Texas?'
MacLean grin turned to a puzzled frown. 'How did you know who they were?'
'They came by yesterday morning. You were up there on your walk.' He pointed to the old city.
'That's funny, they acted as if this was their first day here.'
Angelo shrugged. 'Maybe when we get old, we'll forget, too.'
Suddenly, MacLean felt like the staked goat in his nightmare. A cold emptiness settled in his stomach. He excused himself and went back to his room, where he poured himself a stiff shot of ouzo.
How easy it would have been. They would have climbed to the top of the rock and asked him to pose for a photo near the edge. One shove and down he would go.
Another accident. Another dead scientist.
No heavy lifting. Not even for a sweet old history teacher.
He dug into the plastic bag he used for his dirty laundry. Buried at the bottom was the envelope full of yellowing news clips which he spread on the table.
The headlines were different, but the subject of each story was the same.
SCIENTIST DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT. SCIENTIST KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN.
SCIENTIST KILLS WIFE, SELF. SCIENTIST DIES IN SKIING ACCIDENT.
Every one of the victims had worked on the Project. He reread the note: 'Flee or die!' Then he put the Herald Tribune clip in with the
others and went to the monastery's reception desk. Angelo was going through a pile of reservations.
'I must leave,' MacLean said.
Angelo looked crestfallen. 'I'm very sorry. How soon?'
'Tonight.'
'Impossible. There is no hydrofoil or bus until tomorrow.' , 'Nevertheless, I must leave and I'm asking you to help me. I can make it worth your while.'
A sad look came into the monk's eyes. 'I would do this for friendship, not money.'
'I'm sorry,' MacLean said. 'I'm a little upset.'
Angelo was not an unintelligent man.
'This is because of the Americans?'
'Some bad people are after me. These Americans may have been sent to find me. I was stupid and told them I was going on the hydrofoil. I'm not sure if they came alone. They may have someone watching at the gate.'
Angelo nodded. 'I can take you to the mainland by boat. You will need a car.'
'I was hoping you could arrange to rent one for me,' MacLean said. He handed Angelo his credit card, which he had tried not to use before, knowing it could be traced.
Angelo called the car rental office on the mainland. He spoke a few minutes and hung up. 'Everything is taken care of. They will leave the keys in the car.'
'Angelo, I don't know how I can repay you.'
'No payment. Give a big gift next time you're in church.'
MacLean had a light dinner at a secluded cafe, where he found himself glancing with apprehension at the other tables. The evening passed without event. On the way back to the monastery, he kept looking over his shoulder.
The wait was agonizing. He felt trapped in his room, but he reminded himself that the walls were at least a foot thick and the door could withstand a battering ram. A few minutes after midnight, he heard a soft knock on the door.
Angelo took his bag and led the way along the seawall to a set of stairs that went down to a stone platform used by swimmers for diving. By the light of an electric torch, MacLean could see a small motorboat tied up to the platform. They got into the boat. Angelo was reaching for the mooring line when quiet footfalls could be heard on the steps.
'Out for a midnight cruise?' said the sweet voice of Emma Harris.
'You don't suppose Dr. MacLean was leaving without saying good-bye,' her husband said.
After his initial surprise, MacLean found his tongue. 'What happened to your Texas drawl, Mr. Harris?'
'Oh, that. Not very authentic, I must admit.'
'Don't fret, dear. It was good enough to fool Dr. MacLean Although I must admit that we had a little luck in completing our errand. We were sitting in that delightful little cafe when you happened by. It was nice of you to let us take your picture so we could check it against your file photo. We don't like to make mistakes.'
Her husband gave an avuncular chuckle. 'I remember saying, 'Step into my parlor ...' '
' '... Said the spider to the fly.' '
They broke into laughter.
'You were sent by the company,' MacLean said.
'They're very clever people,' Gus said. 'They knew you would be on the lookout for someone who looked like a gangster.'
'It's a mistake a lot of people have made,' Emma said, a sad note in her voice. 'But it keeps us in business, doesn't it, Gus? Well. It was lovely traveling in Greece. But all good things must come to an end.'
Angelo had listened to the conversation with a puzzled expression on his face. He was unaware of the danger they were in. Before MacLean could stop him, he reached over to untie the boat.
'Excuse us,' he said. 'We must go.'
They were the last words he would ever utter.
There was the muffled thut of a silenced gun and a scarlet tongue of fire licked the darkness. Angelo clutched his chest and made a gurgling sound. Then he toppled from the boat into the water.
'Bad luck to shoot a monk, my dear,' Gus said to his wife.
'He wasn't wearing his cassock,' she said, with a pout in her voice. 'How was I to know?'
Their voices were hard-edged and mocking.
'Come along, Dr. MacLean Gus said. 'We have a car waiting to take you to a company plane.' 'You're not going to kill me?'
'Oh no,' said Emma, again the innocent traveler. 'There are other plans for you.'
'I don't understand.'
'You will, my dear. You will.'
The French Alps
THE AEROSPATIALE ALOUETTE light utility helicopter threading its way through the deep alpine valleys appeared as insignificant as a gnat against the backdrop of towering peaks. As the helicopter approached a mountain whose summit was crowned with three uneven knobs, Hank Thurston, seated in the front passenger's seat, tapped the shoulder of the man sitting beside him and pointed through the canopy.
'That's 'Le Dormeur,' ' Thurston said, raising his voice to be heard over the thrashing rotor blades. ' 'The Sleeping Man.' The profile supposedly resembles the face of a sleeper lying on his back.'
Thurston was a full professor of glaciology at Iowa State University. Although the scientist was in his forties, his face exuded a boyish enthusiasm. Back in Iowa, Thurston kept his face clean-shaven and his hair neatly trimmed, but after a few days in the field he began to look like a bush pilot. It was a look he cultivated by wearing aviator sunglasses, letting his dark brown hair grow long so gray strands would show and by shaving infrequently, so that his chin was usually covered with stubble.
'Poetic license,' said the passenger, Derek Rawlins. 'I can see the brow and the nose and chin. It reminds me of the Old Man of the Mountain in New Hampshire before it fell apart, except that the stone profile here is horizontal rather than vertical.'
Rawlins was a writer for Outside magazine. He was in his late twenties, and with his air of earnest optimism and neatly trimmed sandy-blond hair and beard, he looked more like a college professor than Thurston did.
The crystal clarity of the air created an illusion of nearness, making the mountain seem as if it was only an arm's length away. After a couple of passes around the crags, the helicopter broke out of its lazy circle, scudded over a razorback ridge and dropped down into a natural bowl several miles across. The floor of the mountain basin was covered by an almost perfectly round lake. Although it was summer, ice cakes as big as Volkswagens floated on the ipirrorlike surface.
'Lac du Dormeur,' the professor said. 'Carved out by a retreating glacier during the Ice Age and now fed by
