They reached the cottage, Lang holding hands with both Gurt and his son. He could not remember the last time he had been so happy.

He had arrived yesterday. Putting the Porsche through its paces on both interstate and mountain roads had shaken anyone attempting to follow. He had just pulled the car up in front of the cottage when the door exploded open and Manfred ran out, arms outstretched to embrace… Grumps.

Trying not to show his annoyance at playing second fiddle to the dog, Lang said to Gurt, who had arrived in a somewhat more leisurely fashion than her son, "I'm delighted Manfred and Grumps get along so."

Gurt had smiled that slow, sexy smile and given him a kiss so long Manfred and Grumps were vying for attention. "And did Grumps enjoy the mountain roads as much as did you?"

The truth was the Porsche was designed for serpentine highways but the dog was not. Twice Grumps had whined so loudly at Lang's driving that Lang had had to stop to let the distressed animal get out and throw up.

Lang changed the subject. "How long till he takes a nap? We have some catching up to do."

She had rolled her eyes. "You are badly timed. He just got up. I fear we must wait a while longer."

Lang had sighed his disappointment. "I brought a few toys."

Gurt shook her head in mock disapproval. "More important you brought him Grumps. You cannot bring gifts every time you come. It will make him rotten."

"Spoiled."

"That, too."

So his arrival had gone, topped with lovemaking so vigorous that night that, upon reflection, Lang wondered they had not awakened the boy. Today had begun with a large breakfast, a walk along shaded mountain paths and a picnic lunch, which had included a few treats for the dog. The fishing idea had been inspired when Manfred noted the supplies available to hotel and cottage guests.

They entered a good imitation of a genuine log cabin, complete with hooked rugs on rough planked floors, beamed ceilings and bent wood furniture, uniformly uncomfortable.

Gurt pointed. "Manfred, go get undressed for your nap."

Obediently, he trudged into a room off the living room, reappearing with a book in his hand which he held out to Lang. "Will you read to me?"

Paternal instinct versus lust for Gurt.

Oh, well, too few kids had interest in books these days, their parents substituting TV for literature.

Lang looked at the volume in his hand. Brothers Grimm. Aptly named. Evil trolls, child-eating witches. Stuff that would be PG-13 if made into movies. No wonder the German people had a dark side.

"Don't suppose you have a copy of Hans Christian Andersen?" he called toward the master bedroom.

"Sissy!" Gurt was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a bathrobe doing little to conceal the fact it was all she had on.

What was the Grimm brothers' shortest story?

Chapter Seven

I.

Leonardo da Vinci International Airport

Flumicino

0650 Local Time

Two Days Later

Lang was not surprised to be picked up by a tail the minute he cleared customs. He certainly had made it as easy as possible: an international flight on an airline rather than the Gulfstream booked in advance under his own name. He couldn't bring himself to check his bag and risk spending his time waiting while the airline conducted a fruitless search for luggage that, by that time, could well be in Singapore.

He wanted company.

He was almost certain he had identified his minder, a middle-aged man who had stood behind Lang in the line at the airport's rail terminal to buy a ticket into Rome. The last time Lang had seen an international traveler in coat and tie was when John Wayne nursed his crippled Constellation aircraft across part of the Pacific in The High and the Mighty on the late, late movie on TV.

Whatever the movie, the guy behind Lang wore a suit, albeit a cheap one, making himself as conspicuous as if he had worn a tutu. Certainly another amateur. He ordered his rail ticket in Italian, smiled at Lang and went over to the coffee bar to wait. Lang almost lost sight of him in the surge of embarking passengers swimming upstream against those getting off the train. Anywhere else, those boarding would have waited for the cars to empty. Well, maybe a New York subway… Lang's tail managed to wedge himself into the same car where he smiled again and stared out of the window.

Gurt had been less than happy with Lang's idea but unable to come up with a better one. After all, Lang had explained, with whom would Manfred be safer? After the shoot-out at Lang's country place, the attempt in Baden-Baden and the most recent kidnap attempt, he could hardly be entrusted to a hired nanny, and no matter how willing the Hendersons, their farm was no longer secure. Any way he looked at it, Lang felt the mountains of North Carolina provided a safe haven by the fact he had no connection with the area whatsoever. If trouble did arrive, he would be hard-pressed to think of a more capable guardian.

Thirty minutes later, he stepped down from the railcar into the bustling mob that was Roma Termini.

Outside, he ignored the cabstand. Only tourists waited in orderly if futile fashion while the experienced traveler walked a block or so farther to catch cabs as they arrived at the station. Lang was aware of the man from the train at his elbow. He stood patiently until the white taxi stopped to unload its passenger and what must have been her entire wardrobe. The cabby yelled for a porter and a dolly was soon loaded with an assortment of mismatched luggage from the largest on bottom to the small overnight case crowned by a… what? A rat with a rhinestone collar around its neck? Lang wasn't sure until the creature began to bark crossly. Its mistress's alternating coos and pleas failed to silence the ill-natured canine. Lang pitied the traveler who shared a car with that animal. He could only imagine the haggle involving the porter's tip.

As the porter staggered away under his load, the cab- driver looked expectantly at Lang, who stepped back, indicating the man beside him should have the taxi.

The Italians are a civilized, graceful people.

Except when it comes to the last seat on a bus, train, cab or in a trattoria.

Lang's shadow gaped, uncomprehending. He had two immediate choices: expose his intent to follow the American or accept the offer and lose his mark.

He chose the latter.

Perhaps so he might regale his grandchildren with the story of how someone had voluntarily relinquished a taxi to him.

More likely because he feared a confrontation.

Lang leaned into the next cab, giving his destination and asking the fare. Roman cabdrivers are notorious for bilking strangers to their city. A ride that should consist of a few blocks easily becomes an hour's tour.

The driver held up both hands, ten euro.

Lang shook his head, knowing the distance he would travel. He held up one hand, fingers spread. "Five."

Ultimately reaching an agreement, Lang climbed in. The ride in Roman traffic was the usual blaring horns and ignored traffic signals. It would be impossible to spot a tail in the chaos. As always, Lang was a little surprised to arrive intact.

The cab jolted to a stop at the limit of vehicular traffic at the edge of the crowded Piazza della Rotonda. Lang paid the driver, adding a small tip, retrieved his bag from the trunk and set out across the square. For what might have been the hundredth time, he stopped in front of the Pantheon, Rome's ultimate example of simplicity and symmetry.

Built under the direction of the second-century emperor Hadrian, it had served as a temple to all gods and now as a church and final resting place of Raphael, Marconi and several kings of modern Italy. Its dome of equal height and width had been studied by Michelangelo as a potential model for the new Vatican (the commission for the dome's construction ultimately went to someone else). Unlike other temples, its only natural illumination came from the oculus, the hole at the top of the dome.