"George McAdam?" asked Thomas.

The voice snapped,

"Who's this?"

"You don't know me, sir, my name is Thomas Daniels. I'm an attorney from New York City." Silence on the other end.

"I'm a friend of Leslie's" he tried.

There was a painfully long silence. Then McAdam replied quietly,

"What do you want?"

"I need to speak with you. About your foster daughter. There's a legal proceeding in the United States involving-" "I don't want to hear it," said McAdam coldly Thomas groped for the proper response, but McAdam spoke next.

"If you're trying to make money off my daughter," the voice said bitterly,

"I'll have no part of it "I'm trying to help her. I represent her."

Represent' The voice was sardonic, bemused, scoffing.

"It's a matter of utmost importance" Thomas insisted.

"Not so much for me. But for her."

"For her?" the voice said. There was definite sarcasm, a mocking tone to McAdam's voice, as if he both disbelieved and distrusted.

"Poor Leslie" he said. Thomas began to speak, but McAdam interrupted sharply, asking where the call was originating.

"London."

There was silence as McAdam seemed to be thinking.

"I won't talk about it 'he repeated. Thomas was prepared to argue, but McAdam continued.

"I suppose, whoever you are, there's not much you can do to me now. I won't talk about it, not on the telephone. Are you coming to Switzerland?"

"I can ' "You have my address, I a.s.sume," he said bitterly.

"I do " "Be here day after tomorrow at ten A.M. If you have something to talk about, I'll see you then."

Thomas was about to thank McAdam, but the other end went dead. McAdam had put down his receiver.

Slowly Thomas hung up his telephone. He was exultant in finding McAdam. But his overwhelming feeling was one of uneasiness, of suspicion. McAdam wasn't doing him a favor. McAdam was trying to discover what Thomas was doing. There'd been something important unsaid in that brief conversation. Whatever it was, it was worth a flight to Switzerland to discover.

Chapter 12

Sixteen, rue de Paudax was a moderately sized stucco villa behind a large white brick fence and a large black iron gate. The rue de Paudax crisscrossed a large hill on the northern side of the Lake of Geneva. Had houses of similar size and design not been on the southern side of the rue, Thomas would have been afforded a fine view of the Lake itself and the French Alps on the opposite sh.o.r.e behind Evian.

Thomas stopped at Number 16. He examined the house and the iron bars of the gate. There was no name anywhere identifying the resident. The mail slot in the fence was unmarked. There was no bell to ring, perhaps a strong hint that the resident did not wish to be disturbed by outsiders. Perfect anonymity, thought Thomas, for a Swiss businessman or an Englishman who doesn't wish to be found.

Thomas examined the iron gate, fumbled with the interior of the latch, and forced an inside handle upward. The latch clicked grudgingly. The gate opened.

Thomas continued along a flagstone path toward the villa. He was halfway between the gate and the front door when he first heard the snarling dogs.

There were two of them. Brown, gray, and black with up curled lips and raging white teeth. Two of the largest German shepherd guard dogs Thomas had ever seen. He stood in the path, transfixed with fear and afraid even to run. The dogs charged him. The walls around the villa were too large to scale. He was too far from the gate. Running toward the house would only incite the dogs further.

They were no more than fifteen feet away from him. His feet were rooted to the ground as they charged. Then Thomas and the dogs both froze when they heard the sharp commanding voice of their master, George McAdam. A. one-word command had stopped the animals.

Thomas looked back to the villa. The solid front door was wide open now. A large, graying, heavyset man stood in full view. He wore a brown herringbone jacket, white shirt, and regimental tie which was slightly crooked.

"You're Daniels?" asked McAdam.

"Yes." Thomas alternated his gaze from the animals to McAdam and back to the German shepherds. He felt an incipient resentment at having been needlessly menaced. But he said nothing.

"You're alone?" McAdam asked.

"Absolutely."

"You'd better be telling the truth." McAdam glared at him as,he studied his visitor. Walk slowly toward me," he instructed.

"Be gracious enough to hold out your hands slightly. About the height of your armpits."

Thomas obeyed, aware that the dogs were following closely behind him.

"What the h.e.l.l's this all about?"

"I'm planning to frisk you," said McAdam.

"You may stop right there" Thomas was six feet in front of Leslie McAdam's foster father.

"I a.s.sume you have no objection ' "I'm hardly in a position to have any objections. I hate dog hair."

"I have my enemies," said McAdam. It was in no way an apology.

I'd never have known, Thomas thought. But he didn't say it.

McAdam stepped forward, a severe limp now discernible. He was balding slightly and had mean gray eyes. His face, like his body, was thick and solid. Then, with agile hands which knew what they were doing, McAdam thoroughly frisked Thomas. The hands moved up and down Thomas's trouser legs, the belt, his jacket, torso, and sleeves. , "Lucky for you," said McAdam when he was finished.

"You.

pa.s.sed' He stepped backward into the foyer of the villa. Thomas was instructed to walk in front of him. The dogs followed.

Thomas was directed to a small library to the left of the foyer.

He sat on a small sofa while McAdam a.s.sumed a position behind a desk.

As McAdam was seating himself, Thomas glanced around the room quickly.