With some difficulty, Lang turned his back on the building and continued across the cobblestoned pavement to a glass door bearing a drawing of a smiling sun and gilt letters announcing the Sole al Pantheon. A fifteenth-century palazzo, it was one of the city's oldest hotels. It had been occupied when Columbus first sailed and into its second century long before the rebuilding of the Vatican.

Happily, the plumbing had been updated.

In more contemporary times, it had housed the writers Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.

More important for Lang's purposes, it was centrally located, discreet and had a single entrance/exit, one easily monitored from his room's window.

He entered the tiny lobby and submitted his passport to the young man behind the desk. "I'm expecting a package. It should have arrived last night."

Lang faced a small fountain behind a pane of glass at the far end of the room while the clerk glanced around, stooped and retrieved a parcel from beneath the desk before finishing entering Lang's passport into a computer. Declining the use of the hotel's claustrophobic elevator, Lang climbed two flights of winding stairs and walked down a short tiled hall that changed levels every few feet. He unlocked a door and stepped into semidarkness. Crossing the tiled floor, he opened a shuttered window. Sounds of the piazza below as well as light flooded the room.

He had an unobstructed view of the Pantheon and its fountain and obelisk to his left, the same view a resident of the original palazzo might have had.

Except for the McDonald's almost directly below him, an anachronism that had delighted Dawn when they had stayed here a lifetime ago. The whole city had delighted her. From this window, in this room, they had made plans for other trips, plans both would shortly realize would never be fulfilled.

Had he chosen to return here because of a memory, deceiving himself that location and layout were the reasons? No matter; he was here. He sighed deeply as he unwrapped the package, marked machine parts. He opened a sturdy cardboard box and removed pieces of the Browning HP 35 he had purchased in Monk's pawnshop and two loaded clips. The risk in having it delivered via FedEx had been minimized by its disassembly. No one part would be recognizable to random X-ray. Besides, security for freight carriers was considerably more lax than at passenger terminals.

He spent the next few minutes reassembling the weapon and then shoved a magazine into place with a decisive click. Removing the holster from his suitcase, he placed the pistol into position in the small of his back, put on a light jacket and went out.

He found a cab where he had left the one in which he had arrived, negotiated a fare and directed the driver to the Via Veneto entrance to the Villa Borghese, Rome's largest park and site of one of its most impressive palaces. Upon arrival, he waited for the taxi to depart before setting off. He wanted whoever had been trying to kill him to know he was in town but making no effort to foil observation might well seem suspicious.

A few blocks from the park he dodged his way across the busy Corso D'ltalia, cut down a side street and entered an office of Hertz. Although he still experienced nightmares from the last time he drove in Rome, an automobile was essential to his plan. He had reserved not just any car but a bright red Alfa Romeo two-seat sport model, one that would draw attention.

It would also draw the car thieves for which Italy was famous.

Either way, if his plan worked, Mr. Hertz was never going to see this baby again.

Before getting in the car, he stopped at one of the stands that seemed to have been randomly scattered throughout Rome, selling maps, photographs and prints of the city's attractions. It took him only a minute to find what he wanted.

He returned to the car rental, where a young man was standing over the sports car with the hood raised.

Lang had had enough experience with Italian cars to expect the worst. "Problem?"

"Si, signore. She will not start. Perhaps domani?"

"Tomorrow won't do."

Lang took a look at the engine compartment, an incomprehensible spaghetti of various colored wires, ducts that seemed to go nowhere and somewhere beneath, an engine block.

The man from the rental agency slid into the driver seat and cranked the car. The starter ground away, the engine turned over once, twice and died. Perhaps that was why the US Department of Transportation no longer allowed importation of Alfas: terminal frustration. That was certainly the reason Lang slammed the hood shut.

The engine purred to life.

Lang was thankful his plan did not call for reliability.

Gritting his teeth and holding the Alfa's steering wheel in a death grip, Lang drove back to the Piazza della Rotonda. He found a narrow space between a Fiat and a subcompact Lancia in front of a conspicuous no parking sign and only a few yards from the open-air seating of one of the piazza's numerous trattorias, where he could keep an eye on the Alfa. The tables were beginning to fill with those seeking to quench the morning's thirst, people- watch or have an early lunch. He had ordered a La Rossa and began to study the reproduced engraving of the Piazza dei Cavalieri he had bought in the stand near the Hertz office. The beer had just arrived when a man sat beside him. There was no mistaking the rancid odor of stale tobacco.

"Hello, Jacob," Lang said.

II.

Piazza della Rotonda

Jacob signaled a waiter with the hand not holding his pipe. The man ignored him. "Bloody guineas! Man could die of thirst before they'd pay attention."

Lang ignored the condemnation of the Italian people, saying mildly, "Looks like there are plenty of other customers. I take it you acquired what you need?"

Jacob was sucking a match's flame into the bowl of the briar. "Yes, yes, of course. The question is where and when."

The waiter finally approached, regretted the menu did not include British ale and took Jacob's reluctant order for whatever Lang was having. Both men waited until the server was out of earshot.

"I'm not sure, but we can get started right now."

Jacob took a puff on his pipe and exhaled, sending acrid blue smoke drifting toward Lang on the day's fitful breeze. "Tell me exactly what you have in mind. You were less than specific on the phone."

When Lang finished, Jacob's beer had arrived. He took the pipe out of his mouth long enough to take a long sip. "Ahh. That settles the dust of travel! Your plan's a bit edgy. I mean, assuming this Knights of Malta lot are the villains, how do we…?"

"Their sovereign council meets every five years. The meeting starts tonight. Drink up and we'll have a look."

"You're just going to bait the lion in his den, are you? Not the method I'd fancy. I'd imagine the blokes'll spot us."

"I hope so."

Jacob wriggled his way into the passenger seat. "You should have gotten a car we rode in, not one we wear."

Lang pulled the hood latch and opened the engine compartment. "You're only young once."

Jacob watched with unspoken curiosity as Lang slammed the hood closed. "That was true some time ago."

Lang got into the driver seat. The car cranked immediately.