Even as Reuben had tried to deny the option last night as he watched Grant escort Lauren, sans Carlos, to the Hotel Weinstadt, the details began working themselves out. He would have to keep her sufficiently terrorized for a few days to ensure her cooperation. It was a necessity he viewed with reluctance. He would be contradicting everything he had told her in the chateau kitchen that night, grounding Carlos' onion of him. He did not relent to wondering why he cared what she and Carlos thought of him.

The rain was cascading down the car's windshield now. making the moonlit yard take on a grotesque form.

Reuben had not wanted to resort to this. He had spent five years living a relatively honest life, endangering no one except himself, when the need arose. Rybak and a few others had complicated matters a couple of times, making sure this need did arise, but nothing like this. Now he was taking part in what he loathed most in Rybak's character.

He steeled these thoughts. He was in a desperate position, thanks to Rybak's theft of Fredericks' partial and Gustalav's stout refusal to deal with a Russian party. He had losses to regroup -- Berlin had granted him a short clemency -- and this was no game of tea party.

Besides, he rationalized, opening the car door to the pouring rain and grabbing the flashlight, if he did not take this course of action, Rybak would.

And the Polish mercenary's methods made Reuben's blanch in comparison.

Soren Geil was well into the drink by the time he identified his targets at dinner that night. The restaurant's old world charm of vineyard decor was lost on him. He was not of the tourist mentality that would happily nestle into the hanging foliage and absorb the German delicacies served by the dirndl corseted waitresses. He preferred the aggressive offense of brazenness, the stark and shocking individuality of Hamburg rather than village coziness.

But whenever he worked for the Russian it was like this. There had only been a handful of times.

Lucrative times, he admitted. Very lucrative. Their cooperation usually consisted of Reubens in one country while Geil trailed the potential target in another. This was a good arrangement, for Geil could not tolerate the Russian's company for more than a few consecutive hours. The feeling was mutual.

In the last year or two Geil had learned that while Reuben's operations were profitable and legal, for the most part, he demanded instructions to be executed deliberately and with as little unnecessary violence as possible. This was contrary to Geil's nature, but there was some compromise in the fact that Reubens did not care for physical assault and anything of that nature was let for Geil.

He sank farther into the hanging plants that divided the corner table from the main dining room, crushing out the brown cigarette. He watched the doctor and young woman enter and sit down. Reubens had described them both well. Especially the fraulein. He wondered what the Russian had in mind for her. Never before had Reubens involved a woman.

Lauren and Carlos were oblivious to the stout man with the short cropped blonde hair watching them. On their minds was the phone call Carlos expected from the museum that would decide the issue of Waldheimer's mine.

Lauren's eyes had mended to their normal color, thanks to much cold water and eye drops. The quick shower had removed the potash smell as well as dirt and she did not feel like she had been dipped in pickling brine anymore.

Neither she nor Carlos said much during the meal. Both were occupied with separate yet similar thoughts, picking at the food on their plates despite the delicious aromas.

When Carlos followed the waitress to take a phone call ten minutes later, Lauren found it hard to wait. She stilled her hand as she reached for the water glass, unaware of Geil's leer.

Agnes was moving fast, she thought. They had called the museum with news of the find barely an hour ago. The price was right. Cooper and Stends could no argue the money. It would be two o'clock in the afternoon in Harrisburg. Dr. Karen was probably yanking Paul off work on the partial from Lewkowicz for a flight to Frankfurt, Berlin or Hamburg. NO one could clip red tape like Agnes Breach.

Carlos came back grinning like a school boy at the top of the grade curve. "We've bought ourselves a mine, dear."

"Stolen is more accurate." She shared his conspiratorial smile. "The price is absurd. I almost feel guilty."

"Almost."

"Do you think it's too late to call Waldheimer?"

"As anxious as he was this afternoon?" He handed her the wine list. "You're better at this than me. Pick out a good German label. I'll call Waldheimer and schedule to meet tomorrow morning."

Rybak was only too happy to escape Passau. Omvedt's man Wieczorek had arrived for the truck and delivered the rest of the promised payment. He had brought news too.

Osnewski did not recall any Americans by name from his brief visit to the French chateau. After a frenzied search for Andrew Morrow in the German gin houses, Omvedt had produced two names that matched Rybak's memory of Padolski's reverted slurs.

Doctor Sheldon and Laura Gates, or something like that. They had attended the Rappoltsweiler auction. Morrow could not remember their interests until Omvedt offered more money. Even then the Londoner recalled little. Scrolls or an illuminated manuscript. When Omvedt threatened to withdraw the money, Morrow had added another bit of information that shed a new, albeit useless, light of the matter.

Rybak did not believe Reubens was in link with the Americans. The Russian's consort with the fraulein Gates would be casual, not business.

It was an empty bit of information, Rybak determined as he and Metz took the train to Berlin. But he stored it away, just in case.

Lauren looked at the clock again and plugged in her phone's battery charger. The night was wearing on, but the excitement of the day kept her from retiring.

She was also awaiting a phone call.

She rewound the towel around her wet hair and wrapped her robe tighter. She picked through her bags again, tossing the dirty shirt with the phony ID tag into the laundry pile. A wave of the acidic mine air wafted through the room. She hung up the cobalt evening dress she had worn to the Weinstadt exhibit. Thoughts of Elden made her smile. He had an easy manner she liked, a contagious, inviting grin. Had he not been whisked away to Norway so quickly she may have been more responsive to his open nature.

As it was, Elden found his way to the States about twice a year. She sighed, smoothing the dress hem.

Next in the bag was the rumpled but soft cotton nightgown. This she slipped out of the robe and put on the gown. She pulled the next article of clothing from a second compartment of the bag.

The shirt.

Damn shirt, she thought. What to do with it? There was no way to give it back. She would not be seeing Reuben again. Gustalav's amber was not available to him and he did not know of Elden's tip on the mine.

Ands he hadn't made an appearance in Tarnow, she recalled, sinking against the headboard of the bed. Or Salzburg. Or Vienna. He may not be involved in this scavenger hunt at all.

Lauren thought more about the Salzburg shop. The Polish agent had followed them to Poland from there. They had assumed he acquired Fredericks' panels, but perhaps not. Reuben may not be surfacing because he already had his treasure. Maybe the hunt was over for him.

She was convinced the third party Gustalav had mentioned inquiring of his panels had put the Polish agent on their trail. There was no other explanation. She only wondered who at the auction had also made an investigation of the crypt.

She rolled onto her back, sighing, listening to the rain outside grow in force. A peel of thunder sounder from close by. She wondered about the rainfall's affect on the mine crates.

The shirt still smelled faintly of Reuben's cologne. It was about Paul's size, she guessed, perhaps a bit larger. She sighed again, unable to invent a way to give it to him. She should just throw it away.

Lauren reached for the phone when it rang. Even far away Elden's voice sounded warm.

"Not too late, is it?"

"No. How'd you do in Porsgrunn?" She held up the shirt, refusing to picture Reuben in the stable tack room that night. If she had met him for breakfast this would not be happening, she thought. The breakfast date she hadn't kept left her with a feeling of unresolved expectancy.

"That's great," she told Elden as he finished recounting his appointment. "Signor Vistoli will be impressed."

"He was. I called him already." After a moment's pause, he said anxiously, "Well? You're not going to tell me?"

Lauren flung the shirt onto the laundry pile. "Your lead resulted brilliantly, of course. I think you're in the wrong business, Elden. Do you play the horses often?"

"No. Now stop with the flattery and tell me everything. I have other news for you too."

She sat up abruptly. "You found something out about Madame Varlette's collection?"

"Your news first."