"All right " she said, turning toward him.

"Yes. I did. So what?"

"So what? You shot him and you say

"So what'?"

"He was trying to kill you," she said.

"He and some others "Oh, brother," he said with disbelief

"Tell me a better one. Explain the man in the blue car."

"You'll know eventually. Soon, in point of fact "Yes, sure," he said.

"That's what I mean. You never lie completely, just omit the truth.

The man at Grover's house a few mornings ago was the same man who was in the parking garage the night you disappeared. Correct?"

"Correct " "And yet at Grover's you wouldn't even look at him, much less admit that you knew him. Correct?"

"Correct again."

"And you do know him. He's a ... how shall I phrase it? An 'a.s.sociate' of yours. He got you out of the parking garage. You were in his car. The trunk, I'd guess."

"Very good'" she allowed.

"And Peter Whiteside and George McAdam," he pressed.

"They're alive, aren't they? As alive as you or I "Of course," she admitted.

"Their names on the Avianca pa.s.senger list was a hoax. I've always known that."

"Then why-?"

"I didn't want you seeing them."

"And the reason is that they could identify the real Leslie Mc- Adam," he suggested.

"Correct?"

She nodded.

"What about the real Leslie?" he pursued.

"Arthur Sandler's daughter. Dead or alive?" He waited. When she didn't answer, he thought he knew.

"Dead?" he concluded.

"Right?"

She took a step or two away again. His attention was riveted upon her.

He half expected her to make a run through the darkness. Or pull a weapon.

"Well?" he said.

"I came here for answers. Before I do one more thing for you, I want answers. And you know where you can start?

With your ident.i.ty. I want to know who you are and what you want."

"You'll know soon enough," she said, turning again.

"Men?"

"Soon," was the calculated reply. But the voice was not Leslie's. It was a man's voice and came from behind Thomas.

"Now, in fact' The accent was American. Thomas Daniels spun around in terror, his vision clouded by his own breath.

But he could see well enough to discern the features of the man before him. The man from the parking garage, from the blue car, from Grover's front porch. The man was standing fifteen feet away and holding out before him the unmistakable form of a pistol, a long-nosed weapon with a thin mean-looking barrel which strongly suggested the presence of a silencer.

"Please," said Paul Hammond, hesitantly and mustering courage.

"No heroics."

Thomas looked at the two of them, bitterly and with exhaustion.

He was freezing. He'd been awake for twenty hours. He was too tired and cold for heroics.

"d.a.m.n you both" he said bitterly. He looked at Leslie, the most fascinating woman he'd ever met.

"d.a.m.n you in particular," he cursed. How could he maneuver her now?

"It's all been necessary," she said. That soothingly sweet voice again, the cultivated accent of royalty.

"If you've been frightened or inconvenienced, I'm truly sorry."

"Inconvenienced?" He looked at the form of the gun.

"And you're 'sorry'?" He looked back and forth again.

"If you're so d.a.m.ned sorry, why did you bring me here?"

"Because, Mr. Daniels," said the gunman, 'your time has come."

Leslie spoke next.

"You're going to disappear," she said sweetly but authoritatively.

"And I a.s.sure you, no one will ever find you."