath. He would have to chance searching the halls. He had no idea how else to find them.

They were in the third room he tried. An attic storeroom. Lee and Deirdre were tied back to back, seated on the bare wooden floor.

Now that he'd found them, the question was how to get all three out of the house without killing anybody. He slipped in through the unguarded entrance.

Lee sat facing the door. His eyes went wide as he saw his cousin. "Murphy? What on earth are you doing here?" he whispered gruffly. From behind him, Deirdre let out a startled squeal.

"Rescuing you," Murphy said with a grin, reaching down to untie the two.

"Who is it?" Deirdre asked as the bonds were loosened and Murphy stripped off the cords around their hands in turn.

"Murphy Michaels, meet Deirdre, the Baroness Von Schwearingen."

"Hi," Murphy said.

"Pleased, I'm sure," Deirdre said, then turned to Lee. "How are we going to get out of here, Lee? There's guys swarming all over this joint, like ants on a picnic."

They both looked expectantly at Murphy. The smile left Murphy's face. He shrugged. "I came over the roof from the house next door. I'm not sure we could go back that way."

"You got in here with no plan as to how to get us out?" Lee complained.

"Look, you're free aren't you?" Murphy said hotly.

In reply, Lee moved about, searching the room. "If my guess is right, the guards will be coming back any minute to check on us. Let's get something we can use as a weapon."

"Then what?" Deirdre asked excitedly.

"We jump them?" Murphy guessed. He knew he wasn't going to like the sound of this.

"Right." Lee gave them both an earnest look.

"Why don't I try to find some rope? We still might make it back over the roof," Murphy suggested helpfully.

"Good. Then you two go for help, while I try to get downstairs where I can hear what's going on."

Deirdre gasped out loud.

"What is it?" Lee said, concerned.

"You've got on purple socks?" Deirdre giggled.

Murphy rolled his eyes. "Heaven help us." Then his eyes traveled to the door. Heavy footfalls in the hall told him someone was coming.

Yves leaned forward on the overstuffed sofa and took Martine's hand in his. "So, you see," he explained, "I have not been sure how to tell you about my life. What it has and has not been. I have done so many things I regret."

"Me too," she said softly.

"But you must understand about Isabel, Martine. I will not have this woman's shadow between us. This I have struggled with." He searched her face, smiled. "Kind eyes, Martine. You have the kind eyes."

Martine fought back the tears. Here it came. She knew she wasn't beautiful, especially compared to Isabel. She had nice eyes. Great. She pulled her hand away; turned away from him so he couldn't see the tears.

Beside her, Yves groaned. "Ah, Martine, I see I am so poor with words. But, how shall I say it? Isabel, for all her beauty had not the kind eyes. Never. I realized it too late. She had no soul, that one. You would never do to me what she has done."

He paused, leaned over and kissed her gently on the cheek. "You are beautiful to me, Martine. You are beautiful in ways that the Isabels of this world can never accomplish." Then he turned her face towards him and kissed her other cheek tenderly. "Martine, Martine, I see you and I see home and family and all the good things of life."

He kissed her waiting mouth then, but she drew back from his embrace. Undaunted, he continued earnestly. "Martine, I see you and my heart sings."

"I may be pregnant," she blurted out.

"What?"

"I said, I may..."

"I heard you." He cut her off in mid-sentence, his face pale with confusion. "I heard you."

She felt horrible. The look on his face caused her such anguish. She realized with a jolt that she cared for this man deeply and that she herself had ruined her one real chance for happiness!

Murphy swung the lasso over to the neighboring rooftop and watched as it slid uselessly across the tiles and fell limply below him. The cold wind was making this exercise more difficult. He stood for a moment, silhouetted against the cloudy sky, before dropping once more to safety behind the lip of the parapet.

"Almost," Deirdre said encouragingly. "You almost had it."

"This is not going to work."

"Sure it is. I'm sure we can do it."

Murphy gave the woman a penetrating look. "You really think so? Maybe we should go find Lee."

"Just because I'm a Baroness don't mean I can't run and jump, Mr. Michaels," she said in her nasal Bronx accent. "When we were kids we used to play stuff like this. Besides, I've got the impression Lee knows what he's doing."

Murphy nodded. He had thought the same thing watching Lee take out the two guards. Even now, Lee was armed with an automatic weapon, and probably better off than they were, shivering here on the rooftop. "I'm sure you ran and jumped just fine as a kid," he answered. "But that was some time ago."

"Oh, really? Well, try it again," she said tersely. "I ain't walkin' down the main staircase with all those stiffs waitin' for us with guns."

Murphy's lips set in a grim line. The woman had a point. He stood and tried once more. To his surprise, this time the rope caught on the pipe he had been aiming for. He gave the rope a good hard yank, testing the strength of the pipe, then turned to Deirdre. "I made it before without the rope, so how about if I go first, then throw the rope back to you. Tie it around your waist. Then if you have any trouble with the jump, I'll just haul you up."

"See? Easy as pie." Deirdre gave his arm a squeeze. "We'll make you a cowboy yet."

He finally managed an honest smile. "Here goes nothin'." With that, he grabbed the rope and did a running leap across the chasm between the buildings.

Lee slipped down the stairs quietly, back to the wall, weapon at the ready. He could hear voices downstairs, but there was an empty landing visible below him. All had gone smoothly so far. The two upper floors immediately below the attic contained offices with brass name plates on the doors. They were all locked and appeared deserted. In one of them, through the glass window, he could see furniture draped in ghostly white covers.

As he started down the next flight, however, the voices grew louder. He stopped, feeling his way carefully down each step, his eyes busily scanning the hallway. He loosened his tense grip on the automatic and tried to maintain his calm despite racing thoughts.

It was Norton's voice he heard on the other side of the door at the end of the stairs. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together. Lee peered carefully in through the window. He could make out only two silhouettes through the frosted glass. He prayed his guess was correct, that there were only two of them, and they were the two major players he was after.

Listening, he could finally make out the words clearly.

"Just give me my money and let me clear out," Norton was saying. "If Stetson doesn't see me, there's a chance I won't be connected to all this."

"We should bring you in now, Howard. He might have already figured it out." The second speaker's voice was unfamiliar. He spoke crisply European-accented English, but otherwise, Lee couldn't place his origins. Hearing Norton's next words, however, made his temperature rise.

"You think that kid Stetson is a threat?" Norton was saying. "He doesn't have a clue what's going on, Baron. We got him out of the picture early enough the last time."

"This time he needs to be taken out permanently, Howard. You want to be the one to do it?"

"I can't be connected to the killing of another American," Howard protested. "Keep my name out of it. I'll be better off on the inside of the Agency for a while longer."

"I don't think so, Norton," Lee said, kicking the door open. He had the satisfaction of seeing Norton Howard's face go white as he dropped the bills he was counting. A man he instantly recognized from photographs stood next to him: Baron Von Schwearingen. In front of them, like sparkling fragments of ice on black velvet trays, were more diamonds than Lee had ever seen in one place in his life.

Both men raised their hands in surrender.

"Lee," Norton Howard said coolly, "How much money are you making now? How much can you hope to make in ten years at this? Use your head, man, we can really make it worth your while."

"You mean cut me in?" Lee laughed. "I don't think so, Norton."

"A man can live very well on a quarter of a million dollars, Mr. Stetson. That is your name, I presume?" the older gentleman stated.

"Yeah, that's my name, Baron. And it's a name I'm still proud of."

"You're making a big mistake, bucko," Norton sputtered.

Lee anticipated the man's move just a second too late, as the ashtray came sailing toward him. Lee ducked, but in that split second, Norton barreled into him headfirst. The move knocked both the breath out of him and the gun he had been holding to the floor. It skittered away into a corner.

As they grappled, Lee was dimly aware of the bullhorn blaring outside. There was shouting below. He twisted, breaking Norton's hold on him. Somehow, it was better this way, hand to hand. Blocking Norton's punch with his left, he managed to pull back, throwing a terrific right hook as he did so. The blow connected with Norton's jaw, jarring the man's head upward a few inches. Norton Howard slammed into the desk and lay still.

Lee could now hear the sporadic staccato of gunfire close by. He managed to retrieve his weapon gun just as the Baron was tip-toeing out the door with both the diamonds and the money.

"Hold it, Baron. I don't believe you're going anywhere."

The silver-haired Von Schwearingen stopped in mid-tracks, shrugged and smiled. "It was worth a try, my friend. Don't you think?" Against the desk, Norton Howard struggled to consciousness. His groans were the only reply the Baron received as the next moment uniformed officers and plainclothesmen were rushing up the stairs.

Lee breathed a sigh of relief. "Boy am I glad to see you," he quipped as both Norton and the Baron were handcuffed by an efficient Interpol agent Lee had met only a few days ago.

The man smiled. "We received a call from a distressed American calling saying he was your cousin."

"Good goin', Murphy," Lee murmured as he followed the officers down the hall behind their captives.

Martine thought Yves would leave after the drastic announcement. Instead, after his initial shock, he regarded her thoughtfully.

"The father, who it he?"

She blushed, bit her lip, but had already decided against speaking the truth. "I can't tell you."

"You can't tell me?" Yves roared. "You are still seeing him, then?"

"No," she exclaimed miserably. "It was only one time and it was a mistake. He doesn't know, and I... I'm not sure yet... not positive...".

"One time?" Yves questioned. "Then you may not be."

"Does it make any difference?" she rejoined in despair. There was a short silence between them.

"You must tell him," Yves said gently at last.

"I will never tell him," Martine said sadly. "It is over. It was over before... "

"Martine, Martine," he said, pulling her close. "Martine, Martine. Do you love me?"

She pulled away from him and looked with amazement into his face. There was nothing to read but acceptance and love. "What are you asking, Yves?"

"I have always wanted to be a father," he began. "It was Isabel, she would never..." He gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Martine, I find I care for you a great deal, so I will ask again, do you love me?"

"Yves, don't joke. Don't joke! I am a great sinner, but I wanted a child so desperately," she cried the last sentence into his chest, as he clasped her tightly.

"I will ask a third time, then. Do you love me? Will you be my wife?"

She felt a stirring inside as he spoke. "Yes," she said in a little voice. She pulled away from him so she could see his face. Ah, it was a homely face, that she was sure of, but she liked the look of it. She would be content to spend a lifetime basking in the tenderness she found there for her, if only... "Yes," she repeated firmly. "But, Yves, do you mean it? Can you really forgive me this?"

"Martine," he said soberly as she blushed once more. "Je t'aime forte! I love you very, very much."

He reached behind the sofa for his bottle of celebratory champagne and began refilling the glasses on the coffee table before them. "Your children, Martine. Our children. I will like them. Believe it! We can still have a whole houseful!"

He toasted her then with this glass and regarded her with an intensity she felt to her marrow. "But only," he added playfully, "if we name the first son after my grandfather, Jean-Luc. It is a family tradition."

The bustling office reminded Murphy of home, even though the principal language spoken was German, instead of good old American English. He was glad things had wrapped up so smoothly and that both he and Lee were none the worse for wear. The only thing he found awkward was his overseas phone call to the Hayvenhurst offices. There were so many things he had to delete from his report, due to the sensitive nature of the scenario he'd discovered. Earlier, he'd been debriefed by a man from the Agency, both Lee and Norton Howard's superior, who had warned him sternly about the consequences of revealing information regarding the covert operations he had stumbled across.

Murphy had readily agreed. A slimy traitor like Norton Howard had almost helped the Russians put together a sophisticated laser weapon that could zap unsuspecting citizens from outer space. The idea that he would ever divulge this kind of stuff to the press rankled him. He couldn't imagine the purpose of scaring good people back home with information like that.

Still, he supposed someone else might see things differently. He wondered what Laura Holt would have done in his shoes. He sat back in the ultra-modern chrome and leather chair and sighed heavily, thinking of her. So many things had happened since he'd put on that fake moustache and rushed out of his hotel room. So many things had happened since then. He took another sip of coffee and bit into the pastry someone had brought in for him. The simple act had also reminded him of Hayvenhurst. Funny how some things were the same the world over. At home it would have been donuts. The idea was the same, however.

He got up and started pacing the small office. Lee was sure taking his time. Murphy was anxious to get going. He felt like he needed to be up and doing something - anything. What would it be like to have Uncle Sam to answer to instead of Alan Greavy? The idea was somehow appalling. He wondered suddenly how Lee dealt with it. There were so many things about Lee he didn't know.

A minute ago he'd been so happy to leave the American policies concerning Eastern Europe to the professionals. But thinking of his buddy, his cousin, Lee, as one of those professionals seemed weird. It put everything into a different focus. No matter how much he admired Lee, it made the idea of trusting these guys with the safety of the entire free world just a bit scarier. They were just "guys" after all, individual human beings, each one of them - and human beings made mistakes. No matter how dedicated or loyal or loving.

He looked up to see Lee striding confidently down the hall towards him. His cousin still looked a bit pale, but the expression on his face was cheerful and put some glow back into his cheeks. Murphy's darker thoughts dissolved at the sight of him. What was he doing being morose? He had known Lee practically all his life. He trusted his cousin to always do the right thing no matter what the cost. If Lee was keeping the world safe for democracy, damn it, everyone should sleep better tonight.

"Took long enough."

Lee grabbed the last pastry off the tray and bit into it before he answered. "I love these apple filled things. Don't they remind you of Grandma's?" When Murphy nodded in the affirmative, he continued, "Yeah, I got tied up with the question and answer period. It's the only part of the job I hate."

"I know what you mean."

"Well, take Hayvenhurst and multiply it by ten in triplicate and you've got an idea of government paperwork." Lee flashed a slim envelope at him to change the subject. "Here are your walking papers, Murph. The official line, so Hayvenhurst doesn't ask too many questions."

"The client still wants me on the case," Murphy said a bit defiantly as he took the papers.

"No kidding?"

"I've got a few more things to do here in Europe before I go home. No big deal. It'll maybe take another day. Then, it's back to L.A."

Lee stuffed the last of the pastry into his mouth. "Got time for a little recon work with your Cuz before you're done?"

"Of course." Murphy hesitated, trying to read Lee's expression. "I thought they'd be sending you home, too. Isn't everything all wrapped up?"

Lee shook his head. "Station in Dusseldorf wants me to stay on a bit now that Norton's, uh, gone."

"Sure, I understand." Murphy didn't know why he felt such a let-down at the news. He should have figured they wouldn't be able to return together. His big trip to Europe hadn't been quite what he expected. He thought sadly of all the places he would've liked to see, but Hayvenhurst was still footing the bill and he was still on company time.

"Let's get out of here," Lee said.

"Okay," Murphy replied cautiously. He'd seen that look on his cousin's face before. "Where to?"

Martine wiped her dirty hands on the green apron wound around her waist and set the bottle she had retrieved on the small wooden table by the stairs. She had picked a special vintage for her dinner with Yves. She wanted everything to be perfect tonight.

She hummed a little tune as she went looking for a sweet dessert wine as well. Although she came here seldom, the ancient Sylvain Wine cellar was one of her favorite places. The larger part of the cellars contained the winery's vast inventory. However, this more secluded part of the cellar belonged to the family's private collections. The racks lining the walls held several tens of thousands of dusty bottles, all in neat and orderly rows, numbered and labelled, entered in a book. In an out of the way corner was the door leading to grandfather Sylvain's personal collection. He had called these bottles his "vins du meilleur." She knew that some of the bottles in his collection would be worth a great deal. It was part of her inheritance, as well as Josef's. The great iron key to the door was her prize possession, hidden away in her apartment. Maybe the time had come to take that key out and send grandfather's wine to auction.

She stood there musing, lost in thought, when her eye caught and held on the table in front of her. There was something wrong with the bottle she had just brought out from the rack. She picked it up again, slipping her fingers down past the label. There was a noticeable ridge between where the label ended and the bottom of the bottle. As she pushed, it gave way in her hands. She watched in amazement as a tiny compartment at the bottom of the bottle clicked open to her view.

"Mon Dieu," she breathed. What could it be? The bottles came from a respected local merchant. She had grown up with them. She had never seen anything like this. "Josef!" she called, startled to find him standing above her on the stairs as she turned.

He seemed angry, but then he was always angry these days. "Don't scream so, I am here, Martine. What is it?"

"Look at this! Whatever can it be?"

Josef bounded down the stairs and snatched the bottle from her hands. "So, you have found my wife's little secret," he said hurriedly, glancing back at Monsieur Leigh who had appeared behind him like a silent shadow.

"Secret?"

"Yes, she thought it would be a good idea to hide some of her valuables down here among the bottles," He was watching her face closely.

"How droll," the Englishman commented.

"So, what are you doing down here?" he asked sharply.

She knew him too well. It was not Gabrielle hiding things in the cellar, but Josef himself. Gabrielle had not been here twice in her life. Monsieur Leigh kept a discreet distance. He had been like a ghost following Josef around the Sylvain offices for days. It suddenly crossed Martine's mind that Monsieur knew exactly what the bottle was and what it was doing in the cellar. She cleared her throat nervously. "I wanted one of the better wines. I'm having a friend for dinner."

His manner changed then. "Oh, a special vintage for a special friend? I understand. Let's see what we can find."

She followed him through the racks again as he began chatting amiably and teasing her about her "cher ami." She couldn't shake the feeling that she had stumbled upon something important, but try as she may, she just couldn't imagine what that something could be.

"So, where to?"

Lee waited until they were both out of the office and down the hall before he answered Murphy's question. "Come back with me to that little village?"

Murphy swallowed hard. "What's up?"

Lee shrugged. "Just a hunch. There's something I want to ask that woman."

"Martine?"

"... Yeah, Martine. Some things still don't add up. Norton's boss, who is now my boss, by the way, seems happy with all the answers, but... "

"... but you're not."

Lee dug his hands a little further into his borrowed jacket. "It's not far by car, and I just got the keys to Deirdre's Mercedes." He held them up and jingled them for effect.

"Deirdre again, huh?" Murphy arched an eyebrow. "I didn't think she was your type. Why did she give you those - out of gratitude?"

"Gratitude. A sense of Patriotism. All that stuff."

"How well do you know this woman?" Murphy asked, "Aren't you forgetting she has a husband?"

Lee shrugged. "Deirdre's got all that money now, all by herself. My guess is that Herman is going to be gone from home for a long time. She's just grateful."

Murphy gave him a shrewd look. "Don't tell me you two have something going? I thought this was strictly business?"

"Um-m-m..." Lee sidestepped the question entirely. "C'mon. We go most of the way by the autobahn. We could be there by dinnertime. We just have to get our things." He stopped. "You can spare the weekend, can't you? I mean, tell your boss the airlines were totally booked for the next week. Will he buy that?"

"You bet." Murphy forgot Deirdre entirely as he realized his adventure wasn't over. He quelled the urge to give a loud war whoop. Instead, he grabbed Lee's arm and guided him towards the parking garage. "Time's a wastin', Cuz."

As they neared the entrance however, a man came running towards them. "Mr. Stetson!" He held out a plastic bag to Lee. "Mr. Stetson, you forgot this. I couldn't let you leave without it." The man pushed his spectacles back onto his nose. "Exhibit three-oh-nine. It got confiscated with everything else. You must feel undressed without it, sir." There was a look of admiration in his eyes.

"Thanks," Lee said. He and Murphy peeked in. Inside was the Colt Python 5-cylinder pistol. Lee's mouth curved into a grin. "Yes, Hans, I'm sure I would feel undressed without this."

"Very good, then. Good-Day," Hans said in impeccable English, retreating into the office.

Murphy stared at the gun stupidly. "Alan's pistol? How did it get confiscated? Did they go through my hotel room too?"

Lee squirmed a little. "Alan's pistol?"

Murphy nodded in reply.

"I thought it was yours."

"Mine? I don't carry a gun, Lee. You should remember that. My boss asked me to bring it to a friend of his in Dusseldorf. It was in some movie with John Wayne or something. It's a collector's piece."

Lee scrutinized it with skepticism. "Worth a lot of money?"

"Only to John Wayne fans, I guess." Murphy smiled. "You're looking awfully guilty."

Lee pushed the bag towards Murphy. "Here, take it. I promise it never got fired."

"Good. Maybe we can drop it by on the way back to the hotel." Murphy took it, realizing for the first time since this whole adventure began that Lee had not only borrowed the gun, but was wearing his clothes as well.

"Ah, did you find your suitcase?" he asked pointedly, eyeing his jeans and sweater.

"The hotel's got it, I guess." Lee frowned and pulled at the hem of Murphy's jacket. "You need this back right now?"

"Naw. You need it more than I do at the moment. It's cold outside."

"You've got a heart of gold, Murphy."

"That reminds me. I've got something of yours as well." Murphy reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the dented gold cigarette case. The fake moustache was stuck to it. He peeled off the hairy strip and gave the case to Lee. "I've been carrying this around with me for two days now. I found it in the street by the train station. It's what led me to you." Lee took the container, turning it over and over in his hand. Murphy could have sworn he almost blushed, but his cousin was an expert at hiding his emotions.

"Thanks," was all Lee said, slipping the item into the jacket pocket. "Shall we go?"

"By all means, Pard," Murphy agreed. "I hear there's a Mercedes waiting."

The Church of Saint Catherine Laboure stood in the center of the village, directly to the north of the square of cobbled stone that marked the downtown area. There was a large fountain in front, which at some point in time had been a horse bath and still bore rings at regular intervals. Unlike the fountain, the church was not a relic of ancient times, but a relatively new edifice, built at the turn of the century. It was small, but embellished with elegant stone tracery and one impressively lovely stained glass rose window that had withstood the World War II bombings and had made its way into the tourist guides of the area.

Today, it was cheerfully decorated with a profusion of flowers in various shades of pink and red. Martine smiled. The flowers were all probably from the LaPierre's wedding two days ago. Soon, it would be filled with flowers again, but not for one of the young girls of the village. No, it would be filled with flowers for her! Plain, old, Martine. Martine the spinster.

She giggled at the thought as she walked past toward the market. How incredible it all seemed. Flowers for Martine. And for Yves, too, of course. Yes, for both of them. They had both been lost and had found each other. He had told her he loved her!

She glanced quickly up at the tall steeple. She would have to go see Father LaGrange soon. She had made so many mistakes, she hoped it could all be made right. Yves kept reassuring her it would be fine. It was strange to her that after all these years of waiting, her prayer had been answered, and not in any way she had anticipated and not in the way she had tried to force it. The answer had come quietly, with the lumbering old blue and white taxi down at the train station. It had come when she had least expected it, but it had come... and it was truly wonderful to her.

"Martine?" Martine opened her eyes to find the vegetable merchant standing next to her with a concerned expression on his face. "Are you ill?"

"No, no, I am fine," she muttered hastily. She found herself beaming at the man. "Dominic?"

"Yes, Martine?"

"Do you believe in miracles?" she asked.

Dominic shrugged. "That's a question for the priest, Martine. Ask me if you should buy the turnips or the asparagus and I'll have an opinion." He gave her an assessing look. "You are very lovely today. She looks lovely, doesn't she?" He elbowed his assistant for concurrence. The man nodded and grunted in the affirmative.

"Make it asparagus, Dom," she said, her face flushed with pleasure. "And Dom, I believe in miracles, I really do. I believe in miracles."

"These tender little asparagus, they are my miracles!" Dominic joked as he took her francs and gave her the parcel in return.

She gathered her packages about her and moved along, stopping at a few other vendors in the stalls past Dom's. The fountain in the square bubbled merrily as she passed it. What a beautiful day! She didn't notice the big, black car until it swerved right in front of her and came to a screeching stop.

It was nearly five in the afternoon by the time Lee and Murphy actually got on the autobahn. Wrapping up their affairs in Cologne had turned out to be an arduous task. It had taken much longer than either of them expected to bribe a concerned hotel concierge to give up Lee's suitcase, clean up and check out of Murphy's hotel. They also had to hunt down the man across the bridge in Dusseldorf and deliver the Colt Python for Murphy's boss. Lee became so short tempered over their problems at finding the address, that they both decided to have lunch first and worry about the address later.

Luckily, the waitress in the bierstube was familiar with the area. Her directions got them quickly to a block of brown, boxlike flats where they found apartment number ten in the second wing at the back. A short, thickset man in a Mickey Mouse tee-shirt and jeans answered the door warily. His joy at discovering they were not policemen was obvious. Both Lee and Murphy were immediately told to sit down, while Herr ("Just call me Theo") Wagner rounded up a couple of cold cans of Coke. To Lee's initial irritation, the man was so happy to see them and the revolver, he insisted that they stay a while. Theo plied Murphy with questions about Hayvenhurst and finally took them both into a back room to show them his collection. Against their will, the cousins were drawn with immense interest to the incredible collection of historical weaponry housed there in wooden showcases and hidden in cardboard boxes.

It was Lee who discovered the tiny gun first. "Murph, look at this. I could hide it between my fingers, like this." Lee's face beamed as he palmed the little gun.

"Be careful," Theo cautioned in his lilting English. "It looks like a toy, but it is loaded and fires a .22 caliber bullet with fair accuracy. See here, this mechanism allows it to..." Theo began explaining the secret of the little weapon and its history. It was made for an Italian assassin in the twenties and came to Germany during World War II. At Murphy's protest that a .22 caliber bullet could hardly stop a man unless delivered with incredible accuracy to the middle of the forehead, Theo just laughed. "The man who used this would file a deep cross into each lead bullet. He used to say they went in quite neatly, but you would need a bathtub to fill the hole it left in back." At this revelation, Murphy shuddered.

Lee let out a low whistle. "Thank heavens for the Geneva Convention."

Theo nodded. "But men who make secret war on other men... well, they don't worry about laws, do they?" He watched Lee finger the carved ivory handle, then smiled. "Would you like it?"

"What?" Lee looked up from the tiny weapon. "Sure I would. It's unique. But a piece like that is worth more than I can afford."

Theo shook his head. "It's actually a copy of the original, which is also in my possession. If you'd like it, it would give me great pleasure to see you have it. I think we share a love of fine workmanship."

Lee nodded and expressed thanks, overwhelmed by the man's generosity. He curbed his impatience as Theo took another fifteen minutes to give Murphy the case with a weapon for his Hayvenhurst boss in return.

As they finally walked back to the car, Murphy let out a long sigh. "Most of that stuff is as illegal as hell."

"Try not to think about it too much, Murph," Lee said absently, his hand straying to the small gun in his pocket. "He's a collector, you know."

"Yeah," Murphy answered, storing the gun case and it's accompanying papers for customs in the trunk. "He sure is."

In minutes they were on the autobahn once more and Lee breathed a sigh of relief. He had become obsessed with reaching the little mountain hamlet before nightfall. It was as if some sixth sense told him there was a key to the puzzle of this international case hidden there. His frustrating day had done nothing but make him more anxious to get on with the job. He was not going to give up until he had some answers. Murphy, next to him on the passenger side, was quietly lost in thought. Lee had the impression that Murphy, too, was puzzling over the link between diamonds and Martine Sylvain. Someone had wanted him on that train. Had he been purposefully sent to Martine? He didn't think so, but he could not shake the feeling that she had somehow intercepted him from his intended destination. Whatever the plan had been, she had foiled it, because he had still made it back to Cologne before the "summit" meeting with Norton Howard and Herman, the Baron Von Schwearingen. Somewhere there was a connection they were missing. No one had yet figured out how the diamonds were smuggled in from South Africa to Germany or how they were being sent through the Iron Curtain. There had to be more - and Lee intended to find it.

Martine awoke to find her head bursting with pain. It took her a moment to remember, then it came in a rush. There had been a big black car and two men she hadn't recognized who had grabbed her. They were there in a cloudy memory, as if she had seen it in an old black and white film. She remembered nothing more except pain and blackness after that. Her shoulder ached, but she found she could only move a little to relieve the pressure Her movements were hampered by the rope that bound her hands together and connected to her ankles. Her scarf was thrust into her mouth to prevent her crying out. Her tongue felt as if it was made of sandpaper.

The light was dim. From where she lay she could only see some shelving and dull stone walls. It took a moment to get her bearings. Everything looked gray and dusty. She slowly realized she was in a far corner of the Sylvain wine cellar, lying on a storage pallet.

She struggled against the ropes, but it was no use - each movement on her part only tightened them. After a few moments she realized it was futile. She started sobbing then, nearly gagging on the scarf, until it worked its way free a little and she could breathe again. All she could think was, why? In a few moments her questions were answered, as the sound of voices sliced through the stillness.

"She is my sister, for heaven's sake!" This, no doubt, was Josef, although Martine thought he sounded very unlike his usually unruffled self.

The answer was much calmer, controlled. "It's all right, Sylvain. It's just a precaution. We just need to make sure she doesn't talk. Did you know Von Schwearingen was arrested?"

There was an audible gasp.

"So, you didn't know."

Martine was aware that she knew the other voice, but couldn't place it. Then she realized why. Up till now she had only heard the stoic Monsieur Leigh speak English. It was his precise tenor, though, speaking French. Martine knew she wasn't mistaken, even though it was not just good English schoolboy French, but the rough French of the streets. Somehow that fact frightened her more than anything. The voices had lowered in pitch and she strained now to hear what they were saying.

"It will take... time to... warehouse of all the goods then we'll have... and make sure it leaves no... "

Josef's voice broke in. She found it easier to understand him. "We can't just clear it all out!"

"I want no trace of any... diamonds... We have twenty-four hours at best before the next shipment is due in East Berlin... network should be closed... time."

"But where will I go? This is my home!"

"Don't worry. I'll... take care of you... Martine. It's just that she is... can identify me... a little longer..." Martine could only make out a few words, but despite the carefree sound of Leigh's voice, the message was ominous.

"Josef, I said don't worry. Our Russian friends need this last shipment... grateful."

"And Von Schwearingen?"

"They're working on it... international incident..." the voices receded. There was the slamming of a door and then she heard Leigh's voice again, loud and brittle. "He's such a fool. Boris, make sure she doesn't escape."

"Da."

"The little bitch has done more than she knows."

"Vladimir said she intercepted the American agent? How?"

"Yes. One would almost think she knew, but then it could have been an accident. He was to have been dropped off at the next station. However, a passenger complained of his singing and the conductor stopped what he was doing to deal with him. I couldn't risk being seen as the only other passenger leaving with him, so I had to double back. By the time I arrived, the station was closed for the night and he was gone."

"But how?"

"Josef forgot to telephone when our arrival plans changed."

"A double cross?"

"I'm not sure. Apparently Martine must have thought she was picking up the hypothetical Monsieur Leigh."

"I'm sure that was interesting."

"Boris, the woman is a total dimwit. But our superiors are not happy. We will have to get rid of both of them. I'm not taking the blame."

"Of course not."

"We just can't.. risk..." The voices faded and all but the main light at the foot of the stairs went out in the great cellar. Martine finally let out the breath she had been holding. She could feel the tension through her shoulders and her legs and the rope biting into her wrists and ankles. All the joy she had felt that morning walking through the marketplace was gone. In its place was sheer terror

"Nobody home, I guess," Murphy finally admitted when Martine failed to come to the door of her flat.

"Where else can we try?" Lee mused out loud. They had already asked around the train station. He tried knocking on a neighboring apartment door.

Someone opened the door a crack and yelled something in French. The door slammed.

Lee shrugged in wonder. "French just isn't my language."

"Sounded like, 'shut up and go away' to me," Murphy supplied. "I've heard that a lot in my line of work."

"Let's go round up Yves."

"Good idea."

The taxi stand however, was empty. Their inquiries were met with shrugs and shaking heads and hands thrown in the air. No one still on the street at this hour seemed to know where Yves, the taxi driver was.

"Maybe they're out on a date."

"Right."

"Could happen," Lee defended. "She was a nice lady. I think he liked her."

"Come on."

"It's possible."

"Okay, okay," Murphy finally agreed. "He liked her."

"Just because she isn't your type, you shouldn't assume..." Lee said hotly.

Murphy realized with a jolt that Lee was worried. It just hadn't occurred to him that there really was a connection between Martine and everything else that had transpired. Now, he wasn't so sure. Maybe Lee's mood was catching. "You don't think anything's happened to them, do you?"

Lee hesitated just a bit before shaking his head. "Naw. They've gone out to dinner or something. Where would you take a lady to dinner in this burg?"

Murphy looked up and down the nearly deserted main street. "There are some lights down that way," he pointed left. "Let's start walking."

The lights turned out to be a small tavern with a few trestle tables and some fly pocked Cinzano posters on the wall. What appeared to be a soccer team, in their jerseys and shorts, took up the larger table in the middle of the room. They were singing and having a very good time. There were only a few other customers seated randomly among the remaining tables. By some small miracle, the one slumped in the far corner, with several empty mugs sitting in front of him, was Yves.

"She's gone, you know," he murmured as they approached. "Left me. If you're looking for the happy couple, stop looking."

"Wha.. ?"

"Drunk," Murphy said.

"Yves, do you remember me?" Lee ventured.

"Oui, Monsieur. I never forget your purple socks, never. Bonne soir. So good of you to drop by. Please do drop. Assied-toi. Ici. Right here." Yves pointed drunkenly at the chair in front of him. Then, as he focused on Murphy, "Oh, there are two of you. F-for a minute I thou-thou-think that the beer she is better than I remember it being, going down. You know?"

"I'm not sure," Lee answered, looking at Murphy for confirmation. Murphy's face showed he had no clue either, but they both pulled out chairs and sat down.

Lee tried again. "Yves, where is Martine?"

"She is not with you?"

"No, Yves, she is not with us."

"She went to work on the books. Always working, that one."

"Yes?"

"She never come back to me. There is an America word for that. Standing it up?"

"She stood you up?" Lee repeated helpfully. This might be making sense after all.

"We were so happy. She invited me for dinner. She loves me, did you know that?"

"Yes, that's nice, Yves. Now think, where can we find her?"

"I've looked everywhere."

"Where did you look?"

"I asked them. Asked Josef at the Winery. No one has seen her since the car take her away."

"Oh, no," Murphy said. "What car?"

Lee and Murphy exchanged looks. Over sandwiches and strong coffee the story slowly emerged. Yves arrived that evening at the apartment to find Martine gone. He waited for nearly an hour before going to look for her. He had finally spoken to Dominic, one of the street vendors who had a stall in the open air marketplace on weekday mornings. Dominic had not only seen Martine that day, but had commented on how she had been picked up by some friends in a big black car on her way home from his stall. That appeared to be the last anyone had seen of her.

Murphy scratched his head. "Not much to go on."

"I wouldn't say that." Something Yves had said had stuck in Lee's mind. "The winery, Murphy. It's got to have something to do with the winery. What else could Martine possible be connected to?"

Murphy had to agree. Lee quickly excused himself to make a phone call. When he returned to the corner table, it was obvious he was trying hard to mask his growing excitement.

"Did you get through?" Murphy asked.

"Yes. Good thing I checked in." Lee's voice dropped. "Seems like the boys in Amsterdam have come to the same conclusion. They've traced the diamonds here. The Sylvain wine label just got a little too popular in the Eastern bloc. We can't expect back-up for at least two hours."

Murphy nodded solemnly. "Does that mean you think we ought to go in now?"

"That's for darn sure. Who knows what they'll do to Martine if they're in a hurry to get away. But, Murph, I think all things considered, it better just be me."

"Better think again, Cousin," Murphy said, with a determined set to his chin.

Although the coffee had helped some, Yves was still too muddle-headed to follow the conversation with any success.

"You have found my Martine?" he finally asked.

"I'm not sure," Lee answered. "But I'd better get going."

"We'd better get going," Murphy amended, following him out of the tavern.

"I'm coming with you," Yves sputtered, gathering up his coat and pulling a battered felt hat over his bald head as the two cousins made their way out the door.

The Sylvain Winery lay at the edge of town. The hills rose up steeply behind it, leaving little room between the building and the main road. The gift shop and offices were closed, but there was still a light on above the double doors at the side of the hill which featured a large sign proclaiming the entrance to the cellars. In the courtyard beside the main building, a long truck and trailer rig was neatly wedged. Two men were busy loading large wooden cases into it with the help of a forklift.

"There goes the evidence," Lee whispered, handing the field glasses to Murphy. From their vantage point on the hill a little above the Winery across the main road, they were well hidden in the trees and could see the entrance clearly. The men's faces, however, were lost in shadow.

"Do you think they've got her in the cellars?"

"Seems reasonable to assume."

"C'est incroyable," Yves murmured next to them. "What shall I do?"

Lee smiled. Yves had not batted an eyelid when Lee pulled the Mercedes off the road into the trees a quarter of a mile away from the Winery and brought his Smith & Wesson out of the trunk, stuffing a few extra clips into his pockets for good measure. Unflappable Yves seemed to have no problem with this sudden transition he and Murphy had made from innocent tourists to lawmen.

"Maybe you'd better stay. Our back-up will be arriving soon. They'll need to know we're here."

"I'm not afraid of combat. I fight in Indo-chine and Algiers."

Murphy turned to Lee. "Maybe the three of us should go."

"Got a plan?"

"Kinda." Murphy outlined his ideas.

Lee nodded thoughtfully. "Could work." He turned to Yves. "Think you can handle it?"

"Oui, oui." The man's eyes were bright now with excitement. The dull, inebriated look was gone. "Allons-y. Let's go."

It took just a few moments for the three to scramble down the hillside to the edge of the road. Lee paused a moment, motioning to the others the need to wait until the men were occupied with the loader and had their backs turned towards the road. The noise of the forklift would mask any sounds they made. It was only a matter of seconds. He signalled all clear, and Murphy and Yves trotted briskly across the two-lane blacktop and positioned themselves near the front of the truck, well-hidden from the men working in back. Yves carefully lifted the hood as Murphy held the club he had fashioned from a broken branch at the ready.

Lee, his Smith & Wesson drawn, slipped around the other side of the courtyard. He would have to risk entering the cellar unseen. This was the trickiest part of the plan. They had only Yves' testimony to the fact that there were only two men inside: Josef and his associate. Lee was well aware of the fact Yves only had a brief glimpse of the lobby this afternoon when speaking to Josef. He wished he knew how far Martine's brother was involved in all this. Well, that was his second wish. For the kindly taxi driver's sake, he wished first, with all his might, that Martine was still alive.

It seemed to take forever before the men left the area in front of the double doors to load the truck. When they finally moved, Lee lost no time in sprinting towards the opening. Luckily, the place was deserted. As Yves had described, it was still filled with crates. He began with the office area to the left. It was empty. Okay. He was back and checking the stairs in a flash. They had to be below. Yves had cautioned this would be the tricky part. The stairs were quite open and he would be visible from a large area of the main cellar until he could get to the racks. He knew he would have to chance it. The chug of the forklift grew louder. If he stayed in the lobby he was going to be seen any moment now. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, he slipped down into the stairwell and hugged the wall.

It was worse than he'd expected. Each board creaked and groaned under his weight as he made his way oh-so-slowly down. I might as well shout, 'Hey, Bad Guys, I'm here!,' he thought bitterly. Then he reached the fifth or sixth step. When he bent over, he could see the main area. He jumped back immediately. There was a man standing on the main floor, his back to the foot of the stairs, his head not more than a foot away from Lee. With reflexes born of long practice, Lee quickly took the next two stairs downward and brought the hilt of his weapon heavily down upon the man's head. The man went down immediately, and Lee dashed down the remaining steps to drag the unconscious body behind the closest wine rack. He spent a moment taking the man's belt off and tying his hands together behind his back. No sense in taking any chances.

He glanced at his watch. Good. He'd made excellent time. He strained his ears to listen for sounds of the forklift upstairs, but could hear nothing. He wasn't sure if that meant Murphy and Yves were successful in their attempt to down the two men working outside, or if the cellar just muffled the noise too well. Yves had mentioned that there were other parts to the structure that he himself had not been familiar with. He did however, know that the family had their special vintages in a section to the far right. It seems Yves had taken the tour of the Winery one day shortly after his return from New York. Lee guessed that this might be where Martine was being held, if she was here at all.

He began methodically moving from rack to rack, scanning swiftly in all directions as he moved, praying not to be caught unawares. As he grew closer, he realized that the wall on the right held two arched passageways into other parts of the cellar, one at either end. Neither one was any brighter than the dim bulbs which lighted the section he was now in. He chose the pclosest. The archway led to a short hall which opened onto a area with sharply angled ceilings, rather like large attic alcove than a cellar storeroom, containing more wine racks and more dust.

There wasn't anyone in here. That left the second archway. Lee popped his head around the corner and...

"Stop right there."

Lee's heart jumped up to his throat at the sound. He froze, raising his hands slowly in surrender. When he turned, he found himself face to face with a man close to his own height and coloring. An automatic much like his own was coolly trained on him at gut-level.

"Give me the weapon, Mr. Stetson."

Lee clicked the safety on his Smith & Wesson and handed it over resignedly. "Maybe we could talk about this?"

"I don't think so," the man replied.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch the name," Lee said glibly.

"Shut up and turn around." Lee did. The weapon was thrust brutally into his back as he did so, urging him forward. "It was a mistake to come here, Mr. Stetson. As you see, we are almost finished with our operation, and we won't have any need of you."

Lee kept his mouth shut as he stumbled through to the next archway. The pressure of the barrel in his back changed, indicating he needed to turn and go through. As he bent under the low ceiling, he nearly stumbled over the woman lying on the floor. For one terrible moment he thought she was already dead.

He cried her name in surprise. "Martine! Martine, are you all right?"

She could only lift her head in response. There was a wild, frightened look in her eyes.

"She's a little upset at the moment, Mr. Stetson. You see, she's had a frightful day." His assailant dropped his gaze for a moment to Martine.

It was the break Lee needed. His foot shot out in a savage kick that caught the man in the face, knocking him off balance and sending both guns clattering to the floor. The man clawed after them, ignoring the blood which was now streaming from what was left of his nose. Lee's feet shot out again with lethal accuracy. The first kick sent the closest gun sailing underneath a wine rack. With the second, he thought he heard a bone snap, and the man on the floor fainted.

"Let's get out of here, Martine." Lee knelt beside the woman and took out the cruel gag. Then he found his pocket knife and sliced through the rope. Her wrists were raw and bleeding from the coarse hemp.

"Merci, merci," she whispered hoarsely again and again as he helped her stretch and stand up. Then she looked past him and screamed something in French.

Yves had been wrong. There had been three men in the cellar, not two, and here was the third man with his finger on the trigger of a small pistol.

The only word Lee understood was the man's name: Josef - but whatever Martine screamed, it worked. Josef lowered the gun and looked like he was going to help her too, when the man Lee had first taken out suddenly appeared behind him, rubbing his head and looking as sore as hell.

The man came bearing down on Josef, catching him totally off guard, in a quick struggle for the gun. Lee didn't have time to think. His hand dove into his pocket, brought out the Italian .22, and fired in one swift move before the other man had a chance to aim.

It was over in a matter of seconds. Lee barely had time to retrieve his Smith & Wesson before the main lights came on overhead and the place was swarming with Agency men.

"Good timing, boys," Lee called goodnaturedly. "I guess that about wraps things up."

"That and a small fortune in diamonds hidden in the false bottoms of the wine bottles outside," Murphy called from the landing above them. He was holding his arm and his lip was bloodied, but there was a grin on his face. "All here and accounted for," he turned and shouted up the stairs. "Good to see you, Cuz."

"You too," Lee said. Then his face broke into a broad smile as a dirty and battered Yves ran down the steps two at a time to embrace his beloved Martine.

Epilogue:

Lee moved aside a pile of clothes and sat down at the old roll-top desk in his apartment. It took him a few moments to find his formal stationary with the embossed initials on it. It had been a long time since he'd written a letter of any kind. He opened the pale blue envelope he'd received in the morning mail once more. A slow smile crept over his handsome features as he slipped out the little pictures inside. They reminded him of the kind of pictures Grandma Michaels sent him now and then. The first was a wedding picture, stiffly formal - the bride radiant in a short pink suit; the groom looking very uncomfortable in his bow tie; their hands entwined possessively. The second, was a baby picture. The dimpled infant grinned at him from the photo.

"Cute little devil." He wondered briefly if he'd ever settle down and have any children, then squelched the thought. "Not in this business," he muttered to himself.

Putting the pictures aside, he began his reply:

Dear Martine & Yves,

Thanks for your letter and congratulations!

He paused for a moment, staring at the sweet little face in the picture, then added:

I'm delighted by your kind offer. I would be honored to be Jean-Luc's godfather...