Kate offered no reply. She’d said the same thing herself more than once and here she was all over again. “Do you have a phone line into the house? Let’s call and see if anyone answers.”

The commissaire shot her a black look. “It is too late for that.” He motioned toward the hillside, where six uniformed policemen clad in Kevlar vests surrounded the house. Four of them were positioned near the front door; two more had climbed onto the terrace.

Just then there was a shrill whistle, and the team commenced its assault. The men on the stairs charged the entrance. The others went in through the terrace doors. A moment later came the explosive thuds of a Wingmaster blowing the front door off its hinges. Two muffled explosions followed: stun grenades, designed to immobilize any occupants. Smoke curled from the terrace.

Three minutes later a policeman appeared at the railing. “Il n’y a per-sonne là-dedans,” he yelled down.

“What did he say?” asked Kate, looking from face to face. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s no one inside,” translated the commissaire. “Merde! Do you know what that means?”

Kate turned away, biting her lip white. She had come to know Ransom as a resourceful man. He had slipped through Graves’s fingers in London, managed to escape England and to navigate as he pleased hither and yon across the European continent while being the subject of an international manhunt. But this was too much. Was Ransom a ghost?

“Attention! Someone is leaving!” one of the men shouted.

Fifty meters down the road, well behind the mass of parked vehicles, the door to an unnoticed garage bay stood open. Kate spun in time to see a white Peugeot burst onto the road and turn sharply down the hill. She had only a moment to glimpse the driver. It was a man with cropped dark hair and a tanned face, wearing a dark T-shirt.

For a split second he looked directly at her.

Ransom.

Kate ran to the nearest car and jumped in the front seat. The keys were in the ignition, and she fired up the engine. Martin, the blossom-cheeked corporal, climbed in next to her. “You can drive?” he asked.

Yes, she could drive. And she had two years on the Sweeney to prove it. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

She dropped the clutch and spun the car through a tight U-turn. The car was a Renault sedan with a standard V6. Maybe 250 horses. If she kept the engine redlined, she might have a chance of catching him. Ransom was 500 meters ahead and gaining. She caught the flash of his brake lights before he disappeared around a bend.

“You know these roads?” she asked.

“I grew up in Beaulieu-sur-Mer.”

“Where’s that?”

Just then they rounded a curve. Kate was going much too fast. The rear wheel skidded off the asphalt onto the ribbon-thin shoulder. There was no safety rail. Another few centimeters and it was a sheer drop of 200 meters to the coast road.

“Down there,” said Martin, pointing out the window, and she wondered if he was always this pale.

“Where can he go?”

Martin explained that the road led east toward Monaco and that there were very few side roads along the way intersecting this one. If Ransom selected one, he would reach a dead end within a kilometer. If he remained on the main road-if that’s what you could call a strip of asphalt barely wide enough to accommodate two VW Beetles-he would arrive at an intersection where he could choose between the superhighway, a road leading into the high backcountry, or the main artery into Monte Carlo.

“How far is the intersection?” Kate asked.

“Eight kilometers.”

There was a flash of light in her rearview mirror. She turned and glanced over her shoulder. A fleet of police cars followed her, strobes spinning. Two motorcycle officers peeled out from the ranks and slid into the opposing lane, rushing forward to overtake her. “No, you don’t,” she said to herself, jerking the car to the left and throwing her arm out the window to signal to the overzealous policemen to stay back.

“Call ahead. Have them block the road.”

“No time.”

“What do you mean?”

“The intersection is in the Principality of Monaco. I will have to speak with their police captain. It will take an hour at least.”

“Have the chopper put down there instead. Tell him to block the turnoff lanes leading to the north. We can’t allow Ransom to get onto the superhighway.”

Martin radioed the request to his superior. “He is on his way.”

Jonathan Ransom remained a half-kilometer ahead. The road leveled out and Kate could see its course, slaloming in and out of the mountain’s contours. For once she had the advantage. She pressed the accelerator to the floor. The speedometer touched 140 kilometers per hour. The distance between the two cars narrowed.

Ransom braked, then swung around a bend, disappearing from view. The corporal threw his hands onto the dashboard. “Slow down!” he shouted.

Kate touched the brakes and spun the wheel to the left. The curve went on and on, and she felt the back end getting away from her. A jolt shook the car as the rear tires left the asphalt and skidded along the dirt precipice. Dust plumed into the air. “Blast,” she said, slamming the gearshift into second and feathering the gas. The car found its line. Rubber gripped pavement and the car rocketed forward. Martin went from pale to transparent.

“There,” he said, pointing to the intersection at the crest of the mountain. “That’s the turnoff to the superhighway.”

Foot to the floor, Kate leaned forward, as if willing the vehicle faster. Ransom was resourceful, no question. But he was not a better driver than she, and he did not benefit from a homegrown navigator. With unyielding determination, she closed the gap between her Renault and the white Peugeot.

Opposing traffic was light. Whenever Ransom came upon a car, he passed it recklessly. Kate followed his rule. At some point she’d decided that she wasn’t going to slow down, whatever the reason. She rounded another bend and saw the ruins of an ancient Roman temple on the hilltop. A moment later she was passing through the village of La Turbie, one hand blasting the horn to keep all living souls on the sidewalk.

She could see the green-and-white road signs at the intersection ahead. Anything might happen once Ransom reached the superhighway. The risk of injury to him and to others would rise dramatically. She heard the sound of the helicopter’s rotors passing overhead. A few seconds later she caught sight of the bird putting down on the crest of the mountain. It was apparent even from this distance, however, that he had left the right lane clear. Ransom could not get to the superhighway but he had free access to the road leading down the hillside into Monaco.

Kate closed the distance to four car lengths. She was close enough to see the back of his head, to glimpse his eyes in his rearview mirror. Ransom barreled over the ridge, approaching the intersection. His brake lights flared and the Peugeot slowed as he negotiated a path around the helicopter. Then, as quickly, the car accelerated, commencing the sweeping right-hand turn that led down the face of the mountain to the narrow, winding streets of Monte Carlo a few kilometers below.

Kate sped through the crossroads seconds later. Glancing out her window, she saw the roof of the Peugeot zip past on the switchback below. Her knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “Can you shoot?” she asked Claude Martin.

“A little.”

“Aim for the tires. I’ll get you close.”

The corporal drew his pistol and leaned out the window, using two hands to steady his aim. He fired four times in succession. Kate saw a puff of smoke pop from Ransom’s rear left tire. The Peugeot veered to the right, coming perilously close to the road’s edge before correcting its course. Martin ducked back inside. “Okay?”

“Okay.”