Gaubert staggered to his feet, pain lancing his side, and grabbed the blackened gloves. Before he pulled the makeshift furnace door open, he gestured to the date on the anvil. Paused for effect. "Our old tradition, a custom on the longest night of the year. Solstice, comprend?"

One of the soldiers cleared his throat. "Ja, mein Gefreiter, Wintersonnenwende, solstice, the shortest day of the year. In Bayern we do it with-"

"I know," he said, impatient. "But they're hiding something. Open."

A strong fecal smell came from Bruno, shifting and moaning on the floor. He'd shit his pants in fear. A dead giveaway.

The SS man wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Hurry up. Show me what's inside."

Gaubert pulled the door back and the SS man shielded his eyes from the blazing heat.

Then he shook his head. Laughed. "Horseshoes?"

"That's for good luck, we say . . . viel Glck, non?"

Beckoned by their Gefreiter, the soldiers came to look, crowding around the hot forge. Gaubert trembled, watching and holding his breath. Would it work?

The bunch of horseshoes were still cold in the glowing fire. Would it give them away? "That's our custom, we burn away winter with the old, make way for good crops in the new year." Gaubert turned his grimace of pain into a lopsided grin. Shrugged and felt a sharp stab from his rib where Alain punched him. Broken? His lungs seized up again and he doubled over, racked by coughing.

Gaubert pulled out his handkerchief stained with blood long enough for them to see. Blew his nose. "Desole. Bad lungs. Tuberculosis." He gasped for breath. "The boys here, too."

Baret turned, his fly open, clearing his throat, then lapsing into a coughing fit.

"You shouldn't get too close," said Gaubert.

To a one, the SS and soldiers stepped back, nervous. Tuberculosis was frighteningly contagious. At least, he hoped they thought it was.

With another mutter of "filthy peasants," the SS turned on his jackbooted heel and ordered his men out, shouting about "quarantining the village."

"Quick." Baret zipped up his fly with the tip of his hook. The noise of the motorcycle engines faded. "Pull out the horseshoes. Get shoveling more coke."

"We can take our time, eh? They won't be back." Philbert grinned.

"But others will, Philbert." Gaubert leaned against the wall, shaking. "When Alain wakes, get him working."

"With a cracked head?" Bruno said.

"Nothing cracks his thick skull." Gaubert winced. "Now grab that rag and help me bind up my chest. And clean yourself up."

Twice that night they had to re-pour the gold, a cherry-red-orange molten mixture, into the ingot molds. The laborious process took close to three hours. With nine more buried boxes left to melt . . . they had nights of work yet. It would be impossible, given the German patrols. They couldn't talk their way out of the same thing again.

In the early morning light, steam hissed from the cold water bucket as the last bar cooled.

After half an hour, they had ten ingots, like thick chocolate bars, five hundred grams each. Heavy as half a country loaf of bread.

"Voil," said Bruno, indicating the measured piles. "Bonbons for everyone."

"No bonbons for the orphans and widows across the river in Givaray," Gaubert said, voicing the thoughts that had been plaguing him since the night of the flood. "We're not going to get away with it forever."

"Gaubert, you worry too much," said Bruno.

If he didn't worry, how could he have gotten them this far?

Philbert wiped his hands. "We've got to plan a more efficient way to melt this down. And the hard part-Baret needs a travel permit."

"First I need a reason to travel."

"But it's perfect," said Alain, rubbing the knob on his temple. "Don't you need a new arm? That one's beat up, non?"

Gaubert shook his head. "Think, Alain. First Baret's got to find a willing contact who can take the gold."

"He'll need a cut for doing business," Baret said. "Remember that."

Alain spit. "How's that fair? We do the work and-"

"Any legitimate metals dealer would be taking a risk, Alain. Gold trade's been restricted since 1939, comprends? You expect a dealer to take a chance from the goodness of his heart? Wake up."

Gaubert nodded. "After the contact puts it on the market, it's just a matter of time until this SS bastard puts it together."

"Not unmarked gold on the marche noir," said Alain. "There are all kinds of things for sale-diamonds, paintings. That's the Jews' currency for escape. It's just knowing the right contact, eh Baret?"

"More complicated than that," said Baret. "We'll need a willing dealer with assay equipment who'll take a reasonable cut. That might be hard to find. Get that through your head."

Gaubert thought of the danger fueled by greed. The gold wasn't theirs, no more than it belonged to the Nazis who'd plundered it.

"Give me my cut of this batch," said Gaubert. "Keep the rest, all of it-it's yours. I'm out of this."

Five pairs of eyes stared at him, all tinged with anger and suspicion.

"You're giving up your share in the rest?" Alain said finally.

"My gift to you," Gaubert said.

"What's the deal? What do you want?"

"My price? Never mention me and my family. I was never involved."

"You're afraid, Gaubert."

"Fear is healthy. Baret and I know that from the trenches. It keeps you alert. Alive. When this hell of a war is over, then you should sell. Just leave me out of it. D'accord?"

Alain snorted. "I don't trust you."

"That's rich coming from a man whose life I just saved. All of your lives."

"He's right." Baret nodded. Picked up a bar. "Each bar's worth a hundred thousand francs, give or take."

A hundred thousand francs? The men looked at one another.

"Mon Dieu," whispered Philbert.

Silence except for the horse's hoof pawing the dirt floor.

"Not just pocket money then," said Baret, his smile grim. "Wait until the war's over. Invest. God knows you'll have to launder the profits, hide it."

Morning light slanted from the forge's one window; the dying embers glowed faintly.

"Gold lust, it's a curse," said Gaubert. "It will ruin your every day . . . worrying, thinking, afraid, always looking over your shoulder. That's the price you'll pay the rest of your lives. It's not worth it to me. So I'm out."

"It's not that simple, Gaubert." Bruno shook his head. "You'd put us all at risk."

"Why?"

Philbert shot the others a look. "We owe you for last night. We won't forget. But we can't have you using gold which could be traced back here."

Gaubert would later wonder, if he'd relented and stayed with the group right on that dirt-floored forge, could he have changed what happened? But in that moment everything was decided for him.

"Papa?" A voice outside, drowned by cart's wheels rumbling over the stones.

"Gaubert!" called Fanny. Laughter. "We're home! My brother brought us. Gaby can't wait for you to catch the Christmas fish."

Gaubert stuck a bar in each pocket, strode out before any of the other men-exhausted, sore, and short-tempered-could stop him.

He never saw the looks on their faces.

Or saw, as he grabbed Fanny and Gaby in his arms and hugged them to him in the cold morning sunshine, the five men in the forge drawing from five pieces of hay. The man who'd drawn the short straw squeezed his eyes closed. Then he grunted and picked up the German rifle the sandbaggers had recovered from the truck.

"You'll have to do it tonight. On the riverbank."

Paris * Saturday, 4:00 P.M.

In this quartier below Parc Monceau, the crimson Chinese pagoda with jade roof tiles stood out like a red thumb, Aimee thought as she chained her bike.

"Your friend lives here?" said Rene.

"It's a surprise party . . ." She caught herself before adding, "planned by the birthday girl herself."

In the entrance hall, red lanterns dripped from the high ceilings and Madonna's "Like a Virgin" pumped from the speakers. They followed the music past red-lacquered screens festooned with lucky peaches to a black wood-paneled room where a trio of Martine's sisters shrieked the chorus. Shimmying and laughing, they waved to Aimee; each of them sported lace leggings, off-the-shoulder tops, jean jackets, and curly side-parted bobs.

Rene's green eyes bulged. "I've never seen so many mullets and shoulder pads in a pagoda."

Pink spirit lanterns, red peonies in black lacquer vases, sandalwood incense, and a giant gold Buddha completed the scene. Couples were dancing, embracing. She felt as counterfeit as the faux gold-painted Buddha.

"Finally," said Martine. Her hair had been gelled into blonde waves, and she wore a black mini, lace leggings, and short-heeled boots. She kissed Aimee on both cheeks with her maroon bee-stung lips. "Got a new boyfriend?"

Martine's voice boomed in the brief lull in the music. Twenty or so couples and assorted guests turned and laser-stared. Rene shifted in his shoes.

She shot Martine a don't go there look and handed her the wrapped gift. "Happy surprise birthday, Martine."

Neda, who had been Aimee's nemesis at the lycee, said, "Love your accessories," looking pointedly at Rene and then Miles Davis-as if a dwarf and a dog were accoutrements. Everyone was looking at them. "Exotic. Your taste in men's changed since the lycee."

Aimee sensed Rene tensing up. She wanted to melt into the Chinese rug. Why had she brought him? This had turned awful. Cruel.

Beyond salvaging? Not while she still had breath. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile and aimed a carefree laugh at Neda. "Meet Rene, a computer wizard. Absolute genius. And this is Miles Davis, whom I'm dog-sitting."

"I've never met a computer genius," said Martine, her mascaraed eyes widening.

Rene blushed. "Happy Birthday, Martine," he said.

"Mon Dieu, I thought the puppy was my present," said Martine, taking a drag of her cigarette. "So you're the two handsome new men in Aimee's life. Champagne?"

Rene nodded. "Why not?"

Martine winked. "Don't mind me, Rene. Welcome to the family."

Martine handed him a flute of fizzing champagne and kissed him on both cheeks. The next moment everyone's attention had returned to the champagne. Phew, Aimee thought, watching Rene relax.

The black lacquered walls around them were inlaid with gold lotus leaves. There was teakwood furniture everywhere.

"What is this place?" Rene asked.

"Monsieur Loo's pagoda," Martine replied. "Amazing, non? My uncle's on the board of his arts foundation. He suggested a chinoiserie theme."

Martine's extended family included a chunk of the aristos and old money at the party. Aimee saw a lot of them in this eclectic crowd of young and old, scattered amongst lycee friends and their dates.

Aimee had made her appearance; now she had to get to a phone.

"Do you know where I can make a call?" she asked Martine.

"Try my new present." Martine lifted up a grey brick-sized handset. Grinned like a satisfied cat. "The latest cell phone."

It was attached to a battery pack the size of Aimee's anatomy book.

"Incroyable, non? It fits in my Vuitton."

Just.

"But no one's been able to figure out how to turn it on," her uncle said, champagne in hand, joining them.

Rene's eyes gleamed. "Mind if I . . . ?"