"Should I bother to ask where we're going?" he asked.

"This should be of interest to you," he said.

"I'm taking you to see Leslie McAdam."

The car was still at the curb in front of the stone townhouse. The tall, austere Whiteside stepped from the building first and immediately the driver slipped back into the car. The Rover began moving through congested London traffic. A few minutes later the windshield wipers were turned on and silently kept a fine rain from obstructing the driver's view.

Twenty minutes later the Rover eased to a stop in a subdued neighborhood bordering Earl's Court and Kensington. Whiteside and Thomas stepped from the car. They were on a quiet street with little traffic, trees, clean sidewalks, and a small church.

"The Chapel of St. Michael the Redeemer," said Whiteside.

"Peaceful, I suppose, though I've never much cared for Presbyterians' "

The driver remained with the car.

"Come with me," said Whiteside to Thomas.

They walked through a side door to the small, modest neighborhood church. The rector saw Whiteside and the two men exchanged nods. No word was spoken. Thomas reasoned that the church might have a small group of Anglo-Scottish parishioners. But he was only guessing.

They walked through the chapel, up the aisle, and then past the altar.

Whiteside led Thomas out another side door which led into an old churchyard with weather-worn tombstones, a few ornate but most of them modest. The headstones marked the resting places of humble working people from the neighborhood. There was a steady cold drizzle now.

"I was always very fond of Leslie McAdam" Whiteside said in a moment of unconcealed candor.

"A frightened little girl most of her life " He looked at Thomas as the rain fell on his angular face and dripped down to his beige Aquascutum raincoat. He wore no hat.

Whiteside's hair was matted and soaked.

"Man to man, old boy," he said,

"I guess I saw in her the daughter I would always have liked to have had. Are you married?"

"Divorced."

"I see", he answered, as if suddenly enlightened. He added as an afterthought,

"I was never of the temperament to marry." His smile was wry.

"A bit of a public-school vice, you understand." He motioned to a modern tombstone in the newest section of the churchyard.

"Here we are," he said.

Thomas looked down and stood absolutely motionless as he read the inscription in gothic letters: LESLIE McADAm 1945-1974 He stared at the stone disbelievingly, then lifted his gaze back to the older man.

Whiteside was studying his reaction, conscious that he'd just thrown his trump card. Several moments more pa.s.sed before Thomas spoke.

"What's this supposed to mean?" he asked.

"It means that a man with counterfeit money also has a counterfeit daughter," said Whiteside. The rain continued to fall on his face. His expression was twisted in confusion also.

"Albeit'" he added, 'as usual Arthur Sandler's counterfeit is, well, perfect."

"Perfect?"

"The story you told George McAdam in Switzerland. It d.a.m.ned well made poor old George's blood go cold. The story was perfect.

Not a word out of place. Every detail. Things that only Leslie would have known. Your girl in New York. She knows them all. I'll be b.l.o.o.d.y well struck dumb before I can figure out how that's possible. ' Thomas looked down at the headstone again, at the wet gra.s.s growing around it and the long convex mound of earth upon the grave.

"How do I know that there's anything really under there?" he asked.

"You don't. But I do. And I'd have no reason to waste time lying to you. Would you like to see the coroner's report? I could arrange it for you. It's a fitting day for it."

"Are you sure you buried the right girl?"

"Yes" he said flatly.

"May of 1974. The real Leslie McAdam is dead."

Thomas squinted slightly from the rain.

"Sandler?" he asked.

"We think so. She was in London visiting and about to return to Canada. She was staying in a flat in Bloomsbury. Protected by the Foreign Office, yet. Found with her throat slashed one morning.

Shall I go on?"

"Only if you want to" said Thomas.

"Well," huffed Whiteside, pulling his overcoat closer as the drizzle thickened, 'from our point of view there's an awful lot still at stake.

There's the murder of this girl and a still-unsolved murder of her mother from 1954. Unfinished business you might call it, not of the highest priority but important nevertheless ' As Whiteside spoke, Thomas was silent. He pictured Leslie McAdam in New York. Someone-if not everyone-was lying mightily.

Whiteside continued.

"This whole thing is b.l.o.o.d.y perplexing and the fact that Arthur Sandler is involved is what makes it so. What was so important that he find this girl, a daughter whom he might never have even seen? Something is still happening and we don't know what it is. Our government is rather curious. If Sandler can be found, we'd like to have a go at him, too'

" Thomas was shaking his head, still looking downward at that headstone.

"He's got to be seventy-six years old " he said.

"Unless he's been reincarnated some way," said Whiteside in half serious tones.

"What?"

"Well, let's face it. We're rational men standing here in cold daylight in the middle of a very real world. But this Arthur Sandler is defying natural law, one would think. Rather spry for a man of his age, wouldn't you say? We should all be treated so kindly by time."

Thomas didn't reply. But the answer was yes.

"Consider your problem, Mr. Daniels" said Whiteside. The two men turned. Whiteside placed his hand on the other man's shoulder as they walked around the churchyard, through the rain.

"You have a man who's alive who claims to be dead. And you have a girl who's dead who claims to be alive. I don't envy you. And I'm not at all certain you'll ever be able to resolve this to everyone's satisfaction."