Parce Que J'ai Péché

by alec1

Dr. René Galbon has the dubious honour of being Methos' shrink. But he has a past of his own, which is about to threatened both him and his patient.

2. Part 2

Chapter 8

Agnus dei

Qui tollis peccata mundi

Dona mihi requiem

She sits before me in silence. I cannot blame her. My own mind is heavy with sorrow. It is a long time since I said such terrible things to anyone; to hear myself admit to what I am - to what I was - is a dagger to my own heart.

"I am very sorry, Miss Thomas. But you must know. I do not ask your forgiveness."

She is staring at some point in the air beyond my shoulder; she does not wish to look me in the face, I think. I pour more whiskey for us both; she does not object. I offer her a cigarette; she takes it and I light it for her. Then I take one for myself. We sit in silence for several minutes, smoking, drinking the whiskey, and I am glad of my training.

I wait for her to speak but she does not. I must break the silence myself. "Your search of my file showed you very little because I meant it to show very little."

She stubs out the cigarette and glares at me. "And do you still hunt, Doctor? Do you still kill for nothing or are you reformed and only kill for a reason?" She rests her elbow on the desk and puts her forehead in her hand to hide her face from me. Or so that she will not have to look at mine, I suspect.

"It was a long time ago, Miss Thomas. And not long enough. And now there is a man who demands that I do as he wishes."

She closes her eyes for a few moments as if to think, then she straightens herself in her chair. Her expression is one of sadness and deep concern, though I suspect it is not for myself. "Or he will destroy you." It is said quietly.

I finish the cigarette and stub it out. What do I say? Perhaps she will think it no more than I deserve. The past is done and there is nothing I can say that will change that. Do I underestimate her, perhaps? Her file told me of her own encounters with vicious Immortals; her own reports of the affair with Morgan Walker were there, together with corroborating reports from supervisory personnel and a copy of the reprimand entered against Joseph for sending her into the field too early. It was most enlightening. It told of a frightened woman who showed courage but was nevertheless very lucky to have survived. And that at the intervention of one Benjamin Adams - Methos himself. It seems we both owe him our lives. And our loyalties.

"He will most certainly destroy me. And those I love." Perhaps she understands what drives some Watchers to take matters into their own hands, although it does not excuse what I did.

She looks into her glass most thoughtfully; she is pulling herself together. Good girl; Joseph is right to be proud of his child. "Is this man an Immortal?" There is a touch of bitterness to her voice. I am right; she knows what they can be.

"Are you certain that you wish me to answer that question?"

"You mean, am I willing to help you?" She sighs and drinks a little whiskey. She has made her decision. "Yes, Doctor. I am." She looks up at me. The determination in her jaw is impressive and I am not at all surprised that Adam... admires her, non? "Are you surprised?"

I smile. "No, Miss Thomas, I am not. But once I tell you, there will be no going back. You will put yourself in danger; be certain of this. And I put my life in your hands by telling you these things."

"I know, and I don't thank you for putting me in that position. But I apologize for my outburst. And if I am to be a Watcher, I had better get used to danger. God knows, there's been enough of it so far. Do you ever get used to it?"

I shake my head. "No. I have treated Watchers who became 'used to it' but it was almost an addiction. It is a bad thing. It is possible to lose one's perspective - even to lose one's humanity, you see. And that must never be. Fear is a warning, very natural; fear keeps you alert, keeps you alive. If you lose your fear of danger, then it will be time to be done with it before it kills you. Do you understand?"

She smiles, but her face is sad. "I'm not doing this for you, Doctor; I don't know you well enough to risk my life for you. This is for Ben."

I shrug. "And it is for him that I ask it. Not for myself. If it comes to light - what I was..."

"...it would destroy him. Is that what you meant by 'those I love'?"

I drain my glass before replying. Perhaps I have given the wrong impression. "There are others I love, Miss Thomas, but I care for Adam, what becomes of him. Not just because he is Methos but because he is a good friend. He saved my life. In more ways than one. It is a debt I repay gladly."

She looks at me; her words forgive me but her eyes say something else. "And it eases your conscience? Are you doing this out of some driving need for redemption?"

I do not answer. I reach for the Scotch and pour myself another shot. I must keep a clear head, but also, my nerves are still very bad. The whiskey eases them - to a point. I offer to pour her some more but she shakes her head. It is wise of her.

She rests her head on her hand again. The emotional struggle is very plain; she is appalled, and yet she understands. It is her own acceptance that disturbs her, not what I did. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she says. "That was un-called for."

I drink a little; it is beginning to calm me and I shall need to be calm. "It is a shock, non? I do not say these things easily, Miss Thomas. I have told no-one besides Sean, Darius and my Confessor; two are dead, of course, and my priest is also an enclosed monk who will never speak of it to anyone. Along with the friendship of Adam Pierson, they kept me from killing myself. And yes, it eases my conscience."

She sits up again and sighs deeply. I am moved by the strain in her pretty face. "And you would not have told me unless Ben were involved. How is he involved? Is he in danger?" Ah, the lady is most certainly in love. I must tread carefully.

I shrug. "Adam is always in danger. I do not need to tell you this. It is how he lives. For the moment, the man involved does not know that he is Methos. If that should change... yes, most certainly."

"Then this man is a Hunter."

I nod. "His name is Eddie Brill. Perhaps you know who he is."

"Hasn't he disappeared? I heard a rumour... something about an amnesty for informants. I did wonder... Oh, my God! Did he inform on you?"

I shake my head. It was the obvious assumption and I still must fear that others will take it into their heads to do so. But not Eddie. "No. He needs me."

"And he has something on you himself."

"So he says. I do not believe it."

"And this is the man who took the photographs?"

"No. Eddie... Eddie tried to kill me. Twice. Eddie enjoyed what he did, believed himself to be doing a service to humanity. It is what they all believed."

"Killing Morgan Walker was a service to humanity. I can see the appeal."

"Precisement. And they forgive no-one. Darius died because they would not believe that a man can change, even an Immortal who has much time to change, to learn to be a better human being... It began because non-interference is absurd. For the quiet ones, perhaps it does not matter so much, but for those who are vicious, those who kill without mercy, without compassion for mortal humanity, no, it is impossible. 'Watch, record but never interfere'... It is a nice thought, but how does a Watcher feel when his charge commits crimes which would put him behind bars for a lifetime if he were mortal and yet he goes free to do it again? It is intolerable. However, to take the law into one's own hands is equally intolerable; those who do this become no better than those they kill. I know."

"But you can't bring the law into it where an Immortal is involved. It would blow everything wide open."

"I do not pretend to have the answers; I am not Solomon. But neither am I a barbarian. The Watchers put their heads into the sand, I think. They do not see because they do not wish to see. Vigilantism always begins as an attempt to protect the innocent where the law has failed. But this is always misguided. It protects no-one and, eventually, there are no longer any lines. What began as a way of eliminating the worst of them ended as a Crusade against them all, an unholy cause."

She is quiet. Does she think of Methos, the Horseman? She sees Benjamin Adams, healer, rescuer of maidens in distress... Friend and potential lover. She knows they are one and the same. And yet she knows, too, that still he would be condemned, not for what he is but for what he was. As will I be condemned for past sins. We change, if we survive. Should this not wipe away the stain? The guilt lives within ourselves, within our hearts and minds. My soul answers to God but my body answers to man. In the eyes of the law and in the hearts of men, I will always be guilty, as will he. As was Darius. And so we keep our secrets and there is no kindness for us anywhere.

For a moment, I think she is going to ask me for another cigarette, but she resists the temptation. "Then those who merely enjoyed killing took over. I don't get the impression that you ever got that far, Doctor."

I shake my head. No, I never got that far, perhaps by the grace of God. Yet far enough. "Possibly that is why Sean never turned me over to the Council himself. I cannot say."

"He must have seen some good in you; I hear he was a very perceptive man. You mentioned Darius. Tell me, were you involved in that?"

"No, no. Of this, I assure you, I am guiltless."

"You said he was your Confessor?"

"And I believe that he was killed because he knew about the Watchers - and the Hunters. He knew because I told him. Perhaps they would have left him alone otherwise and he would still be alive."

"And you have this on your conscience as well? Why didn't you warn him?"

"Oh, I tried, Mademoiselle. I tried. And, obviously, I failed..."

And I almost died with him.

****

"Telephone for you, Rene. Sorry to bother you."

I looked up from my notes in surprise. Sean did not make a habit of disturbing me in my consulting room. There was a good reason I had no telephone in there. "Merci. Who is it, please?"

"Adam Pierson. He sounds a little ruffled. I think you should take it." The worry on his face was plain and it occurred to me that Adam was in difficulty. I was flattered that he would ask for me at such a time.

"Of course."

I hurried to the telephone in Sean's office. I was surprised that Adam would have Sean's private number but then, Adam was always surprising me with his genius for knowing the impossible. When I picked up the receiver, Sean left me to myself and closed the door. No doubt he also thought that Adam was asking for counselling.

"Adam? You are all right?"

His voice was quite cheerful. "Yeah, I'm fine, Rene. I thought we could have a beer."

"You call me at work to suggest that I take the afternoon off for a beer with you? I am flattered but I am very busy."

"Yeah, sorry about that. But I think you should come. I already told Sean. He's giving you the afternoon off."

What was he not telling me? Surely he did not think that Sean's line was tapped. Perhaps he was not free to speak. "Very well. It will take me a little while to drive into Paris. Where do you want to meet?"

"That little restaurant you like on the rue de l'Echelle, just over from the Louvre."

"Adam, that is all the way downtown!" I sigh into the telephone; there is very little point in protesting. "Eh bien. I will be there."

And Sean had indeed given me the afternoon off. He took over my patients himself. I have always wondered what Adam told him. I telephoned Nikki and told her that I had to go to Paris and would be home late, if at all. Perhaps I would need to stay overnight. Then I drove to the outskirts of Paris, left my car in a garage and took the Metro to Palais Royale. It took less than three minutes to reach the little restaurant. He was waiting for me at a sidewalk table, drinking coffee, which surprised me. I had to admit that I was grateful to get away for an afternoon but I had spent the entire trip here worrying about what could have gone wrong and here he was, looking fit and happy as if he had not a care in the world. Of course, he often looked that way; it was usually a mask.

I took the seat beside him. "Are you all right?"

He shrugged. "I told you. I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about."

"Me?"

The waiter was at my elbow before I could say more. "Bonjour. Qu'est-ce que je vous sers, Monsieur?"

"Ah... un cafe noir avec du lait et un cognac, s'il vous plait."

When the waiter left, Adam smirked. "You do like milk in your coffee, don't you? You're in a rut, Rene."

"It is a comfortable one."

"How is Mathilde?"

"She is very well. Growing quickly, as babies will, and not keeping me up in the middle of the night any more, I am pleased to say. But you did not bring me to downtown Paris in the middle of the day to ask about my daughter."

"No, I didn't. You're in trouble."

A cold shudder ran down my spine. The waiter arrived with my coffee and cognac, which relieved me of having to reply. I thanked him, my voice barely above a whisper. Adam looked at me, not unkindly. Bon. If he had found out, he would not have bothered with this little get-together, yet I thought he would not have reported me, either. Ah, I cannot know what he would have done. And I still believed him to be mortal, after all.

He smiled; he sensed my discomfort. "Can you think of a reason why James Horton would be checking up on you?"

"Oh, mon Dieu! I will have nothing to do with that son of a bitch!"

"Yeah, I did wonder. Actually, I'm a little suspicious. He and I... well, let's just say we have had our differences of opinion about you." He chuckled to himself. It would be ten years before I understood the meaning of what he had just told me. "And put a smile on. They're watching us. We're just here for a coffee, two old friends getting together, all right?"

My head was spinning. Watching us? How long had this been going on? Why now? Why had Horton spoken to Adam about me? "When did this happen?"

"Couple of days ago. I did a little digging on my own but I kept hitting a brick wall. Something's up and you just might be in the middle of it."

"But I have had nothing to do with the man for years. C'est absurde!"

"That's rather what I thought. But he did try to kill you after all. And you never told me what it was you had on him. Personally, I think he's a Hunter. And if you have proof, your days just might be numbered, my friend."

I was speechless. It had been - what? - five years since Rodrig, four since Horton had shown me the tape and nothing had come of it. All had been quiet; I had kept what I knew to myself and I was still alive. I had been complacent, wrapped up in the birth of my child, in being a father for the first time. And now?

"Rene? You all right?" I nod but I can say nothing. "I think you should drink that coffee and we can go somewhere less conspicuous, have something to eat, be old friends out of sight. You need to talk to me about what you know because something is going down."

"Very well."

I poured the brandy into the coffee and drank it. Adam paid the bill while I went down the back stairs to the bathroom. I relieved myself, washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. Merde! What was happening? Could they not leave me alone? I had said nothing; I did not dare, and now others depended on me. I no longer wished my own destruction. I was no longer a danger to them. Perhaps Adam was right and something was about to happen - something which concerned me? I preferred not to contemplate what it might be.

I jumped when I heard the door open behind me but it was Adam. He relieved himself and washed his hands while I waited, hardly able to think. I had gone soft; I had been away from that existence a long time and was no longer alert. Perhaps it would be my undoing.

"There's a back way out of here." he said. "I slipped the waiter twenty francs to let us into the alley, no questions. Fatherhood seems to have ruined your nerves."

"I will be all right. It is a shock, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Come on, Daddy. Let's get you out of here."

Upstairs, the waiter showed us to the back door and into the alley.

"I know a little place on the Rive Gauche," he said when we were outside. "Ten minutes down some back alleys. It's owned by a friend of mine. We can talk there."

I lit a cigarette as we walked. Adam's face was grim, his cheerful smile gone with the spring wind. We kept away from le Quai des Tuileries, going east, parallel to the Seine. I had not walked there in some while, although I used to stroll there on the esplanade with Madeleine, Mathilde's mother, in happier times. And we were very close to Darius' church. I had not seen him since Mathilde's christening, over a month before.

We did not speak. He seemed to be using the spire of Notre Dame as a landmark as we dodged down one alley, then another. At another time, I would have thought it paranoid behaviour, but now...? Now it was perhaps my own life at stake. And his also? I thought about what he had said about believing Horton to be a Hunter. When he said it, it was almost with a snarl. At the time, of course, I thought it only the utter disgust of the academic for the vulgar and the barbaric, the reaction of someone who spent his solitary days searching for truth. He had said that he and Horton had had a 'difference of opinion' concerning myself. Had he put himself in danger from the Hunters on my account? If true, it had been very rash. And I did not think of Adam Pierson as a man prone to rashness. Whatever his reasons, it was quite obvious to me that I should say nothing of my own involvement. Now, of course, I know it would have been a disaster for both of us.

Very soon, we emerged from a back alley into a street I knew. It was only one street over from Darius' church, on the west side of the little park, very narrow, very old. As we went into the open, we were both very cautious, looking about for signs of anyone who might be watching for us. I was alert again, as if the habit had only been waiting for me to notice it and put it on again. There appeared to be no-one. Close by, Adam led me into a little restaurant. Inside, he nodded at the man behind the bar, who nodded back, and took me to a door near the kitchen. When we went through it, we were greeted in a most friendly fashion by a small, older man with kind eyes that observed me most thoroughly. It occurs to me now to wonder if this man, whose name I never knew, was an Immortal. In any case, I never saw him again after that day. Now that I begin to think of these things, I wonder how many more besides Darius died that night. Certainly, Adam and I were supposed to be among them.

Adam spoke quietly and briefly to the man in some language I did not understand. The man smiled at me most graciously and showed us up some stairs to the floor above, where, presumably, he lived. We were ushered into a very comfortable parlour, small but exquisitely furnished in fine antiques. A little dog was asleep on a cushion on a red velvet sofa.

"Veuillez vous asseoir, Monsieur," the man said to me. "Mon foyer est le votre. Je rentrerai dans quelques instants." [Be seated, please, Sir. My home is yours. I will return in a moment.] And he was gone.

I took off my coat and sat down in a plush Victorian armchair. There was an ashtray to one side with some cigarette butts in it. No doubt the gentleman would not mind if I indulged my habit. While I lit one gratefully, Adam disappeared into another room, possibly a little kitchen, and returned with two mugs of dark beer. He handed one to me and sat in a second armchair opposite me. His face was very dark.

"We can talk safely here. There's some food coming. I hope you weren't planning on being back in Reims tonight."

"No. I told Nikki I might have to stay in Paris. Adam, what is going on?"

He drank deeply of the beer and sighed heavily, wearily. "I don't know. But something is."

I drank some of my beer. It was strong and very good; in other circumstances, I would have enjoyed it. "What did Horton say when he came to see you?"

"Some nonsense about incomplete reports when he was your supervisor. Wanted to know if you'd ever talked to me about your Watcher days, before med school."

"But he was not my supervisor then. I don't understand."

He shrugged and drank some more of the beer. "I know. I did some checking."

"On me? But why?"

He laughed. "Don't get your knickers in a knot, Rene. I looked you up when I first met you. You were a real hell-raiser back in the seventies, three personal reprimands from Lebeau himself while still at the Academy. And I can tell a faked report when I read one. You were a very naughty boy."

It was my turn to laugh. "M. Lebeau was very kind. He told me that he understood how it was for fatherless boys, but if I did not mend my ways, he could not save me from myself. I was only twenty years old and something of a thorn in his side." And perhaps Lebeau had seen others like me, wild, insubordinate, angry. I no longer remember what he said but I had the impression, standing there in front of his desk, sweating while he recited my numerous infractions, that perhaps he was speaking to his younger self. It was not so much in his words as in his eyes; the sadness there cut me to the bone. "He told me that I was like a stone, hard and unworkable, but that if he polished me enough, I might show some brilliance. He said he had considered confining me at the Academy but told me that the black mark on my record would be punishment enough. Unless I did it again, of course. And then he would lock me up until I saw the error of my ways. I could hardly keep a straight face. And eventually, he recommended me for medical school." I shrugged. "One cannot know what is in the minds of old men."

Adam gave me a strange look, then drank more of his beer. The door opened and the same gentleman came in, holding a large tray. He said nothing but placed it on his dining room table. The plates and cutlery were already laid out. Then he bowed without saying anything and left us to ourselves.

The food was wonderfully prepared - entrecotes, vol-au-vents aux crevettes, really quite wonderful - and although it was still early, we ate hungrily. It was just as well, as it turned out. My next meal was much farther away than I could ever have guessed.

Afterward, there was some superb coffee and Remy Martin. I could not help wondering who our gracious but absent host was. Adam did not seem inclined to tell me, however, and I did not ask.

Adam contemplated his cognac while I smoked and waited for him to lead the conversation. It was he who wished to speak to me, apres tout. For my part, I worried about what I could say to him that would not arouse his suspicion.

"Why do you think he came to see me, Rene?" he asked. His eyes were narrowed and the tone sent a chill down my spine.

"Obviously, it was not to correct old reports," I said. "Perhaps you were meant to do precisely what you have done - warn me. Perhaps it is to flush us both out." And why had I said that? "Perhaps you should have left it alone."

He drank some of the cognac, his face now thoughtful. "Yeah, that's what's worrying me. I very nearly did leave it alone but I remembered something I'd read somewhere about military strategy, about flushing your enemies into the open before a battle. If you're the enemy, you can stay quiet and pretend nothing's happening, right up until they take your position while you're busy pretending, or you can show your head and get it shot off."

I watched him swirl the brandy in the glass, his lips pursed, eyes fixed on the liquid as if it were a crystal ball that was showing him the battle field, the generals discussing strategy, the enemy in their strongholds. Now I know that he was probably remembering. "And the only thing that is certain is that there will be a battle, non?"

He smiled. "Always, my friend. Always. And I have to ask myself why you and me?"

"You said that you believe Horton to be a Hunter." I hesitated and he looked at me. I need not tell him of my own involvement, but... "I can tell you that he is indeed a Hunter. He is the power behind them, the one who gives them their assignments. This I know. And for knowing this, yes, he has wished me dead for a long time." My grip tightened on my brandy glass, my palm sweating a little, but I kept my gaze steady.

He did not respond immediately. Perhaps he had been testing me. Then he nodded a little and drank some more of the brandy. "I won't ask you how you know," he said. "But I will ask who else you've told."

And it struck me. "Oh, mon Dieu! I have told Sean and Darius - and they are both Immortals. What have I done?"

****

Chapter 9

"And we are about to get our heads shot off," he said calmly. "I wish you'd told me before."

"It would have put you in danger, Adam. I could not have done that. I am sorry. I do not see how it involves you even now. You have nothing to do with Horton or the Hunters; why would he see you as a danger?"

He snorted; his face was cold steel. "Like you, I know too much. Let's just leave it at that, Rene. Maybe one day I'll tell you. For now..." He shrugged and drained the brandy. He held the glass in his hand for a moment as if his mind were somewhere else. Then he put the glass on the table firmly and looked at me. "I shouldn't have brought you into Paris. Now we're all in the same place - you, me, Darius... two others that I know of, possibly more. Horton is smarter than I gave him credit for."

I was horrified. "Surely he is not planning to kill us all? It would be madness!"

"It would send one hell of a message, not only Immortals on his hit list but sympathizers, any Mortal they think is a danger to them. A little Reign of Terror. I'd heard a rumour that something big was coming; I just didn't know who."

I shook my head, not wanting to believe. Surely this was paranoia and Adam was more prone to psychotic breakdown that I had thought. "Horton has only been back in Paris for a few months; he has not had time to arrange such a thing."

He sighed. "For a smart bastard, you sometimes amaze me with how na•ve you can be, Rene. Think about it: he got sent to some backwater hell hole right after you tried to kill him. Be sure he blames you for that. Hell, he probably blames you for surviving his attempt to kill you that night." He winked and clicked his tongue. "He's just an all-round bastard of a guy. Now he's back - as Darius' Watcher. He hates Darius with a passion because Darius has a past - he doesn't even bother keeping it secret - yet he pulled strings to get Ian Bancroft assigned elsewhere and get himself put on Darius. That was that idiot Shapiro's doing. Give me another Lebeau any day. I think Horton was a very busy boy when he was off in limbo, kept in touch with his loyal cronies, promised them glory on his return. Stop me if I'm not making any sense."

I rested my head on my hand. I had been a blind fool, too besotted with my new life to watch my own back. "You are sure?"

"I wasn't. Now it's blindingly obvious. And don't worry about putting me in danger in the future; it's more dangerous not knowing."

I sat back and looked at him. This was not the Adam Pierson I knew. This was something more, much more. I had seen this man before; this was the man whose face I had seen when I told him that Horton had put a gun to my head, the man who had rescued me from the alley. Adam Pierson was afraid of his own shadow and hid in dusty libraries; this man could lead armies. "Then we must act."

He smiled; it was a grim smile, a pressing of the lips, a jutting of the chin. "No... not a good idea. I want you to go home and stay there. Don't go to work tomorrow; in fact, don't go anywhere until you hear from me."

"What about you? You may be a target as much as I."

"Believe it. It was me Horton contacted and now I'm out in the open, where he wants me. And I have no intention of getting my head shot off." His face softened; he was telling me not to worry, but how could I not? "I'll stay well out of their way. And, Rene... don't expect them to respect Holy Ground."

****

"And did you?" Miss Thomas asks. "Go home, I mean?"

"Not exactly." And I am out of cigarettes. "Miss Thomas, may I take you to dinner?"

It takes a moment for her to answer; she is still unsure of me, sans doute. "Very well, Doctor. I should eat something; perhaps it will keep me from worrying for an hour or two."

"Bon. And your father has a safe here, non?"

"Yes, of course. I have the combination."

"Then we should put these photographs in there, I think."

She nods. Such sadness. "Of course. Give them to me."

I take the photographs and tapes out of my knapsack and give them to her. While she takes them to the safe, I put my jacket on. My nerves are a little better; perhaps telling secrets was good for them, who knows? When she returns, she has her coat. I help her with it.

"There's a nice little place just down the street," she says.

"Then I shall let you guide me, Mademoiselle. I should warn you, however; it is possible that we will be observed."

"What?"

"I am being followed. I saw no-one in the Metro, but that means nothing. I am quite sure they have been observing Le Blues. It is nothing to be concerned about, merely M. Gabrieli keeping an eye on us all, I believe." I smile and we walk to the front door.

"Do you suppose he suspects?"

I shrug. "I have no idea what he thinks. But I do not wish to give him food for thought, vous comprenez?"

I pick up my knapsack and we leave. Outside, I look for anything suspicious but there appears to be nothing. However, I have been wrong before. It has stopped raining. I stop at a little shop for cigarettes. The bistro is just a few doors down and I am not at all surprised when the waiter greets her by name. No doubt her father eats here often. We settle ourselves comfortably and look at the menu.

"I must admit I'm quite hungry," she says. "Thank you for bringing me, Doctor. Being there all day worrying, watching Stephen get drunk was probably not a good idea. I just can't help wondering where they've got to."

"Adam may not have a Watcher but I do believe that M. Gabrieli has someone observing his comings and goings. He knows they are in Scotland; if anything has gone wrong, I believe you would have been informed."

She sighs. "In other circumstances, that would distress me but I find I'm grateful for his concern. Should I be?"

"I do not think M. Gabrieli wishes you or your father harm. I ask myself why he would pump me for information on Adam, knowing that I can say nothing without breaking confidentiality and that is a serious matter. Perhaps I am wrong, but I think he knows that Adam is immortal, yet he has no proof and cannot assign a Watcher without that. He may even suspect that Adam is Methos, which would explain why he is so concerned for this one particular Immortal." I pause while I light a cigarette.

"Would you mind if I had another one of those?"

I give her one and light it for her. The waiter comes and takes our order. I have decided on the specialite de la maison, a baked cod dish; Mlle Thomas asks for a salad with smoked duck, which would have been my other choice. When the waiter leaves, she takes a deep drag on the cigarette and regards me with a look of curiosity. "What makes you think that?"

"It is only a theory. I wanted an explanation for his curiosity about Adam, to begin with. Now that I know he has taken all our files - mine, yours, your father's - I see a connection. All of us - and Stephen, but I have his file myself - are in a position to watch Adam most closely, more closely even than a Watcher. I hear his intimate thoughts," I shrug, "those he will tell me, of course. And Joseph is his closest friend. All of us are deeply involved in Adam's continued well-being, do you see? I now believe that Gabrieli suspects that Adam is Methos and that he wishes Methos to survive, to continue. He cannot have him Watched; therefore, we are his Watchers, whether we know it or not, a sort of Methos Project Field Team, if you like. And we are very good at what we do."

"And so we must also survive. Including you, Doctor. I think you should go to him, lay it out, ask for his protection. He will grant you amnesty, I'm sure."

"And that would send a message to others, who would most certainly wish to keep me quiet. I have stayed alive because I have kept my mouth shut." I shake my head. "No, Miss Thomas. The Regional Director is not all-powerful; I doubt that he would be able to save me from a tribunal. And he would be damning himself. We both have enemies, he and I; Shapiro is waiting in the wings to make a come-back, for one. Did you know that?"

She frowns deeply. "No, I didn't. And how do you know this? Or perhaps I shouldn't ask. No doubt it's privileged information."

"And 'privileged information' is one of the reasons that those who are afraid of me would wish me silenced. I know a great deal - not perhaps as much as they think, but enough to make them sleep badly at night."

"It wouldn't have to be official. You could arrange to meet him somewhere, as we are doing now."

"He and I never meet casually. It would arouse suspicion in the wrong places."

The waiter brings our food and we suspend the conversation until we are finished. I am too distracted to enjoy it as I normally would. She also has other things on her mind, I see. And I cannot blame her at all. It has hardly been a good day. When we are done, the waiter returns. We both decline dessert but accept the suggestion of cognac with our coffee. When it is brought, I light another cigarette; she declines my offer. I stretch out my legs comfortably and wait for her to say something.

She stares into her coffee, tracing the rim of the cup with a slender finger. Perhaps she is wishing that it was Adam sitting at this table with her. "Did you never consider turning yourself in and taking them all down, Doctor? Ending it all right there?"

I shrug. "Mais, certainement. One always thinks these things."

"And why didn't you do it? You could have saved Darius' life. And others. Why not make the ultimate sacrifice? You must have thought you deserved your punishment."

It is a bitter statement, lacking in compassion, and one which I shall not grace with a reply. She is upset, worried.

She rests her forehead on her hand, still staring into her coffee. "Oh, Lord. Don't answer that. I can't possibly imagine how you felt."

I smile and drink some brandy. "Do you forgive me for still being alive while others are not? Are we not all alive while others are not? I forgave myself a long time ago, Mademoiselle." And I wonder if that is the truth.

"Did you at least try to save Darius?"

****

I left Adam immediately, intent, at first, on doing what he asked. But suppose they knew where I lived and came for me there? I could not tolerate such a thought; I would do nothing to put Mathilde and Nikki in danger. I thought of going to Sean but I doubted they would respect Holy Ground. Adam was right in this. I would use the apartment on the rue Montera; there was no-one there at the moment and I had a key. I ducked down the Metro station at Chatelet and was in Porte de Vincennes in fifteen minutes.

I did not need the apartment very much in those days; indeed, I rarely came into Paris if I could avoid it and since Mathilde's christening a month before, I had not been there at all. Only one other psychiatrist on Sean's staff used the apartment; we each had clothing there, in case of emergencies. And this was an emergency.

The first thing was to telephone Sean and tell him what we suspected. After that, it was up to him. For all Sean Burns was the calmest man I had ever known, he was no fool. He thanked me and told me to be careful. He promised to call Nikki and tell her that I had an emergency case in Paris and would be delayed, possibly for several days. When I hung up the telephone, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my hands. I could no longer see the blood on them but it was there. And yet I wanted to live.

I took out the valise with my few clothes in it and changed into the dark pull, the one I always wore on an assignment. I should have burned it for its memories, but for now, I needed it this once, at least. I still carried a gun at my back in those days; I was not so much a fool yet as to believe I was completely safe and yet this was still a shock, the reality that I had come to believe was only remote. It was like a knife in my gut, sharp and burning.

For the first time, my thoughts were to save the lives of Immortals. Sean would do the right thing, I knew; Darius was another problem. I would go myself and convince him to leave. Or I would stay there to protect him when they came; perhaps if I were to lose my life that night, it could be the price I paid as ransom for another.

I heard footsteps on the stairs outside the door. There were others in the apartment house but this was a slow creaking on the stairs, not the swift passage of someone anxious to be home. A prickling sensation crept over my brain and my hand went to my gun. The footsteps, heavy and muffled, stopped at the door. They must have followed me. Or perhaps they had been waiting - it did not matter. My heart raced. I went toward the bathroom, just as my door broke open. I ran to the window and was already on the roof when I heard Eddie Brill's voice behind me, "Your time's come, you son of a bitch!"

I scrambled across the roof tiles and slipped, falling to my hands and knees just as the first bullet whistled past my ear. A loose tile slid off the roof and smashed in the courtyard below. I turned and got off a shot while getting back to my feet. Another bullet just grazed my side, burning like hell. I reached the roof pitch and fired again as I tumbled over the other side. But my foot caught on something and I fell hard, sliding over the edge and onto the ground some ten feet below.

The breath was knocked out of me and the pain was terrible. I had surely broken some ribs but my legs were good. I tried to stand and the pain shot through my back and chest like a hot iron. I shrieked with the shock of it but kept going. Behind me, I heard Eddie's voice screaming that I had shot someone. That was one kill that would not haunt my dreams. I heard him behind me, scrambling over the roof tiles, and another bullet just missed my head. I was lucky that it was dark already or his aim would most assuredly have been better and I would have been lying on my face in the gutter.

I could not run; certainly I could not outrun Eddie. I heard him drop to the ground not ten metres behind me and another shot went wide of me. I was behind the shops now and there was a trash bin looming to one side. I swung myself into it and lay still, my gun ready. It stank to high heaven but it might keep me alive. I heard Eddie running up the alley right past me. Surely he would think to look here...

O my God, I am most heartily sorry for having offended Thee...

I heard his footsteps slow and stop. He had seen me fall, heard me cry out. He must have known I was hurt and could not go far...

Pater noster qui es in caelis...

The pain was bearable if I lay still. It was painful even to breathe but I made myself breathe deeply, trying to calm myself so that I could think. I heard Eddie's boots on the stones; he was coming back...

Ave Maria, gratia plena, dominus tecum...

"Hey, you bastard!" Eddie was yelling. "I'll get you, you son of a bitch!"

His footsteps stopped beside the bin. I heard him laugh. "Found you, asshole." He kicked the side of the bin and I held the gun ready. At least he would die with me...

Oh, my darling child... I am so sorry...

"A dumpster! Very fitting. Now you can die like the piece of garbage you are, my friend." And I heard him begin to climb.

I have never in my life been so grateful for the sound of police sirens. The neighbours must have heard the shots and called them.

"Fuck it!" Silence. He was listening. Then he kicked the side of the bin one more time. "Don't think you're safe, asshole. I can wait."

And I heard him running away. And yet I could not let the police find me. There would be so many questions; I might even spend the night in a cell and I had no wish to do that. I could hear it... "Why do you have a gun? Who were you firing at? Why was he pursuing you? We have a file on you..." No, I must stay where I was.

I heard them come into the alley, shouting and running. I could see the beams of flashlights in the air. The stench was making me nauseous but better that than a cell.

I waited, trying not to throw up, trying to ignore the pain. Tais-toi, Rene, I told myself. Calme-toi. Hold on. They will give up and go away.

And they did, although it seemed like a very long time. I still stayed where I was. Perhaps Eddie had been frightened off - or perhaps he was only waiting for the police to leave, as was I. But I felt myself going into shock. I would need to be somewhere warm and quiet. And I would need to have my ribs taped. There was only one place I could think of - Adam's apartment. Who else could I go to? My car was on the other side of Paris and I dared not go back to the apartment I had just fled. It would be suicide. If I had indeed shot someone... Oh, mon Dieu! There would be a body I could not explain. I would be spending more than one night in that cell. The police would still be there, would still be looking for me, looking for whoever had been in that apartment, had fallen off a roof and run down an alley...

I must have lain there for over two hours. More than once I heard voices passing me. Eventually, the voices did not come back and I steeled myself to move. The pain was worse than before and I very nearly cried out again. I must be quiet; my life might still depend on it. I managed to climb out of the bin; the effort cost me great pain and I nearly fainted. And I stank to high heaven. But I had my wallet in my pocket, at least, with enough money for a taxi. I could not get to Adam's apartment any other way. Certainly, I could not walk that far. I walked to the end of the alley and out onto the street. I could not stand straight and every step burned through me. But if I wanted to live, if I wanted to see my daughter again...

A taxi stopped for me and when I got into the back seat, the driver demanded to know if I had money to pay him. He must have thought me a drunk. It occurred to me that that was a good cover and I played the part. "I have money!" I told him, in as surly a voice as I could manage. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and showed him.

"All right. Where to? Merde! You stink!"

I gave him a street name close by Adam's apartment. There was a bar there; let him think that was where I was going. It took forever to get there, it seemed. Every little bump in the street tore at my rib cage. The driver observed me in the mirror.

"Hey, buddy. You okay? Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No," I snarled. "I just need a drink."

I heard him sigh. "Don't throw up on the seat. That's all I ask.'

When we arrived, I gave him a couple of bank notes and told him to keep the change. Before I got out, he put a hand on my arm.

"You need help, mon ami."

"What?"

"You are no drunk, Monsieur. Your beard is neatly trimmed, I do not smell alcohol on you - and drunks never give tips. You understand me? And you are in a lot of pain. I have been watching you. Let me take you to a hospital."

I shook my head. "You never saw me."

And I got out. I was near passing out and shivering. It was shock. Perhaps I had punctured a lung. I must get warm soon. And I would need help.

And perhaps they were watching the apartment. If they were, I could do nothing. I could only hope. I made it to the apartment building and up the stairs, although God alone knows how. At his door, I hesitated. But if they were inside, there was little I could do. I was dead in any case if I could not get help. I put my ear to the door but all I could hear were cats. I tried the handle and it was open. I pushed the door open and went inside, grateful to be safe.

I went straight to the bathroom, stripped off my filthy clothing and got into the shower. I stowed the gun in the laundry basket. After a few minutes under the hot water, I already felt a little better but it was deceiving. I was still shaking and it was not from the cold. I felt my pulse; it was rapid and weak. The skin on my hand was slightly blue. I got out of the shower, dried myself quickly and wrapped myself in Adam's bathrobe. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I would need something hot and sweet. I made tea and put a lot of sugar into it. Then I fetched a blanket from the cupboard - in some ways, Adam was a creature of habit and kept things in logical places - and lay down on the sofa, wrapping the blanket around me. I had retrieved the gun from the laundry basket and shoved it under a cushion. The cats were curious but only watched me. I was shivering badly and I could feel myself drifting into sleep - a sleep from which I might never awaken. I was now feverish and my skin was damp and my breathing rapid. The pain around my ribs had not eased. It crossed my mind that I should call for help but I could not think what to do. I wanted only to sleep. And for the pain to go away.

I heard someone on the stairs but, if it was an enemy, I could do nothing. I prayed it was Adam, come back safe. He would know what to do.

Footsteps came to the door. After a moment's hesitation, it opened. I had left my glasses in the bathroom and could not see who it was.

"Oh, good Lord!"

I could not place the voice. I heard the door close and a shape came straight toward me.

"Dr. Galbon, isn't it?" the voice asked. "You're Rene Galbon, if I'm not mistaken. What happened?"

"Who is it? I cannot see."

"Oh, I'm sorry. We haven't actually met. Donald Salzer. What's happened?"

"They are going to kill Darius." It was only a whisper.

He did not reply. After a few moments, he sat down on the sofa beside me and touched my shoulder. "Darius is dead, son."

It was a terrible blow, one from which I have perhaps never recovered. I turned my face away; I had failed.

"Looks like they came after you too. I don't know what you did to get on the wrong side of them, but you're lucky. Others weren't."

I turned my face back. I had to know. "Adam?"

The reply was immediate. "He's safe. But you need help. I'm going to call someone and ask for advice. Can't take you to hospital; too dangerous. Can you give me a quick diagnosis so I can tell them?"

"I fell off a roof and perhaps I am bleeding inside. I am in shock."

"Right. I'll make a call."

Perhaps because help had arrived and I could rest, perhaps because the shock of Darius' death was at last more than I could handle, I passed out. When I came to, it was morning. I was lying in Adam's bed, my feet raised, swathed in blankets. I was very weak. There was an IV needle in my hand and someone stood next to me.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," a familiar voice said. It was Pierre Lamartine, a colleague at the hospital, a colleague who knew about Immortals. His hair was a mess and he needed a shave; he had been there all night. "We almost lost you. I'm quite sure you don't have a punctured lung but you have three or perhaps four broken ribs and there is a great deal of bruising, perhaps some internal bleeding. But you have responded well. You are a lucky man; if the shock had gone any deeper, I would have called an ambulance and we may well have lost you. I have taped your ribs and given you saline and glucose, some broad spectrum antibiotics. A lot of rest and you'll be back tormenting patients. I will leave some pain killers. You are to stay here and not move for at least three days. Do I make myself understood? M. Salzer has volunteered to stay with you. I have given him instructions on what to feed you, plenty of fluids - and no smoking." He laughed. "I know you. My back will be turned and you will light up. I can do nothing about that, but do try not to smoke. And don't talk too much. Watch television, play with yourself - just don't get up except to go to the bathroom. Better yet, use a bottle. And if it could be managed, I would have catheterized you." Pierre liked to make jokes; some of them were even amusing. "And I shall return in a few hours to see if you're still breathing."

He removed the IV needle and taped up my hand without saying anything. When he was done, he patted my shoulder and smiled. I had no idea what M. Salzer had told them but Pierre knew that Darius was my Confessor. He was kind enough say nothing.

"Oh. And Sean is safe."

****

Chapter 10

"M. Salzer was very good to me. He stayed with me until I could manage for myself."

"You mentioned a child, Doctor. I didn't know you had been married. Was that something you erased from your file?"

I stub out my cigarette and rub my forehead with my fingers. "I was never married, Miss Thomas. Nikki is my housekeeper."

"You don't need to sound so defensive about it. A lot of people have children without being married these days. You do have a child?"

I smile at the thought. I had not intended to tell her; it slipped out naturally while I was talking. But then, the lady is also a 'love child'; she will understand. "Yes. Mathilde. She is ten."

She smiles, almost sadly. "You love her very much. And now I know who you meant by 'those I love'. Tell me - do you have a mistress?"

The question shocks me but I suppose it is a logical one. "That is a private matter, Mademoiselle. To ask this does not become you."

She shrugs. "It's a logical question, Doctor. A man with your taste for women is hardly likely to be celibate."

"Martine is my lover - and my friend. 'Mistress' sounds like a business arrangement. And I do not see how this concerns you."

"I'm trying to understand you."

I smile and finish the cognac. "I am not difficult to understand."

"You are a murderer and a liar." I look straight at her; these are the words Eddie used. "You killed people by cutting their heads off in a rage. How could you do such a horrible thing? I will never understand and I will never accept it; I don't care how repentant you are. I can forgive Ben; it's how he has to live. But you? And yet you are a loving father. It's a combination I find difficult to comprehend." And she sees it in her own father; Joseph and I are perhaps not so different.

"I know better than anyone what I did - I do not defend myself. Yet how is it your place to forgive me or not? It is arrogance itself, Mademoiselle."

She is defiant but does not pursue it. "What happened to Ben?" she asks. Her voice is slightly tremulous. I had thought her nervousness under control but I see that I was mistaken. Whenever the subject returns to Adam, she becomes frightened. She should have more faith in him; he has, after all, survived for five millennia. Still, love makes us foolish.

I signal to the waiter for more coffee; when he comes, I ask him for the bill.

"Somehow they poisoned him with PCP, 'Angel Dust', and he was in the emergency room, heavily restrained and raving..."

"Oh, my God!"

I ignore the outburst. "I supposed at the time that they decided that killing him without obvious cause would have resulted in an investigation and the connection to Horton would have been easy to uncover." I shrug. "It was too dangerous for them to kill him."

"And do you still believe this?"

I sigh and drink some coffee. "Up until last Friday, yes, but now... no, I do not. I believe that Horton was convinced that Adam was an Immortal. Adam also believes this. But I also believe that he suspected that Adam was Methos. I know now that he once laid a trap for Methos and that it was sprung by Adam. It was dismissed as clumsiness on the part of an over-zealous Methos historian who had heard that a new chronicle had come to light; but I think that Horton began at that time to believe that Adam was Methos. And when he went to Adam about me, he knew. It was to flush out Methos himself, to make him reveal himself - and butcher him along with Darius. That would have sent the greatest message of all: even Methos himself was not safe from the Hunters. And I have no idea how he was poisoned. Perhaps one day he will tell me."

She sighs heavily and furrows her forehead. "I can't think of Ben as someone's trophy."

"No. It is unpleasant. But it is the truth. Unless you see this, you can never understand what drives him. And there will always be someone who sees it this way." She picks up her coffee cup and stares into it for a moment before draining it. I think she wants to ask me something but is afraid. "Miss Thomas?"

She puts the cup down and looks at me. "Doctor... is Ben insane?"

"No, Adam is most definitely not insane. Those suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder have delusional episodes, psychotic breaks, yes - American psychiatrists call them 'flashbacks' - and these can be quite severe; it depends on the degree of trauma. But these people are not insane. When he is delusional, Adam is not aware of his surroundings, he is dissociated from reality - and that is the definition of insanity, c'est vrai - but when he does not have these episodes, when he is no longer delusional, he knows that he was hallucinating. That is all the difference in the world. Do you see? An insane person does not know that he is insane. Vous comprenez?"

She closes her eyes and sighs. It is relief. "Yes, I see. Thank you."

"May I ask what happened today?"

She smiles with her mouth, no more. "Oh, yes. Stephen. It would seem that dear Stephen was rather put out yesterday when Adam never showed his face. He thought he deserved at least a note telling him where they'd gone. And he wasn't exactly thrilled about facing you - no more than I was. He sulked all evening and this morning he stormed into the bar, expecting to find him with my father. You should have seen his face when he realized nobody was there. He'd been left high and dry and he was ready to spit nails. It was really rather funny. He can be such a prig!"

"I did get this impression also."

"Anyway," she adds, "I told him I was expecting a call from my father. At first, I thought I should tell him where they were but he would only have run off after them. So I fed him some beer. And some more beer." She snorts in disgust. "He gets into an awful mood when he's drunk. Frankly, I was quite relieved when you showed up."

"I shall call him in the morning and tell him all is well. I agree, he should not be told until we know."

"My father will not exactly appreciate it when he hears I got Stephen drunk."

"I am not about to tell him," I say, smiling.

"When he gets home... Oh, God. I nearly forgot. It's Thanksgiving this week and I'm sure my father invited Azar Davani. Do you know her?"

I shrug. "Adam's academic advisor? I know of her."

She looks at me. "They're dating, you know."

"Your father and Dr. Davani? This upsets you?"

She rests her forehead on her hand again. I believe it means she is looking into herself, being honest. "You know, it does. I think I'm a little jealous, if that makes any sense."

I smile at her. "It makes a great deal of sense. Your relationship with your father is a new one; the two of you are making up for lost time. It is not surprising that you would resent sharing him with a stranger just yet. Perhaps you should tell him how you feel. Communication always saves a great deal of bad feeling later. And children always have difficulty thinking of their parents making love."

She smiles. "Now you're sounding like a psychiatrist. But I will keep it in mind. Perhaps we should go back and you can tell me the rest of it."

I pay the bill with my credit card and we walk back to Le Blues in silence. When we are back in the office, I tell her about Eddie, about what he wants from me, where he is, and about Harold Croft, that I suspect he has the tape. I cannot bring myself to tell her what is on the tape, only that it is damning indeed. She senses my shame, I think, and does not press it.

"And what can we do?" she asks.

I shake my head. I am very weary - weary in my soul. Perhaps it is what is happening and perhaps it is the memories all this has brought bubbling through the mud. I take off my glasses and rub my face and eyes. I need to sleep. "'Sais pas. C'est tard... Oh, forgive me, Mademoiselle - when I am tired, my English... it disappears. It is late and I can no longer think today. Perhaps tomorrow something will occur to me."

"I can do some digging on Croft, see what the story is on Eddie..." She stops to hold a hand over her mouth while she yawns. The food has made her sleepy; we will both think much better in the morning. "I'm sorry. I seem to have had enough for one day myself. I think I'm just going to curl up on the sofa and worry about it in the morning."

I nod and stand. I put my glasses back on and retrieve my jacket and my knapsack. "I will tell the hospital that I will not be in to work this week. I cannot consider a normal life again until this is over - and until Adam is safely back."

"I'll let you know when I hear something if you will leave me your number."

"Of course." She hands me a note pad and a pencil. "I give you my cell phone as well. And I shall try to remember to turn it on."

I write the numbers and hand her the note pad. She stands. "May I drive you home?"

"I think not, Mademoiselle. If they are watching, it is best I leave alone, non?"

She smiles a cold smile. "Of course."

"We will speak tomorrow, yes?"

She nods. Her face is a mask; there is no kindness there. "I'll give it some thought. I am not your friend, Doctor. It would be foolish of you to think that but, whatever else you might be, you are no fool. I don't know how much of what you told me tonight is true. This is for Ben. And your daughter. If it were not for them, I would consider turning you over to the Council myself and damn the consequences. And if I find you've been lying to me, I might still do that. Knowing all this and doing nothing would endanger me and my father and I can't allow that without good cause."

It is honest; I expected no more. "This is enough."

Before I leave, I turn back to her. "Miss Thomas - when your father calls, tell him that I was in a great rage and that I have offered to string him up by his thumbs. All right?"

Outside, I light a cigarette and walk back to the Metro. I do not bother to look for a tail; if he is there, whoever he is, well, then, he is there and there is nothing I can do.

Ah, que je suis fatigue - I am very tired. Perhaps tonight I will sleep. And I did not speak to Mathilde on the telephone. On Sunday evenings, I always call. Just to talk. I will call before she goes to school in the morning. It is my birthday next Saturday. If this is over - and if I am still alive and at liberty - I will go home.

On the Metro, it is quite quiet. There is a pain in my side and I wince at it. It is arthritis in the old breaks in the ribs. They often hurt me but I usually ignore it. This night... this night, I notice such things. And it seems that I cannot stop thinking.

Yes, M. Salzer was very good to me. He knew who I was, of course, better than anyone, most likely. I was in his new database. He must have puzzled over the lack of information in my records; no doubt he suspected something, although very likely it was not that I was a Hunter. Perhaps he thought I was covering up a clandestine affair with someone higher up the ladder than I. I had a certain reputation, after all. I smile at the idea. Yes, that is most likely what he thought. Perhaps he joked about it with Adam, who would have been only too happy to confirm the rumours about my nocturnal habits. Ah, but those were the days.

I was very grateful to see M. Salzer; quite possibly it saved my life. But he avoided my questions that first morning when I asked why he had come. "To feed Adam's cats," he told me.

Of course. Adam's cats. They needed to be fed...

I was barely conscious for all I was awake. I thought it likely that Pierre had given me something to keep me calm, as well as the painkillers. I had, after all, been stalked and nearly murdered. And it certainly felt like a sedative. "Where is he?"

He pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, resting his forearms on his thighs. "He's in the emergency room at Hopital Saint-Louis, diagnosed with PCP poisoning. He reacted very badly to the drug and it is quite serious."

I was not sure what he was telling me. Adam had been drugged? But neither was I in any fit condition to think and my thoughts drifted. Within a few minutes, I was asleep again.

I slept for the best part of three days. Pierre deliberately kept me sedated; not only did it keep me quiet, it kept me from doing anything rash. I was, after all, in hiding. He came every day to check on me. I barely remember his visits. We had been in medical school together and he knew that I could be very rash when angry; and I would most certainly be angry when I had time to think of what had happened - and when the grief from Darius' death came home to me. Pierre knew what he was doing.

And I could not think of leaving the apartment. Eddie would most certainly be watching for me, waiting to finish what he started.

When I was in my right mind again, M. Salzer told me that Adam had been admitted to the psychiatric ward. He himself had not realized what such a drug could do to the nervous system; he was very worried. And now I am most reluctant to prescribe medication for Adam's current condition. Yet moderate doses of some of the milder anti-psychotics might just help. It is a dilemma.

And it is good to have an ally, even one who quite possibly now hates me, although she is very upset. I have no idea what we can do. But I am sure that two can do it better than one. And what of Eddie? How long can I leave that sleeping dog lie in that abbey before I act one way or another? He will not be patient for very long.

When I get back to the apartment, I let Mazout in and pour a vodka and orange juice. I collapse onto the sofa, roll a cigarette and smoke while Mazout lies purring on my lap. Perhaps tomorrow I will think of something.

****

Monday, November 25

I have slept. Not well, but I have slept. I have just telephoned to Reims and spoken to Mathilde. She has a birthday present for me and is most anxious that I be home for that. You are not the only one, ma grande. Nikki sounded well; she asked me if I planned to have friends to dinner on Saturday. I told her that I preferred to have a quiet evening but that I could not promise even that I would be in Reims this weekend.

I find that I am not hungry and skip breakfast. I make coffee and take it to the sofa. I roll a cigarette and try to make some kind of a plan. As I smoke quietly and drink the coffee, I realize that I have no idea how to proceed. I call Mlle Thomas; she has heard nothing but will ask those she trusts at Headquarters to find out whatever there is to know about Eddie and Harold Croft. But these things take time and I am notoriously impatient. I call Stephen. He is unwell. I do not feel sympathetic; he deserves his hangover. Last, I call the clinic and tell them that I am ill and cannot work this week. I am rarely ill and almost never take a day off; arrangements will be made for my patients and I am surprised by the relief I feel.

I think that perhaps I should go to Headquarters myself; but this is not a good idea. My appearance there would be most unusual and I have no legitimate reason to be looking for information on Headquarters staff who are not my patients. And it is on record that I was there yesterday. On the other hand...

I have almost convinced myself that the risk is worth taking when the telephone rings. It is David Gabrieli and my stomach tightens. Would I present myself in his office in one hour?

My palms are damp and my heart is racing. Not to mention the headache that has just erupted behind my eyes. Perhaps he only wishes to speak to me about Adam, tell me where he is. I have a right to know, after all; it is logical that he would inform me. But why at his office? I feel nauseous. I go to the bathroom and shave carefully; my beard does not need a trim. I have a shower and dress myself correctly. I put Mazout out on the roof and leave.

When I get into my car, I try not to let my nerves get the better of me. I have brought the gun and place it in the glove compartment again and lock it. I take a few moments to calm myself and light a cigarette. I have even remembered to bring my cell phone and turn it on. When I drive onto the street, I look for the black Honda and the blue Citroen but they are not there. Which means nothing. They could merely be using a different car; it is what I would do.

On the way, it takes all my training to keep myself calm, to keep my thoughts from being out of control. I cannot overlook the possibility that I have been denounced. I know nothing yet, I tell myself; do not anticipate what he will tell you. Speculation will only lead to uncontrolled thoughts, to paranoia. You run the risk of condemning yourself out of your own mouth, Rene. Tais-toi. Listen to music, think of Martine, watch in the rear view mirror. Distract yourself. I put a CD into the player, some Bach cantatas, and concentrate on watching the traffic, looking for any car which might be with me longer than is sensible. I think of Martine on Saturday night, how she looked, how she felt in my arms, her warm skin against mine - and I smoke steadily.

When I get to Headquarters, I am still in control. It is essential. I park and get out. At the door, the security guard asks me for my identification and tells me to sign the log. I am rarely here during the week and he does not know me. He asks me my business and I tell him that I have an appointment with the Regional Director. He nods politely and allows me to pass.

Gabrieli's office is at the rear of the building, away from the noise. His secretary recognizes me and smiles warmly.

"We don't see you very often any more, Doctor," she says. "The Director is expecting you, if you'd like to wait in there. He won't be long." And she indicates a small anteroom.

"Merci, Madame."

My nerves are suddenly on fire. I have never been very good with authority and avoid such situations even at the best of times. I take off my coat and sit in the straightback chair in the anteroom, then light a cigarette. The secretary calls to me that there is no smoking and I pinch it between my fingers. Merde! When her telephone rings, I jump in spite of myself. She answers it and tells me to go in.

When I enter, Gabrieli is writing something. He looks up only briefly to acknowledge my presence and continues to write. The room is very modest, not the one Shapiro or Anders chose. Their tastes tended toward the grand style.

"Be seated, please, Doctor Galbon. I'll be with you in a moment."

I take the chair in front of the small but tasteful Georgian desk. I recognize it; it is the same one used by M. Lebeau, brought here from the Academy. I remember standing in front of it all those years ago while he read out the long list of my youthful sins. It suits Gabrieli's modest sensibilities.

He finishes writing and sets the paper aside. When he looks up at me, there is no particular emotion, only a polite smile.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice. I called the clinic, assuming you were there, and was told that you were ill and would be at the apartment. Nothing serious, I hope."

"In fact, Monsieur, I am quite well, merely very tired. I have been very anxious about Adam Pierson. His condition is serious and I do not know where he is."

He folds his hands and leans back in his chair. "He's quite safe. He's in Scotland - with my permission. Your concern is admirable but everything is under control. I'm sure you can both use the rest."

"Perhaps, Monsieur, you are not aware of the severity of Adam's condition. I would be much happier if he were under professional supervision, bien sur, but he will not consent to entering the clinic; therefore, that professional must be myself and I must consider the possibility of having him committed. This much I can tell you. With all due respect, you do not have the expertise to judge such things."

"Then perhaps in future, Doctor, you will tell me more so that I can judge for myself."

I smile to myself. Touche. It would seem that I have been put in my place. "And if it is not to discuss my patient, may I ask why I am here?"

"I should like you to accompany me for an early lunch."

I am amused - but very worried. "I take it I am not free to decline the offer."

He smiles pleasantly. "I enjoy your company, Doctor."

He stands and gestures toward the door.

In the anteroom, I retrieve my coat; he has taken his from the coat tree in his office and leads the way. The secretary smiles at me as I pass.

On the way out, I sign the log. Gabrieli walks to his private parking space and gets into the grey Peugeot parked there and I follow. It is not the black Mercedes he could drive if he wished; that is owned by the Company, a perk that goes with the rank of Regional Director. Instead, it is a very ordinary car, out of keeping with his own tastes. Perhaps M. Gabrieli also fears being followed, non? I go to the passenger side and get in.

He says nothing to me but starts the engine and drives out of the parking lot. He does not speak until we are on the road.

"Smoke if you wish, Doctor. You seem a little nervous today."

I ignore the remark but take the cigarette out of my pocket and light it. He leans forward and pulls open the ashtray for me. I must maintain control without appearing to be insubordinate, always a difficult game with someone as intelligent as David Gabrieli. But then, he will allow me to retain control; confident men have no difficulty respecting the dignity of others, even those they dislike. It is a fine quality in a leader. If I must have a superior, I could do very much worse. Shapiro, for example. The man is an idiot without any understanding of those around him. If he had not bungled the Galati affair, he might still be in power. Horton's legacy of destruction lived after him. Lives after him still, perhaps I should say.

"You're very quiet, Doctor, but I remember your telling me that it came with the job. Are you still satisfied with your job?"

I take a drag on the cigarette, looking straight ahead. "It's what I do."

"And you do it admirably. How is your daughter?" I nearly choke on the smoke and I cough. "You shouldn't hide her away in Reims. She's very pretty."

A cold shock goes down my spine but I must maintain control. Control will see me through, I tell myself. It is all I have. Of course, a very large cognac would be very nice. "She lives a quiet life, Monsieur. I wish to keep it that way."

He does not take his eyes from the road; he is allowing me room to compose myself. If I have been denounced, it will take all my wits to stay alive, God help me. I concentrate on keeping my breathing slow; it is a battle I am losing.

And now I notice where we are going - this is where I came yesterday after I left Headquarters. He is telling me that he knows where I was. And does he also know what I did in Croft's office? Or is he fishing? Calme-toi, Rene! Do not jump to conclusions or you are a dead man. I finish the cigarette and watch the traffic for a tail; it is already becoming a habit.

When he parks the car almost precisely where I parked yesterday, my breathing is deep and rapid; I am sure he is looking for such signs and he cannot help but notice. Tant pis. I cannot control everything. I say nothing; my silence tells him all he wishes to know. It is hardly a surprise that he knows I was here; I was followed, after all, although it does confirm that Blue Citroen and Black Honda were Gabrieli's men. That much is a relief. What concerns me is that Gabrieli wishes me to know.

I get out of the car and close the door. He gestures to his right - the direction of the bistro. I walk deliberately, with a steady pace, to the bistro and go in without hesitating. He is behind me. He knows now that I need no more proof; he has made his point.

I lead the way to a discreet corner away from anyone - and from any windows - take my coat off and sit down. He sits opposite me.

"How was the spaghetti bolognese?" he asks.

I smile a little. "It was excellent. I highly recommend it."

"Lunch is on the Company, Doctor. Have whatever you wish. Cognac?"

It is tempting but I need to keep a very clear head. "Thank you, no. Coffee."

When the waiter comes, Gabrieli asks for two coffees - in excellent French - and tells him we will order a little later.

He rests one elbow on the arm of the chair and fingers his chin. "You present me with a considerable problem, Dr. Galbon." He regards me intently and I meet his gaze. For the first time, I notice that he appears weary, a little older than last week; no doubt he thinks the same of me. He sighs and drops his hand onto the table. "A very considerable problem. You committed some very serious crimes, Doctor. Under normal circumstances, I would be only too pleased to have you arrested and executed. I would not lose any sleep over pulling the trigger myself."

****

Chapter 11

And so it is over. It was inevitable, I suppose. I have considered for years what this moment would be like. Would I feel terror? Anger? Would I rage against God and my own stupidity? And now that it has come, I find that I am hoping only that I will not disgrace myself. I take off my glasses and rest my forehead in my hand for a moment to compose myself before facing him. At least I have made my peace with God.

He says nothing, waiting. The waiter brings the coffee and I sit up. When the waiter puts the coffee in front of me, I look at him. "Cognac, s'il vous plait. Double."

"Oui, Monsieur."

I feel my hand tremble a little as I pick up the coffee cup. When the waiter leaves, Gabrieli crosses his legs and folds his hands on his stomach in the relaxed posture he appears to prefer. "You have enemies, Doctor. But I suppose you know that. And I suspect they are also mine."

Oh, mon Dieu! The tape. Was it not Croft who had it after all? Has someone given it to Gabrieli? I can say nothing until he tells me in case I am wrong. I put my glasses back on and regard him. "You have not brought me here just to tell me this. There is something you want from me, something you wish to remain between us."

He smiles and inclines his head toward me. "Indeed."

Be very careful, Rene; he plays a dangerous game. And so do you, my friend. So do you. Does he still test me? I shake my head. "I cannot reveal what I know of Adam Pierson and I will not. And I do not believe you will condemn me for this."

"No. For all I abhor what you did, Doctor, I admire your sense of ethics. Do you find that a little... absurd?" He pauses while the waiter brings me my cognac and I drink a little. I wish dearly for a cigarette. "In case you're wondering, no-one has had the courage to denounce you to my face. There was only an anonymous note suggesting your involvement in the assassination - for want of a better word - of certain Immortals, particularly a Viking named Rodrig Ericsson. The note was quite specific about that one. Seven in all and not all in Paris." My throat tightens at the sound of the name and my teeth clench. Surely he refers to the tape. Mon Dieu. Let it not be the tape. "Frankly, I didn't believe it. I went through your records personally - I would never trust such a sensitive matter to others, especially since I preferred to believe you innocent. They contained no damning evidence but there were certain... anomalies. To the casual observer, they would mean nothing. The writer of the note must have known you well. It suggested a pattern, things to look for - things that weren't there and should have been." He clasps his hands together and cocks his head, waiting for a response.

I am quite nauseous. I take some of the cognac but it does not help. "I see."

"In 1987 and '88, I seem to recall, you took several months off work due to illness. It was very sudden; one day you were quite well and the next you were in communicado at the clinic for several weeks. You were even paid for extended sick leave for those months. And yet, there is nothing in your file to explain it, no entry from your supervisor, no medical records and there must at one time have been a medical history to support the payment of the money. One of the older secretaries remembers it. You used to bring her flowers and then you simply weren't there. She remembers that quite clearly; you made quite an impression on her. And she remembers sending your cheques to the clinic as usual."

He is not gloating, I am quite sure. He wishes merely to prove to me that he means what he says. It is all quite correct. The flowers. I remember the lady, a widow, lonely but full of gentleness for lost souls like myself. Am I to be condemned because I was once kind to a woman who showed kindness to me?

"I called the clinic and spoke to a colleague of yours. He refused to give me a diagnosis, of course, but he did confirm that you were admitted by Sean Burns and were a patient of his for quite a while. The date of that admission was one day after the murder of the Immortal known as Rodrig Ericsson - as the note suggested. It said you would know the name."

The words sear themselves into my mind, my body, strip me of pretense; it is done. The memories, the images of fear and blood, the faces, the voices pleading for mercy come tumbling out of hiding, invade the brain with their needles of guilt and I am almost overwhelmed by the desire to tell him everything. But I know that the drive to confess is often the response of the guilty - and I am guilty. He waits; he also knows this. Yet the desire is fleeting and it passes easily, perhaps because I have already confessed...

Pardonnez-moi, Mon Dieu, parce-que j'ai peche...

"You did leave a trail, but it's far from being an obvious one. The writer offered no proof, only accusation. Accusations without proof, offered by an anonymous party, are not enough to condemn a man, especially not one with your exemplary record for the past fifteen years. It is circumstantial - and I choose to believe it. And they're gunning for you; that's its own proof." He pauses and I drink some more cognac. He is telling me that he will not pursue it - unless...? There are always conditions. "You look relieved, Doctor. Am I right in thinking that proof exists?"

Oh, thank God! He does not know! "Proof always exists, Monsieur, for those who know where to look."

He chuckles. "That's not the answer I was looking for. I have a gun to your head, Doctor; now is not the time to play cute. Is there proof?"

I sigh and nod. "Yes."

He waits; he is unsatisfied with the response but I can say nothing. "Not enough, I'm afraid. Have you no interest in saving your own skin? For your daughter's sake, at least?"

I am reluctant; it is painful. I have kept quiet for so long.

"Let me lay it out for you. I can go either way on this. If I turn you over to the Council, with or without proof, it sends one message: that I will deal with you all ruthlessly and immediately, even those in high places with spotless records. And if I say nothing, it sends another: that I'm not a witchhunter and won't tolerate unsubstantiated accusations from anonymous parties who just might be settling old scores of their own." He shrugs. "Either way, I win. Now tell me: what is this 'proof'?"

No, I cannot. "And if you do not go to the Council, you will perhaps have stepped into your own grave, Monsieur. If proof of my involvement comes to the surface and you have backed me, your own cause is lost, is this not so? As you say, my enemies are your enemies and we have many of them. Even this..." I gesture about us, "will be seen by your enemies to mean that you are weak. If you had intended to go to the Council, I would already be in a cell; I would not be here sharing a meal with you. If you go to the Council now, they will ask why we were having this little tete-a-tete." I shrug. "You need to destroy this proof as much as I, non?"

He laughs quietly. "Very good, Doctor. I see I didn't underestimate you. I will keep you alive even if it's for no other reason than the information you have in your head. You know who the Hunters are, how to find them, the structure of their organization... how they operate. You're the goose that lays the golden egg. And I'd like to know why they're so anxious after all these years to be rid of you. Do you have any suggestions?"

I smile. He knows as well as I. "It is very simple, Monsieur. They know that you hate the Hunters and wish to be rid of them; you announce that you will grant amnesty to those who confess and give names." I shrug and wave a hand in the air. "They denounce me before I denounce them. C'est tout."

"And why haven't you denounced them? I'm curious."

He tests me, I think. Surely it is plain. "I would invite an assassin's bullet - punishment, an example to others who would do the same thing. I tell you that I know who they are, and I am a dead man. I do not tell you, they denounce me, and I am still a dead man; it is only a different finger on the trigger. And I would have your undying contempt."

He nods. "I see you understand your own position. I'm the only hope you have, Doctor. What is the proof?"

Still I find I am reluctant. It is a matter of trust, surely. Do I trust him? He has put himself in a very dangerous position. If whoever denounced me sees that he does nothing, that person will most likely go to someone on the Council - and they will not be so tolerant; they will not bother with proof. And they will have the excuse they are looking for to put Gabrieli in a cell along with me. It seems our paths lead in the same direction. "If I put proof into your hands, there will be no going back. I believe that you are a man of honour; you would not betray me. Yet you cannot save me from a tribunal. If it should fall into the wrong hands..."

"I'm not asking you to place the proof in my hands. I know the risks. You need only one enemy on the Council - and you certainly have that. I know that Shapiro still believes that the Directorship is rightfully his; I also know that several of the Council members are still loyal to him. As it is, without proof of any wrongdoing on your part, it is easy to defend you: I brought you here to ask privately - in deference to your reputation - why someone would denounce you; I've had you followed and found nothing; I have concluded that you must have had patients who told you damning information and that the remaining Hunters can't risk your going to the Council with it, that they are attempting to damage your credibility. I'll make it an official report and it will hold." He shrugs. "So long as no proof surfaces. You're quite right in your assessment. I need the proof destroyed as much as you do."

Eh, bien. So be it. "There is a tape. It is most damning."

"Only to yourself?"

I nod. "Oh, yes."

"Who has this tape?"

I swirl the cognac in the glass and stare at it, as if I can find the answer there. "I believe I know. I cannot be certain."

"Is that what you were looking for in Harold Croft's office? That was very professional, but the security camera was active and since you were the only person logged into the building, you were the only candidate."

I laugh quietly and drink some cognac, then look at him. He has left no stone unturned. I was foolish to think that I could do such a thing without his knowledge. You are slipping, Rene. "It was not there." The waiter comes and we give our orders. When he leaves, I regard my companion carefully. His expression has not changed; he still waits. "I believe M. Croft has made many tapes - but not this one."

"Croft."

"Oui, Monsieur. It seems that the little Englishman leads a double life, although I did not know this before last Friday."

"We're both dancing around the issues here, Doctor. Perhaps if I tell you what I know, it will provide encouragement. It was Croft who denounced Eddie Brill to me some two weeks ago. Brill has disappeared. You wouldn't know where he is, would you?"

Ah. This was inevitable, I suppose. I smile and finish the cognac. "That is a difficult question - almost as difficult as the whereabouts of the tape."

He leans back comfortably in his chair. Surely he is considering his options. He fears that if he pushes me, I will say nothing. For all he has discovered, I am an unknown quantity to him. I cannot say how he really sees me - an insubordinate renegade capable of murder, most likely. And it is quite true. God forgive me, but it is true. He trusts me no more than I trust him. And now I am sure that he cannot go to the Council; we are at an impasse, it would seem. Yet we both need to destroy that tape.

"Tell me, Monsieur. Did M. Croft imply that he himself was a Hunter?"

He laughs. "Are you going to tell me he is one?"

"The image is absurd, non? May I ask what he told you?"

He looks at me and the smile is gone from his face; he begins to see, I think. "He showed me financial records proving that Brill diverted funds from the supply department while he worked there back in the eighties and early nineties."

"And an investigation of M. Brill's bank records showed that that money was used to buy weapons, non?"

"You know about this?"

"I know no such thing, Monsieur. I hear that it was M. Croft himself who bought these weapons. Yet it is only something that I have heard. He is an excellent accountant who would have no difficulty planting misleading financial records."

"Is this confidential information?"

I shake my head. "No. It is hearsay. I do not know this myself."

"And do you believe it?"

"Oui, Monsieur. I do. Most definitely. It fits M. Croft's profile. And this is something I do know about."

"I see. Doctor, I'd like to go somewhere a little noisier before we discuss this further. And I'm sure you could use a cigarette."

The food comes and we eat a little more hurriedly than is my habit but he is right about the cigarette. Afterwards, Gabrieli pays the bill and we leave. Outside, I light a cigarette; it is a relief. I must do something about my smoking; I have a family to consider and I am not young any more. In the car, he uses his cell phone to call his secretary and cancel his afternoon appointments. It will cause eyebrows to rise when the gossip gets out that he and I have spent the day together. The Council will take notice, certainly, and questions will be asked. I do not envy him.

We drive into Paris, to the Marche aux Puces. It is quite busy with people looking for bargains for Christmas. We park the car and go into one of the permanent buildings. I have always liked the Marche; I have a taste for things Japanese and have found some fine old ivories here, small carvings and even the odd, very charming 'netsuke'. Last year there was a very fine collection of woodblock prints. Needless to say, I am known in certain shops inside. It is a good cover. I am a connoisseur showing things to my friend, the black American who obviously has both taste and money to spare. A good choice.

I lead the way to a particular favourite of mine. Inside, we examine a few items, discuss their artistic merits in English, which the shopkeepers all understand. I ask questions on the provenance of such and such an article: Is it German or English? Early eighteenth century, perhaps? The price seems a little high - there are imperfections..."But Messieurs! This is a flea market, not Sotheby's! You must expect imperfections..." Bon. They will remember us. We take our time before thanking the owner for her help and go into the busy corridor where people are resting their feet, sitting on shabby 'antique' chairs with broken backs and torn seat covers. It is one of the more amusing places in Paris.

We walk down the corridors and through the displays, now and then taking up an item, asking a price. And we talk of other things.

"Tell me what you know of Croft."

I shrug. "I know very little, only what I have heard."

"Don't lie to me, Doctor. It's not in your best interests. What did you find in his office?"

Ah. He is guessing, of course. Nevertheless... "Tapes, photographs, dossiers... It would seem that M. Croft likes to know things, things which others do not want him to know..."

"But not yours."

I shake my head. "No. Not mine. And I sincerely doubt that what was there was anything more than a small sampling of M. Croft's... collection."

"Blackmail, do you think?"

"No, no. He keeps these things to protect himself, most certainly. However... I cannot know for sure."

A painting catches my eye; it is dreadful, but then I am not a fan of the Cubists - and this is only an attempt at a reproduction, very amateurish. I gesture toward it as though discussing it; it is all part of the performance. He shakes his head at it and purses his lips, a man who is not interested in buying. We move on.

"Doctor, I want to know everything you know, everything you don't know and everything you have surmised. I don't care if it takes all day."

***

It is nearly four and already it is getting dark. We have come to a bar, fairly sure we have not been followed. Gabrieli's own men are not a problem, but he is even more paranoid than I, it would seem. And he has reason. We did not go to the car but left the Marche through the back and walked here. On the way, he asked me why I thought the Hunters had not simply climbed onto a roof with a high-powered rifle some fine day and rid themselves of me once and for all. And I could not answer. Perhaps it is obvious and I am too weary of it all to see. Does it matter? I am alive; with a little luck, I shall stay that way.

I would not have imagined that it would turn out as it has. I have told him about Eddie, of course. What more is there to say? I will not betray Joseph; Gabrieli does not need to know about the photographs in Joseph's safe. Nor the tapes of Adam and Horton. I do not know how he knows of Mathilde; he also keeps things to himself. But we spoke of her. He knows of Martine; I am content with that. We spoke of my life now, of Reims, of my garden, my work. He seems satisfied. Now he sits before me, his legs crossed, his face weary, clothed in thought while he holds his coffee cup in both hands. I have a glass of Courvoisier in front of me, untouched.

I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. When I look up and put them back on, he is looking at me.

"Last week when I asked you about Darius, you told me he was your Confessor. I checked. According to the Watcher records, your first visit to him was only a few days after you were released from the clinic. You knew he was an Immortal; that's not exactly the action of a ruthless Hunter. You felt remorse." I close my eyes and rest my forehead on my hand while he speaks. There has been too much remembering. "The note suggested I check with the police. They still have a file on you; they were convinced you'd killed someone but there was no body. They were never really satisfied and kept the file open. I pulled a few strings to get a look at it and it made for some very interesting reading. And I read the bartender's statement."

I drink some of my beer and shift in my seat. I do not wish to hear this, but he continues. He needs to say this - and perhaps I need to listen.

He sighs. "You saw yourself for what you had become and you judged yourself unfit to live. And you didn't go back to what you were. That's what I found the most interesting. You managed to do what so many can never do - you changed. You had a child and you didn't abandon her. You settled down, gave a permanent, loving home to a woman who didn't have one; you work your ass off and you do a lot of good. And you've never looked back. And that's why I didn't just turn you over to the Council. You'd find no mercy there and it would be a waste."

I do not know what he wishes me to say. It is certainly not the reaction that I expected.

He drinks some coffee and places the cup on the table. "When I first realized you were what the note said you were, I was ready to take you down right then and there, so help me God. Not so long ago, I wouldn't have looked any farther, but that meeting last week told me something important about you. You care. I wanted you to tell me things..." he spreads his hands then clasps them in front of himself again, "things I thought I had a right to know. And you called me on it. You didn't cave and I had to respect that. I didn't exactly care for the insubordination, but I couldn't fault you for it, either. And that's not the way of a coward. If I know anything about the Hunters, it's that they're cowards. You may have been one, but you are that no more... and I'm not sure you ever really were, right down where it counts. Whatever force drove you to do what you did, you were never like them."

I smile. "This is not the way the Council would see it."

He shakes his head slowly. "No, indeed they would not." He picks up the coffee cup. "You're a wild card, Doctor, I don't deny that. A real loose cannon. I don't suppose I'll ever be able to predict the way you'll roll. There was a time when I didn't believe anyone could reform: bad apples just got rotten, they didn't get shiny again. But you're clean. And you've been clean for a long time. When I asked you last week about Darius, I was watching you; I wanted to know what your reaction would be because I have no idea how you fitted into that. You disappeared for some weeks after that, just melted into thin air." He finishes the coffee and signals the waiter. "Then you reappeared and carried on as if nothing had happened. When I brought it up, you looked shocked. I thought it was because Darius' death had hit you hard. And there was that note denouncing you. I'd been checking you out for some time for other reasons but hadn't found anything to make me suspicious. Then I wondered about it. Grief is one thing but it isn't likely to send a man into hiding for six weeks. Do you see what I'm getting at?"

I nod. "You wish to know why." I wait while the waiter comes. Gabrieli asks for a cognac; I am surprised but then I reconsider. It is a message to me; he will drink with me, man to man, not superior to subordinate. What I tell him will go no farther. I light a cigarette while we wait for the cognac to come. When it does, he gives the waiter twenty euros; the waiter will keep our glasses filled without being asked.

"When you look at it," he says, "there's no proof one way or the other that you were involved at all - or which side of the fence you were on. But you'd been seeing Darius for a long time by then, some five years. It wasn't likely you were one of the assassins."

"No. I was not one of them." There is no reason not to tell him. I have told him so much today, apres tout. What is one more thing? "M. Brill was sent to assassinate me. He missed." It strikes me as amusing for some reason and I laugh quietly.

"Would you like to let me in on the joke, Doctor?"

I drink some of brandy. It is warm with a fine aroma and it reminds me of Adam. I wonder for a moment how he is and it worries me. "It was no joke, Monsieur. Horton wanted me dead; if he could not do it himself, he was satisfied to have Brill do it. And M. Brill had already failed to kill me once; his heart was most definitely in it. I fell off a roof; perhaps it saved my life."

"Then you were at the apartment that night."

I look up. "Monsieur?"

He chuckles. "Do you know that, officially, the police still want to talk to whoever was in the apartment that night? There was a body - but you probably know that. You're a good shot, even when you're running across a roof."

"I do not find this amusing. You must try falling off a roof some time; it is anything but amusing. I still have the sore ribs to prove it."

"A sense of humour under fire - I like that. There's certainly hope for you yet, Doctor."

"And I have no intention of talking to the police; they have no sense of humour at all about murder."

He laughs. "Oh, they most certainly do not. But they know you lived there sometimes; there's a notation in your file to question you about it... It must have slipped their minds." He chuckles and takes a swallow of the cognac.

"You do not expect me to believe that they dropped the matter, surely?"

"I've no idea why they dropped it but they did, even though you left some clothing behind on the bed. But there is also a notation in the file to the effect that you weren't a suspect. You have a guardian angel, it seems."

I am puzzled. Someone in the Watchers pulled strings, certainly. I am not their favourite son but they do look after their own. And someone must have known that I was in trouble. There are so many things that I suspect I shall never know.

"So tell me, Doctor, exactly where were you for six weeks after the massacre?"

I smile at him; it might be harmless enough to tell him, I suppose, but it has been habit for so long to say nothing... "I was safe. I was injured, of course, and I needed to get well. M. Salzer looked after me."

He frowns. "Ah, yes. Don Salzer. That was a dreadful thing. We lost a very good man there. Completely senseless. You know, there are times when I do understand what motivates a Watcher to kill his charge." He shakes his head thoughtfully. "But to turn Hunter... that's something else." He is silent. There is something there, something perhaps he will tell me. "I'm sorry, Doctor. That was a thoughtless remark and I apologize."

I shrug. "No matter. It was a long time ago."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose it was. Please finish what you were saying."

"There is not much more to tell. M. Salzer told me one day that there was a message for me. He told me that Adam had been given a note saying that the death order on me had been removed. It was unsigned. I went back to work and all was well."

"Just like that." He shrugs. "That's it. The death order was lifted and you were free to go?"

"Just like that."

"And very soon after that, Adam Pierson himself disappeared."

I nod. "Yes. Well... not 'disappeared' precisely. He went to Africa. We have yet to discuss this in his therapy."

"I see. And if you'd discussed it, you wouldn't tell me."

I smile; he is learning. I observe him while I drink my brandy. A moment ago, he was considering telling me something, I think. "If you do not mind my asking, Monsieur, you said that you know how it might be that a Watcher would kill his charge. What makes you say this?"

"You don't miss much, do you, Doctor? I suppose that's part of the job."

"It is part of staying alive, Monsieur. It has served me very well."

He snorts and drinks more of the cognac. "Yes, I suppose it has - or I'd be talking to a ghost with a French accent. But it does you credit." His face becomes serious. There is sadness there, and anger also, I think, although he covers it very well.

"Monsieur? You wish to tell me something?"

He fingers the top of the cognac glass for a moment. He is about to tell me a secret, yes? It is always like this when a patient has decided to tell you something but still hesitates. Perhaps it is too painful, perhaps too old. And this time, I think, too damaging? He puts the glass down and faces me. "You've placed your life in my hands, Doctor. Not that you had much choice about it, I must admit. But you did it. It took courage. Now I'm going to give you something in return. If we each have a knife at the other's throat, it puts us on an even footing. Maybe we'll trust each other a little more."

****

Chapter 12

He sighs and folds his hands on his stomach. "I was a field operative once too, just as we all were. I was just as idealistic as the rest, perhaps a little more so. I believed in the non-interference policy and my supervisor assigned me to a lady who led a very quiet life, happily married to a widower, raising two teen-aged sons. I'd looked into the files, of course, as we're required to do. She was quite old, over a thousand years, born in the Near East before the Muslim Conquest. And it had been a hard life. It was a long record of horrors - servitude, constant wars, sold into Spain as a slave. She'd been beaten, raped, even murdered many times. She'd become bitter early on, as so many of them did when a longer life just meant more of the same misery with no relief in sight and suicide is impossible. It's particularly hard on the women, I've noticed. She was no beauty, perhaps not even what you'd call pretty; I don't know that it was any better for the beautiful ones. She'd married several times but was never able to produce that all-important male heir, or even children to help with the labour. Or sell into slavery." He shakes his head sadly. "We've forgotten how vicious life was a few centuries back. Maybe if we thought about it occasionally, we'd appreciate what we have."

He pauses and I light a cigarette and wait. Perhaps he thinks he is rambling. "Go on."

He smiles. "Ever the psychiatrist, I see. You can be most amusing, Doctor." He takes a little more of the cognac. His mind is full of memories; very likely he has told no-one of this. He is a man who keeps his thoughts to himself, I think, even those which trouble him.

"As I said, the lady became bitter. At some point, she stopped trying to be a human being and took to dishing it out instead of taking it. She ran away and joined some bandits who taught her how to survive Mortal life their way. And survive she did. Whatever it took. A lot of Mortals died while she got her revenge against them. There are large gaps in the records. It wasn't easy to keep records back then. Sometimes I think it's a miracle we have records at all from those times. And she was only a woman, of no importance, not even on the short list of interesting Immortals. They lost sight of her until the Renaissance."

He sighs and drains the cognac. "Have you ever wondered what it was really like for them? Ever really thought about it, put yourself in their shoes, tried to imagine it? The ones who survive are living historical records, incredible human treasures. They know because they were there. If there is any one single reason to stop the Hunters, it's that. And non-interference? I have my own thoughts on that. We should be protecting them, making sure they survive. I know that's not the official line, and I do believe in non-interference to a point. We shouldn't be directing their lives, influencing how those lives play themselves out. There's a scientific principle that says that the observer changes what is observed, simply by observing it. I think it was Heisenberg who came up with it but I could be wrong." He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand and chuckles. "He was applying it to particle behaviour in physics, of course, but the principle is sound. But Immortals are also human beings with thoughts and feelings; they are capable of so much but they are often intensely lonely, as I am sure you have observed in your practice, Doctor."

I nod. "Indeed. Go on."

"I don't believe in the Game. I think the Gathering is a myth. It makes no sense and it's an excuse for the more predatory Immortals to take their anger out on others of their kind with impunity. I have to wonder what the original purpose of the myth might have been but it is intensely destructive, and for all that the Hunters have destroyed a great deal, the Game has destroyed so much more. Do you know there was once an Immortal culture, even a government of sorts? The Game destroyed that as well; now it's shattered, fragmented. Look how it has forced them to live. No, it's wrong. If I had my way, I would stop it somehow, stop the belief that they must destroy in order to survive themselves, so that they can stop living in constant fear."

I sigh. It is something I believe myself. I have seen the damage that the Game brings to otherwise healthy minds. It is a terrible waste. And it was not always so. "You do not believe that there is anything, shall we say, 'supernatural' about the affair?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know what to think. The quickenings are real enough; when you witness one, you can't deny that any more. But 'supernatural'? No. Energy release of some kind, very likely. Almost certainly. They're genetic mutations. They may even be the next step in human evolution, who knows? And yet they destroy each other. The Prize is an absurd notion dreamed up by a madman; the idea of being the only Immortal on the planet, deprived of the comfort and society of his own kind - it's quite unthinkable. And for what? To have power over Mortals who don't even know he exists? And that this... 'prize'..." he says it with considerable disgust, "...should go not to the best mind, the sanest, the wisest but the most vicious, the most calculating, the most brutal... It's the nightmare of a maniac." He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. He is not given to such outbursts, I am quite sure. His feelings on these matters are quite strong. "The young ones see it as some kind of romantic ideal without giving it any thought and they hunt to feel important, just as young herd animals fight the old bulls for dominance. There is no difference. Others are forced to defend themselves to survive and the myth is perpetuated. It is, if anything, quite barbaric, even, if I may use the word, evil, because it destroys all that is good."

I believe I know where this is leading. "And was the lady you were assigned to 'destroyed' by her own kind as part of the Game?"

The waiter arrives, most discreetly, bringing another cognac for my companion and a Courvoisier for me. I make a gesture of thanks to Gabrieli. He nods acceptance.

He drinks some of the cognac before going on. He seems comfortable telling me these things; it means that he trusts me this much, at least. Why would he not? He has a noose about my neck; if I betray him, I betray myself. "No, not another Immortal. A Hunter. I killed him for it. I hunted him down and I strangled him. It doesn't get much more brutal than that and I saw that I was no better than he. I was so filled with rage. I know you understand that, Doctor, and I don't apologize for it. But I've never thought that what I did was right - or even excusable, any more than you did, or you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself. We're not so different. I don't allow myself the luxury of thinking that he deserved to die. He was a fellow Watcher, one of our own, and it would have earned me a tribunal and a bullet in my head just as quickly for that. It still would."

"Yet you feel no remorse, I think."

He looks at me and smiles. "No, I don't. Because I believe they must be stopped. I stopped him from ever doing it again. I don't feel morally superior to him; I just did what I thought I had to do. That lady had become a decent human being for all she'd been through. She had something to tell us, something to teach us and he judged himself superior to her for what she had done in the past; he thought he was better than she was and that was all the excuse he needed to destroy what had taken a thousand years to create. And that burned my ass. It still does."

"I made this mistake also, Monsieur. He was only human."

"But you knew it was wrong and you stopped. He thought it was right, and that's what I couldn't stomach." He shrugs. "Are you going to tell me what's on that tape?"

I snort into my brandy. I am not that easily put at my ease. "No. It is better that you should not have that image burned into your memory also. It is bad enough that it lives in my own, non?"

He inclines his head. Yes. "And what are you planning to do about Eddie Brill? He's a considerable threat - to both of us."

Ah, yes, Eddie. What am I to do about that piece of shit? "M. Croft denounced him. You can go to the Council and let them take it from there."

He laughs. "I even have proof."

"Yes, I did think that there would be proof, proof which does not implicate M. Croft himself. He has a great deal of proof of just about anything but he would implicate himself. Did he tell you that he was doing this for the good of the Company?"

"Oh, yes. He made quite sure I saw it that way. I wasn't even suspicious. Mea culpa."

I laugh. "You are not the first that M. Croft has fooled. I, too, was a little shocked. It is a way of life with him, of course. If his homosexuality should be made public, there is sufficient prejudice in the Organization that he would never have attained his position. And he could easily lose it. May I ask what proof he offered of M. Brill's misdemeanours?"

"You're very amusing, Doctor. I don't think I would have called an attempt on my life a 'misdemeanour'."

He has avoided the question, I notice. I must remember it. "Two attempts, Monsieur. Neither of which I wish to be made public."

"No, I'm sure you don't. Pity. You'd be a credible witness."

"But you do not know what else M. Brill knows. You cannot risk his singing like a bird. Who was this Watcher/Hunter you killed, may I ask?"

He shakes his head. "There are some secrets I'll keep to myself. But he had friends. There was an attempt on my life, but I suppose you know that."

"Then perhaps your own reasons for making M. Brill disappear are a little suspect, yes?"

He frowns. "I don't understand."

I shrug. Perhaps I have not explained clearly enough. "Eddie Brill was the only assassin of Mortals to work for Horton, I am quite sure. It was too risky since the murder of Mortals might involve the police. Eddie recruited his own helpers; he kept their identity secret even from Horton. It was one of those 'helpers' that I killed that night. It was his best friend he tells me, one more reason to hate me, as if there were not reason enough already. And it is very likely that your would-be assassin was M. Brill. You were very lucky; he does not often miss, Monsieur. And he becomes very angry when he does."

"I see. And he'd know of my own little indiscretion."

"Oh, yes. Most certainly. And Eddie has no concept of honour. It would please him only too well to take you down. This time, en effet, he would not miss."

"You have a strange sense of humour, Doctor, but I can appreciate it. I can see we have a common problem in M. Brill, as you call him."

"Indeed. And a common solution, perhaps."

He swirls the cognac in his hand, watching the motion of the liquid. "Doesn't it strike you as a little insane, Doctor, that two intelligent, cultured men such as ourselves, should be sitting in a working class bar discussing murder?"

I smile. "I am sure it has been done this way for as long as there have been intelligent, cultured men and working class bars, Monsieur."

He laughs and drinks the cognac. "I actually like you, Doctor, although that would have struck me as impossible only a week ago. Remind me never to judge a man before I've discussed murder with him. In a working class bar."

****

It was decided. I asked him what was the 'proof' M. Croft had given him against Eddie, fearing that it might implicate others, perhaps even the innocent, such as Joseph. It would seem, however, that the little Englishman has a sense of discretion. It was a photograph only. Since Eddie never hunted Immortals, preferring to send his own kind to their maker, what that photograph showed I cannot guess and M. Gabrieli has declined to tell me. But Eddie can be condemned by a tribunal for this, most certainly. To prove that he is a Hunter is not necessary. Gabrieli asked me if I was prepared to do it myself and I told him that I was. I will not, however, do anything while he is at the abbey, or indeed in Reims. Eddie himself knows that he is safe from me there; it is likely why he consented to stay, safe from us all.

M. Gabrieli will have a passport made for Eddie, and money. He will give them to me and I will make sure that Eddie has them. I will tell Eddie that there are plane tickets waiting at Charles de Gaulle airport. Eddie will come to Paris - and then we shall see.

The greater problem, we are agreed, is M. Croft. I cannot think why he was so foolish as to leave such things in his desk; I doubt that he has become complacent, although fear might have made him incautious. He is not a young man. And perhaps indeed, after all this time, he is thinking of blackmail, a nest egg for his retirement. He must be feeling that the walls are closing in and that one day someone will denounce him and he will not be able to stay safe. He wishes, perhaps, to be somewhere very far away when that happens. For which he will need money, particularly if he wishes to live into his old age in any comfort. I cannot imagine how much information he has accumulated after so many years, taking his pictures, recording his tapes, making his notes and compiling his dossiers.

Gabrieli took me back to Headquarters, where I retrieved my car and drove home. I have had a little supper and fed Mazout. Now I roll a cigarette, a glass of cognac at my side, two of my little vices that I am reluctant to give up. It has been a strange day; I had hardly hoped to be here now, thinking it more likely that I should be in a cell somewhere, awaiting the tribunal I have feared for so long - and so richly deserved. I have been living on borrowed time for a long while now.

I have called Mlle Thomas. Her father has contacted her; all is well. There was a quickening, but not MacLeod's. I find I am disappointed. Shame, Rene! You should not be wishing for the death of someone who is as much a victim of the Game as so many others. He, too, must be given his chance to live and become worthy of his gift. No, I am pleased to hear that Adam is safe, although she would tell me little; perhaps Joseph was not willing to tell her very much. She is relieved - it was in her voice. It would be a tragedy for her to lose her father after finding him so recently, and for the man she is beginning to realize she loves to be lost with him. A tragedy indeed.

And when I see him, I will most surely ask Adam whose head he removed this time. I am concerned that the quickening may have done some damage but we shall see. He is sleeping, she tells me. This is good news. He seems to have survived his weekend better than I.

I did not tell her of my meeting with Gabrieli. I must take some time to consider the matter; it is not prudent to speak of him at all. On our way back to Headquarters, he told me what his position is on all this. He cannot make his involvement known; this I understand only too well. He will provide me with whatever information I need to accomplish... certain things, perhaps even make things easier for me when he can. He has admitted to me that he knows that Adam Pierson is Immortal and that he wishes to protect him so far as he is able, that he regards me as Adam's unofficial Watcher. And he has not asked me to report. If it should ever become common knowledge, he cannot be accused of having assigned no-one and the absence of any reports can be explained as being confidential while Adam is in therapy. It is to cover himself, and I do not begrudge him that little bit of self-interest. Whether he also knows that Adam is Methos, I cannot say. Certainly he would not tell me such a thing. M. Gabrieli keeps a great deal to himself, as do I. On this, we understand each other.

I have called Nikki to tell her not to worry about me, that I am in good health, but that I shall have to stay in Paris. I can still hope to be in Reims for the weekend. That rather depends on Eddie.

Speaking of Eddie, I have told Mlle Thomas that I have a plan, that I have been able to get hold of a passport and that I shall call her when Eddie has it. I may need her help. Croft is another matter. Always my thoughts come back to him. He is very dangerous; I believe that he can take us all down at once and it is possible that he waits only until he feels safe to do so. And I have made a promise to M. Gabrieli. I will find that tape and destroy it - and he will help me to do it. His men will be told that Croft's request for a guard - for that was the reason they were there - is no longer necessary. It would seem that Eddie made M. Croft very nervous; it must have reminded him of how many enemies there were waiting to take him down, not the least, I am sure, being myself. I smile at the thought. There is something in me which enjoys the idea that I am dangerous. It is perhaps perverse, but it is who I am. I do not apologize.

And for all I may feel more at ease about M. Gabrieli, there are always others who would not be so... forgiving? I must not become complacent and think that I am safe. There are always others; only the guiltless need not worry about there not being others. It is a luxury I cannot afford.

I have done enough for one day. Although it is still early, I shall do no more. I call Martine and talk quietly with her. She wants to see me for my birthday, whenever I am free. She knows that I prefer to be in Reims if I can, but I would like very much to see her as well. She tells me she loves me and I believe it. When I hang up, I am content for the first time in days.

****

Tuesday, November 26.

I have slept late, the first good sleep I have had for a long time. I awaken with Mazout lying on my chest and a fuzzy feeling in my head. I had too much cognac yesterday, perhaps? More likely, I need a cigarette. I push Mazout off my chest and sit up before I remember that I do not need to go to the hospital this morning. It is a relief. You are getting lazy, Rene! I find my glasses and put them on; I am a little shocked when I look at my watch and see that it is past ten.

I shower, shave, dress, do those little things that make a man feel more human in the morning. I have neglected to get myself anything for breakfast, however, but the coffee is good. I make myself some and sit on the sofa to drink it, rolling the first cigarette of the day. I am pleased with myself for waiting this long. Usually, I light one as soon as I am out of bed - glasses, watch, cigarette... I have made such promises to myself before, however. I doubt that it will last any longer than it ever does.

The telephone rings; I have been expecting a call. It is Gabrieli's secretary.

"Bonjour, Doctor. I have a message for you. The documents you requested will be brought to you this afternoon by five o'clock."

"Ah, merci, Madame. This is very efficient. Tell M. Gabrieli that I am grateful for his promptness."

"Of course. It was nice to see you yesterday. You don't grace us with a visit very often."

I smile. It is the way I like it. "No, Madame. They keep me very busy."

"Oh, a moment, please, Doctor..." I hear a click as she puts me on hold. A few seconds later, she is back on the line. "M. Gabrieli would like to thank you for your interest in his project and says you have approval to go ahead."

I smile. "Tell him I shall be prompt. Bonjour, Madame."

"Of course. Bonjour."

It would seem I have work to do today. The passport will be here by five. No doubt it will be delivered personally by a security man, all very correct. It is usually done this way. As for the 'project'... M. Croft is in his office, he is telling me. It is safe to look for the tape.

I finish the coffee and pull on my jacket. I am wearing old jeans and my dark pull. I sling my knapsack over my shoulder. I have a few things in it which might be very handy. The weather is cold but it is not wet, at least. I put Mazout outside, put the gun in its holster behind my back and make sure I have turned on my cell phone.

In ten minutes, I am on the Metro. I have at least remembered to go to the bank machine before coming to the station; it would seem that a good night's sleep has cleared my mind quite well. I should try it more often. The Metro is busy today, mostly with people going to do their errands, going to the shops to pick up their fresh groceries. It is crowded also with students. A very normal day that is somehow quite comforting.

It takes me a while to get to the 16th Arrondissement and I have a longer walk than usual. When I come in sight of M. Croft's apartment building, I find that I am still wary. I go into the same little shop and buy cigarettes. Outside, I light one while observing the street. The Citroen and the Honda are most certainly not there. If anyone else is watching M. Croft, others with their own motives, it would not be possible to say. I have no choice but to take my chances. The greatest difficulty is that I have no key and it is not so easy to break into an apartment in the middle of the day, I think. There will be people there, most certainly. I pull my collar up and walk toward the building, watching for my opportunity.

Farther down the street, a woman with two small children is struggling with a baby carriage and two bags of groceries. I wait to see where she is going. Very likely, she is too busy to notice me but it is always foolish to take chances. I will wait until she passes. In a few moments, I realize that she is going to the same building. Merde!

Ah, but wait a moment, Rene... You fool. This is what you have been waiting for. I take a last drag on the cigarette and flick the butt into the gutter. I hurry down the street to where the woman is trying to pull the carriage up the steps to the front door while calling to the two little children. I call to her that I will help her. She looks up, surprised.

"Oh, merci beaucoup, Monsieur! Merci. Notre appartement est sur le rez de chaussee, numero trois." [Oh, thank you so much, Monsieur. Thank you. Our apartment is on the ground floor, number three.]

"Pas de probleme, Madame." [No problem, Madame.]

She takes the children while I lift the carriage to the door. The groceries are in the carriage with the baby, who is very young. Sometimes I do not understand how these young women manage. She opens the door and we go in. I manoeuvre the carriage into the apartment on the left. When we are all inside, she offers me coffee but I say that I can see she is very busy and I have business to attend to. And that I will see myself out. She thanks me again and I leave, closing her door behind me.

The building is not new, a very typical Paris apartment house, part of a long continuous row with a slate roof and balconies. The inside has been rebuilt, however. It looks quite expensive but no doubt M. Croft has enough skill with investments to afford to live here - and it is discreet, should he have certain visitors, I suppose. Down the hall, I find the list of tenants beside the mail boxes. M. Croft lives on the top floor, I see. There is an old-fashioned open cage elevator but it is out of order. I climb the stairs. On the fifth floor, the apartment is to the left. Expensive indeed, although I am not surprised at his expensive tastes. He is not ostentatious at least, merely... tasteful.

I find the door and listen before examining the locks but hear nothing. And the locks? There will be considerable difficulty, I see, although they are not new. They are however, modern locks, and I have brought nothing which might help. But with a little luck...

I take a credit card from my wallet and try it against the locks - two of them. The first slides back with a most satisfactory click. And this does surprise me. I would have expected at least one deadbolt. Perhaps the other? I try it and have no success. Merde! I shall need the concierge.

I go back down the stairs, cursing old buildings without working elevators. I find the concierge in the courtyard, working in the tiny garden. When she sees me, she comes in immediately. She is a very large woman of about fifty wearing a print dress that does not suit her but I am not to judge these things. She seems happy enough as she smiles at me. I have the impression, however, that it would not be a good idea to make her angry. She wipes her hands on her apron as she comes toward me.

"Oui, Monsieur? May I help you?"

I try to look furtive, which is not difficult with what I am wearing. "Oui, Madame. Interpol." I take out my wallet and show her the phoney ID card I keep there. It is an old one, which makes it look quite authentic.

Her eyes narrow as she looks at it. Her expression does not change as she looks at me again; I am in her domain now. She edges me away from the door. Is she afraid I might see something out there? "Is there a problem, Monsieur?"

I look serious but shake my head. "No, no. We merely wish to speak to someone in your building, a M. Harold Croft. Do you know him?"

She nods vigorously, making her jowls shake. "Oh. Yes. The Englishman. He has lived here for many years now. He has never given me a problem, mind you, but I don't like him. Never have. Strange little man. One of 'them'. You know what I mean?" She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Can't stand them."

It would seem that M. Croft has other problems much closer to home. I do not envy him. "I need to get into his apartment, Madame."

She stands there, challenging me. I sense a sweet odour, an unusual one and I cannot quite place it. It seems to be coming from her hands, her apron, which is stained green. "Into his apartment... I may not like the man, Monsieur, but he lives in my building. I can't just open his door to every stranger with an ID, you understand? I have an obligation to my tenants..." she advances on me, away from the doorway - I dare say she outweighs me by ten or twenty kilos, "...even those I don't like."

Ah, I recognize the odour. Madame has a hobby, non? It is time for sterner tactics. "Madame, surely you have noticed that there have been people watching this building for some time now. We notice many things; we record those things." I take a chance, but I am sure that I am right - and I shall have a difficult time keeping a straight face. I reach out and touch the green stain on her apron. She pulls back and the dark look on her face is highly amusing. "There have been reports, Madame. The making of absinthe is a serious crime. But I expect you know that. A word to the wise should be sufficient, if you take my meaning."

Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. It would seem that I have hit the nail quite accurately. She says nothing.

"M. Croft's apartment?" I say.

She nods and without a word leads me to the elevator. Ah. Now I understand why it does not work - one needs a key. As she opens the door to the apartment, I thank her politely and she scurries away.

I pull on my gloves, then push the door open easily. It makes no noise. I slip inside and close it behind me. I am in a foyer, with polished wood floor and double doors to the room before me, a hallway to the left. I open the doors onto a large living room. There are heavy curtains, all closed, and the room is quite dark. I leave the curtains closed and find the light switch.

Ah, very nice, M. Croft. Exquisite taste in decor. And well beyond your income from the organization, or was Horton more generous with his hush money than I would have given him credit for? I had thought blackmail beyond your interests, but perhaps not. And your taste in art is abominable. Egon Schiele? And Frida Kahlo? Are we a touch depressed, Monsieur? No matter.

There are occasional tables with drawers, book shelves, a fine sideboard - many places in which a tape may be hidden. And other things. And other rooms? A bedroom, surely... I go down the hallway. It is not large but it is quite a magnificent apartment, although not up to those in downtown Paris by any means. Nevertheless, it is quite fine and well appointed. I find the bedroom and am surprised that it is quite stark, very aesthetic. And very tidy, of course. Immaculate, in fact. The walls are bare; in the little ensuite, the towels hang at exactly the same length. In the closet, his shoes are lined up, their heels on some imaginary line, exactly parallel to the wall. The shirts are exactly so much apart... obsessive-compulsive to a fine degree. That is certainly not a surprise. It is highly unlikely that such a thing as a tape of a violent murder would be hidden here. M. Croft must be afraid always that his apartment might be - 'tossed', I believe is the word - and his bedroom would be sacrosanct. Nothing damaging, nothing... 'obscene' must ever be found there. You see, I do understand you, Monsieur. I would be a very poor psychiatrist if I did not.

The next room, probably meant as a spare bedroom, is also a library and a study. Mon Dieu. This will take me all day! The room past the study is locked. Now this is interesting. Why would you lock a door inside your own home... unless...? The lock is quite simple. I fish in my knapsack and find what I need, something long and thin - a professional lock pick I have had for years. In a few moments, although after much struggle and scratching of metal, I am afraid - I am a little out of practice - the lock snaps open and I put the pick back into my knapsack. I push the handle down and the door swings open.

I turn on the light switch... and I am stunned by what I see. Photographs. Everywhere there are photographs. On the walls, in frames on shelves, on small tables. There is an armchair, a thick rug on the floor. The French doors to the balcony are blocked by thick, red draperies. There is a chaise longue to one side, a deep carpet on the floor. This is... a boudoir, for want of a better word - a very private place, yes? Oh, yes. And the photographs? They are all of one person - Adam Pierson.

Sainte Marie Mere de Dieu! Incroyable! They have been taken without his knowledge, most certainly. They show him at his desk, walking the hallway at Headquarters, at the Academy, at an office party, where he is standing in the back row, his head down - and M. Croft at his left, I see. This one shows him at our sidewalk table at the cafe on the rue de l'Echelle, taken some years ago and with a telephoto lens if I am not mistaken. And I have been carefully edited from the photograph, I see. How long have you been stalking your quarry, M. Croft? How long indeed?

To my left, a photograph on the wall... it is a poster, yes? Very large. M. Croft is quite the photographer, but then he has had much practice, I think. It was taken by someone in a car - a surveillance photograph? Adam walks across the street, his old coat wrapped about him as is his habit, his head down, striding across the roadway. It reminds me of one I saw some years ago of James Dean - 'Boulevard of Broken Dreams', I think? Yes. Below this is a low table with some things on it. I go to it. I have heard of such things, but I have not seen it until today... A small photograph in a frame intrigues me; I have seen it somewhere... I pick it up. In it, Adam smiles into the camera; he is a little self-conscious, looking quite... boyish? Ah, I remember! It has been cut from another photograph - one of M. Salzer and himself. I take it out of the frame. On the back, in Adam's almost unreadable scrawl, there is a phrase: 'Your friend, Adam.'

Surely this was meant for M. Salzer. I remember that I was surprised that Adam had allowed himself to be photographed - a rare thing indeed and a measure of his friendship for M. Salzer. How is it that M. Croft has this? It belonged to M. Salzer; I saw it in his shop once or twice when I went there for some books in English. Other things on this table intrigue me. A little album with plastic pockets inside for photographs holds notes, folded memos, scraps of paper - all have Adam's handwriting. Some memos are addressed simply to 'Croft', requesting funding for books and travel for Adam's work. Some of these have been stolen from Adam's desk, surely, even his waste basket, all carefully preserved. I shake my head. M. Croft imagines a 'relationship', non? Mais, bien sur; c'est