"Keep them there," ordered Panetti. "Be there in ten."

"Where are you now?"

"Passing the Hotel President. Why?"

"I'm hungry. Be a pal and get me a brioche. Uh, hold on a sec. And grab a half dozen pain-au-chocs for the boys."

"Eh, Claude?" said Panetti, ramming his foot against the accelerator and throwing the siren onto the roof. "Fuck your pain-au-chocs."

There she is."

Claude Metayer pointed at a white Gulfstream parked two hundred meters across the tarmac from the control tower. "N278721. That your bird?"

Panetti checked the numbers against those written on the fax. "Yep. That's it. See anyone get out? A man and woman, maybe?"

"No," said Metayer. "But I wasn't looking."

Panetti studied the plane through a set of binoculars. Mince, but she was a beauty. His first thought was "expensive." Whoever owned that plane had to be very wealthy. The words "filthy rich" crossed his mind, and instinctively he sucked in his gut and stood a little straighter. A second later he relaxed. Sometimes he hated being Swiss.

"Where are the pilots?" he asked.

"Downstairs," answered Panetti's brother-in-law. "But go easy. I don't want any blood like last time."

Panetti had the information he needed in sixty seconds. No blood. No threats. Not even a raised voice, thank you very much. The suspect, John J. Gavallan, and his accomplice, Catherine Elizabeth Magnus, had rented a car from Hertz. They were expected back at the plane sometime that afternoon. The pilots had instructions to be refueled and ready to take off at 4 P.M. More than that, they said they didn't know, and Panetti believed them. A five-minute stroll took him to the Hertz desk. He flashed his badge and asked for the make, model, and license number of the car the Americans had rented. The answer came immediately. A black Mercedes 420S, Vaud license 276 997 V.

Panetti thanked the employees for their help. He was lighting cigarette number seven of the shift when the manager appeared from his office, waving a fey hand to get his attention.

"Attendez. Attendez. Officer, thank goodness you're here."

"Oh?" asked Panetti through a blue haze.

"You are interested in the Americans?"

"Banh oui." Panetti raised a brow, curious as to what the Americans might have done to so disturb this fat old poof.

"Ils sont terribles, les Amis. Come, I show you." The manager led Panetti to a bank of phone booths, pointing archly at the third in line. "There. Look. See for yourself."

Panetti sauntered over to the booth. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. The dial tone sounded as innocuous as ever. He flicked the coin return. A-OK. "What's wrong?"

"Non, non, les annuaires," puffed the manager breathlessly. The phone books. And pushing Panetti aside, he pulled open the registry for the canton Vaud. "They stole a page. They ripped it right out. I saw them."

"A page? The whole thing? And you didn't call right away? Next time, I'll have to arrest you for not reporting the incident."

The manager curled his face into a sour smirk. "Very funny."

"Okay. Off you go. Your poodle is waiting."

"I don't own a…" The manager hoomphed, then spun on his heel and hurried back to his office.

When he was out of sight, Panetti sat down on the stool and laid the phone book on his lap. He flipped through the directory several times until he spotted the frayed pennants of the missing page. He had no idea whom Mr. Gavallan might be looking for, but the missing page might indicate where that person- or business, for that matter- might be. Swiss directories were divided alphabetically by city or town, with the locale's name printed on the top outside corner of each page.

Panetti was in luck. The same town was listed at the top of the preceding and succeeding pages.

Lussy-sur-Morges.

He had the local police on the line within fifteen seconds. And Mr. Howell Dodson of the FBI a minute after that.

42

You're saying you work for Novastar, too?" Gavallan asked Jean-Jacques Pillonel on the way to Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's headquarters in downtown Geneva.

"As their accountants, we do all of their bookkeeping," replied Pillonel. "As their fiduciare, we counsel them on setting up offshore accounts, shell companies, the usual song and dance to help our customers avoid paying too much tax."

"And how much is that?" asked Cate from her post in the backseat.

"Why, any, of course," answered Pillonel, who was driving. "When Mr. Kirov purchased Novastar Airlines last year, he came to me to set up a holding company outside of Russia where he could deposit the shares."

"Why would he want to deposit Novastar's shares outside of Russia?" asked Gavallan.

Pillonel smirked, but didn't take his eyes off the road. "You'll see soon enough."

Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's headquarters were located on the Rue du Rhône, one block from the lake. The newly remodeled building was a symphony of brushed steel and exposed girders. The lines were spare, the profile vibrant and supremely confident. One moment Gavallan thought he was looking at the Beaubourg in Paris; the next, the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank on Hong Kong Island. Modernism had trumped tradition. Prudence had been declared a four-letter word. So had conservatism, stability, and any other trait that implied the slightest resistance to change.

Once, on the third floor, Pillonel guided them along a dim corridor. Stopping in front of an anonymous doorway, he placed an eye to a retinal scanner. The lock disengaged and the door swung open.

"The funny thing is I knew this would happen," he said, allowing Cate and Gavallan to pass and enter the storage room. "I did it anyway, and I'm still not sure why. Foolish, wasn't it?" He looked at Cate. "You wanted to know how much Kirov was paying me? Fifteen million."

"Dollars, I hope."

"No. Francs."

Cate gave him a sad look. "Was it worth it?"

Even now, Pillonel's venal nature demanded he think on the answer. "Alors, non."

The first roadblock was set up one hundred meters north of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's office at the intersection of Rue du Rhône and Place les Halles. The second was erected fifty meters south, at an intersection not visible from the silver and steel office building. Plainclothes policemen filtered down the busy streets, quietly demanding pedestrians to leave the area, in a few cases forcibly escorting them off the streets. A crisis headquarters was established in the shopping gallery below the Confederation Centre, the office complex that housed the Geneva Stock Exchange. Two armored personnel carriers painted a royal blue arrived. The back doors opened. Twenty-four policemen from the elite Division D'Intervention Rapide, or DIR, of the Geneva Police Department, clad in full battle gear, jumped to the ground, forming into two squads and moving out toward their target. Snipers scrambled up stairwells in adjacent buildings and established shooting platforms with a clear line of sight of Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's lobby.

Watching the activity unfurl around him, Detective Sergeant Silvio Panetti stroked his mustache. "Mince," he whispered to himself. "C'est sérieux."

It had been simple to track down Mr. John J. Gavallan. Lussy-sur-Morges had but two hundred twenty residents. One by one he had read their names to Mr. Howell Dodson of the FBI. Dodson recognized Jean-Jacques Pillonel's name immediately. A team was sent to the man's chalet. Pillonel's wife did not know where her husband had gone. Ten minutes later, a patrol car spotted Gavallan's rental on the Rue du Confédération, a block from Silber, Goldi, and Grimm. The rest Panetti figured out for himself.