her knees in the rain beside the father so cruelly torn away from her.

Along the Champs Elysees and into the Place de la Concorde she went, walking steadily.

'Jesus, but she likes her exercise,' Devlin observed.

She turned into the cool peace of the Jardin des Tuileries and Hunter nodded. 'I thought she would. My hunch is that she's making for the Louvre. You go after her on foot from here. I'll drive round, park the car and wait for you at the main entrance.'

There was a Henry Moore exhibit in the Tuileries Gardens. She browsed around it for a little while and Devlin stayed back, but it was obvious that nothing there had much appeal for her and she moved on through the gardens to the great Palais du Louvre itself.

Tanya Voroninova was certainly selective. She moved from gallery to gallery, choosing only works of acknowledged genius and Devlin followed at a discreet distance. From the Victory of Samothrace at the top of the Daru staircase by the main entrance, she moved on to the Venus de Milo. She spent some time in the Rembrandt Gallery on the first floor, then stopped to look at what is possibly the most famous picture in the world - Leonardo da Vinci's 'Mona Lisa'.

Devlin moved in close. 'Is she smiling, would you say?' he tried in English.

'What do you mean?' she asked in the same language.

'Oh, it's an old superst.i.tion in the Louvre that some mornings she doesn't smile.'

She turned to look at him. That's absurd.'

'But you're not smiling either,' Devlin said. 'Sweet Jesus, are you worried you'd crack the plate?'

'This is total nonsense,' she said, but smiled all the same.

'When you're on your dignity, your mouth turns down at the corners,' he said. 'It doesn't help.'

'My looks, you mean? A matter of indifference to me.'

He stood there, hands in the pockets of the Burberry

trenchcoat, the black felt hat slanted over one ear and the eyes were the most vivid blue she had ever seen. There was an air of insolent good humour to him and a kind of self-mockery that was rather attractive in spite of the fact that he must have been twice her age at least. There was a sudden aching excitement that was difficult to control and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

'Excuse me,' she said and walked away.

Devlin gave her some room and then followed. A darling girl and frightened, for some reason. Interesting to know why that should be.

She made her way to the Grande Galerie, finally stopped before El Greco's 'Christ on the Cross' and stood there for quite some time gazing up at the gaunt mystical figure, showing no acknowledgement of Devlin's presence when he moved beside her.

'And what does it say to you?' he asked gently. 'Is there love there?'

'No,' she said. 'A rage against dying, I think. Why are you following me?'

'Am I?'

'Since the Tuileries Gardens.'

'Really? Well, if I was, I can't be very good at it.'

'Not necessarily. You are someone to look at twice,' she said simply.

Strange how suddenly she felt like crying. Wanted to reach out to the incredible warmth of that voice. He took her arm and said gently, 'All the time in the world, girl dear. You still haven't told me what El Greco says to you.'

'I was not raised a Christian,' she said. 'I see no Saviour on the Cross, but a great human being in torment, destroyed by little people. And you?'

'I love your accent,' Devlin said. 'Reminds me of Garbo in the movies when I was a wee boy, but that was a century or so before your time.'

'Garbo is not unknown to me,' she said, 'and I'm duly flattered. However, you still have not told me what it says for you?'

'A profound question when one considers the day,' Devlin told her. 'At seven o'clock this morning, they celebrated a rather special Ma.s.s in St Peter's Basilica in Rome. The Pope together with cardinals from Britain and the Argentine.'

'And will this achieve anything?'

'It hasn't stopped the British Navy proceeding on its merry way or Argentine Skyhawks from attacking it.'

'Which means?'

'That the Almighty, if he exists at all, is having one h.e.l.l of a joke at our expense.'

Tanya frowned. 'Your accent intrigues me. You are not English, I think?'

'Irish, my love.'

'But I thought the Irish were supposed to be extremely religious?'

'And that's a fact. My old Aunt Hannah had callouses on her knees from praying. She used to take me to Ma.s.s three times a week when I was a boy in Drumore.'

Tanya Voroninova went very still. 'Where did you say?'

'Drumore. That's a little market town in Ulster. The church there was Holy Name. The thing I remember most was my uncle and his cronies, straight out from Ma.s.s and down the road to Murphy's Select Bar.'

She turned, her face very pale now. 'Who are you?'

'Well, one thing's for sure, girl dear.' He ran a hand lightly over her dark hair. 'I'm not Cuchulain, last of the dark heroes.'

Her eyes widened and there was a kind of anger as she plucked at his coat. 'Who are you?'

'In a manner.of speaking, Viktor Levin.'

'Viktor?' She looked bewildered. 'But Viktor is dead. Died somewhere in Arabia a month or so ago. My father told me.'

'General Maslovsky? Well, he would, wouldn't he? No, Viktor escaped. Defected, you might say. Ended up in London and then Dublin.'

'He's well?'

'Dead,' Devlin said brutally. 'Murdered by Mikhail Kelly or Cuchulain or the dark b.l.o.o.d.y hero or whoever you want

to call him. The same man who shot your father dead twenty-three years ago in the Ukraine.'

She sagged against him. His arm went round her in support, strong and confident. 'Lean on me, just put one foot in front of the other and I'll take you outside and get you some air.'