the comm center, the veteran expert of ethereal communications, the man who only days earlier had Drew on his mysterious grids and sent out embassy vehicles to rescue him from a neo assault? It was beyond understanding. Durbane was the quiet man, the ascetic, the intellectual who pored over his esoteric crossword puzzles and double crostics, who was so generous to his crew that he frequently took the midnight-to-dawn shifts so his subordinates could get some rest from the daily bombardments.
Or was there another Robert Durbane, a far more secretive one?
A man who chose the deserted, early morning hours so he could send his own messages through the ether to others who pre calibrated his unknown frequencies and read his codes. And why had the armed embassy cars with all their firepower arrived barely a minute after the Nazi limousine had swung around the street, spraying their bullets everywhere, killing a neo named C-Zwdlf? Had Bobby Durbane orchestrated the would-be massacre by alerting the Nazis first? These were questions that had to be answered; the unknown embassy pool stenographer had to be tracked down as well. Both could wait until morning; now it was time for Father Neuman's adviser, Antoine Lavolette, retired priest and former intelligence cryptanalyst.
The address was easily gotten from the telephone book. Latham found a vacant taxi two blocks east. It was nearly one o'clock in the morning, just the hour, he decided, to confront the elderly Father Lavolette, defrocked man of God, who possessed secrets that might have to be pried out of him.
The house in the quai de Grenelle was a substantial three-story structure of white stone and freshly painted strips of green wood, bringing to mind a Mondrian canvas. The owner also had to be substantial, at least in income, for the neighborhood rivaled the avenue Montaigne in upscale opulence; it was not for the marginally rich, only the rich. The former cryptanalyst and retired man of the cloth had done very welL for himself in the material world.
Drew walked up the short flight of steps to the enameled green door, the shining brass of the bell plate and the knob casement glistening in the wash of the street lamps. He rang the bell and waited; it was twenty-six minutes after one o'clock in the morning.
At 1:29 the door was opened by a startled woman in a bathrobe;
she was perhaps in her late thirties, her light brown hair mussed from sleep.
"My God, what do you want at this hour?" she blurted out in French.
"The household is asleep!"
"Vous parlez anglais?" asked Latham, holding out his black bordered embassy identification, a document that was both reassuring and intimidating.
"Un peu," replied the apparent housekeeper nervously.
"I must see Monsieur Lavolette. It's a matter of great importance and cannot wait until morning."
"You stay outside, I'll get my husband."
"He's Monsieur Lavolette?"
"No, he is the patron's chauffeur .. . among other things. He also speaks anglais more better. Outside!"
The door was slammed shut, forcing Drew out on the small brick porch. The only comforting fact was that the woman turned on the carriage lights that flanked the entrance. Moments later the door opened again, revealing a large, heavyset man, also in a bathrobe, broad of face and with a chest and shoulders that qualified him as a potential linebacker who would not need much padding. Beyond his menacing size, Latham's eyes were drawn to the bulge in his right bathrobe pocket; the black steel of an automatic's handle was clearly visible through the gap at the top.
"What business do you have with the patron, monsieur?" asked the man in a surprisingly gentle voice.
"Government business," answered Drew, again holding out his identification.
"It can be relayed only to Monsieur Lavolette himself." The chauffeur took the ID and studied it in the foyer's light.
"The American government?"
"My branch is intelligence, I work with the Deuxieme."
"Abb, the Deuxieme, the Service d'Etranger, the secret corps of the Siiret6, and now the Americans. When will you leave the patron alone?"
"He's a man of great experience 'and wisdom, and there are always urgent matters."
"He's also an old man who needs his sleep, especially since his wife passed away. He spends exhausting hours in his chapel speaking to her and God."
"Still, I have to see him. He'd want me to; a friend of his could be in terrible trouble over an event that concerns the governments of France and the United States."
"You people always scream 'emergency," and when your conditions are Met, you sit on the information for weeks, months,