"There it is," said Jett. "Aubonne. A thousand meters."

Cate signaled and guided the Mercedes off the highway. "Which way now?" she asked, sliding into the left lane.

"A left under the bridge, then bear to your left again."

I know, she wanted to say. I used to live here.

She was struck by a desire to touch him. She reached out a hand, only to pull it right back. Let him go, she told herself silently. He looked at her and she tried to smile. "I'm glad I'm here," she said.

For a moment, Jett's eyes softened, and a question danced beneath his lips. As quickly, it was gone.

"Turn here," he said, spotting a sign with the name of Pillonel's village. "Morges is at the top of this road. Pillonel's house is at 14 Rue de Crecy."

"Roo-duh-Cray-cee," she repeated, correcting him, her schoolgirl's accent still perfect.

Gavallan eyed her remotely. "You never told me you spoke French."

Cate shook her head, laughing sadly. What the hell? Sooner or later, he was going to find out everything anyway.

40

Jean-Jacques Pillonel's weekend home rested at the end of a short gravel drive, a majestic chalet nestled among the vines with an unobstructed view of the lake. Twin Jags were parked in front of a detached garage. Away to one side sat a barn coupled with two smaller outbuildings. Stacks of crates leaned against one of them, faded pictures of grapes stenciled on the splintered wood. Gavallan figured it must be where he kept the press and bottled the local tipple. All in all, impressive. More the residence of a country squire than the managing director of an accounting firm.

"Jett, but what a surprise," called Pillonel as Gavallan climbed from the car. "And is that Cate I see? You two are together again? Mais tant mieux. Come in. Come in. The door is open."

The squire was easy to spot. He stood on the first-floor balcony, clad in khaki work pants and a denim shirt, the nobleman's obligatory sweater tied around his neck. One hand was raised in polite greeting, though Gavallan knew he had to have been wondering who the hell was doing something so decidedly un-Swiss as dropping by without an invitation.

Waving hello, Gavallan allowed Cate to precede him up a groomed path framed by a rose garden in full bloom. She was his calm, the antidote to the rage that had been building in him since they'd landed and that had taken firm grip of his every muscle. Left to himself, he would have run up the path, broken down the door, and wrung Pillonel's neck until he confessed his every last crime, guilty or not.

Detective Skulpin was right, he said to himself. It had to be you. You handled the on-site inspections. You sounded the all-clear. You toyed with the pictures.

"Really, I am surprised," Pillonel announced from the head of the stairs. "You are here on vacation? Why didn't you phone me in advance? You're both very naughty."

He was a handsome man, tall, slim, with a bit of the dandy about him. He had a full head of hair that was a shade too black for a fifty-five-year-old and gray eyes that sparkled a little too brightly. He liked to wear ascots when they dined out at night, Gavallan remembered, and he smoked Silk Cuts with an ivory cigarette holder.

"Unfortunately, we're here on business," said Gavallan, climbing the stairs, doing his best to return the hearty handshake. "Mercury."

"Ah. I see," said Pillonel, light as a feather. "The big deal. Cate, may I take your jacket?"

"No thank you," she answered, nearly wincing as he kissed her cheeks in greeting.

"Come along. I was just finishing breakfast." Extending an arm, Pillonel showed them to the balcony. A table littered with croissants, jams, napkins, and a pot of coffee sat near the railing. The lake lay a mile away, a shimmering blue crescent stretching as far as the eye could see in either direction. Beyond it, through a mid-morning haze, rose the snowcapped peaks of the French Haute Savoie. The good life, thought Gavallan.

"Claire will return shortly," said Pillonel. "She's out with the dogs. You remember my wife?"

"Of course," said Gavallan, calling to mind a slightly built, argumentative woman with prematurely gray hair and skin the color of alabaster. He walked to the edge of the balcony and made a show of surveying the surrounding vineyards. "So this is where the Pillonel wine comes from?"

"Yes, the famed Chateau Vauxrien." Pillonel pointed out the boundaries of his estate. "We have only ten hectares. It's a modest parcel, but if the sun shines through September and we don't have too much rain, we can make some good grapes. You would like a glass? I have some open just inside. Last year's vintage. A bit young, but nice. Jett? Cate?"

"No thanks," they both said.

Gavallan turned his back on the vineyard and, crossing his arms, fixed Pillonel with a grave stare. "We've got some major problems with the Mercury deal. I spoke with Graf Byrnes on Wednesday night. He was in Moscow checking out whether the rumors we'd been reading on the Net were true."

"I told you- it's rubbish. Nothing to worry about."

"Graf doesn't agree. He let me know in no uncertain terms that the deal was bad. Unfortunately, circumstances didn't permit him to tell me how bad or what exactly was wrong. Before I cancel it, why don't you tell me what you really know about the company."

"What I really know? Why, we discussed it on the phone the other day. The Private Eye-PO's accusations are ridiculous- frankly, laughable. You can't be serious about canceling the IPO?"

"Oh, you bet I'm serious. The deal's over." Gavallan took a step closer to Pillonel, eyes wandering over every inch of his face, searching out where he kept his guilt hidden. "What do you think Graf could have found, Jean-Jacques? I mean, you promised me on Wednesday everything was hunky-dory. What could it have been? Everything's 'up and running,' right?"

A brisk shake of the head. "I don't know." Swiftly, he added, "Yes, everything is up and running. You said Graf was not able to tell you what was wrong. Why not?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. Let's stay where we are for the time being. The photos? You're certain they're fakes?"

"Positively. They're rubbish. I've seen the facilities myself. You're making much too much of the Private Eye-PO's words. He's a pest. If I were you, I wouldn't even bother."

"Oh, someone bothered, I can tell you that."

He really is a pretty decent actor, Gavallan was thinking. And marveling at the man's practiced deceit, he felt his anger rustle and loosen a notch. A hand dropped to the pocket of his windbreaker. Through the fabric, he let his fingers brush the butt of Cate's pistol. He added, "The Private Eye-PO was killed yesterday. His name was Ray Luca. A gunman entered his workplace and shot him, along with nine other men and women. It was a bloodbath. Didn't you read the papers this morning?"

Pillonel's eyes widened in astonishment. "This is the rampage in Florida I read about. This is the Private Eye-PO? They say a man went crazy. That he killed all his friends, then himself. How horrid."

"He didn't go crazy," said Gavallan flatly. "Take my word for it. It was a professional job."

"You're sure the killer was not Luca? The police sounded like they knew precisely what happened."

"Yes, I'm sure. Who do you think would kill nine innocent people just to get at one man?"

"I have no idea."

"You're lying," said Cate. "You know damn well who might want the Private Eye-PO dead. Who needed him dead. We all know. Ray Luca was a friend. He died with nine innocent men and women because what he said about Mercury was true. You had to know it. You told us yourself you visited the Moscow Operations Center."

"Cate, please, you're mistaken," said Pillonel, retreating, his eyes begging Gavallan for an explanation. "Je vous en pris… Please, Jett, you must have a word with her. I don't know what she is saying… My God, this is all so crazy."