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E533 straight to Oberammergau, then west on a snaking highway to the alpine lake called Forggensee, east of F眉ssen. The village of Kehlheim was a tumbled collection of frescoed houses capped by ornate, gabled roofs that nestled close to the lake's east shore. A steepled church dominated the town center, a ramblingmarktplatzsurrounding. Forested slopes cradled the far shores. A few white-winged sailboats flitted across the blue-gray water like butterflies in a breeze.

She parked south of the church. Vendors filled the cobbled square, set up for what appeared to be a Saturday morning market. The air reeked of raw meat, damp produce, and spent tobacco. She strolled through the melange swarming with summer sojourners. Children played in noisy groups. Hammer blows echoed in the distance. An older man at one of the booths, with silver hair and an angled nose, caught her attention. He wasn't far from the age Danya Chapaev should be. She approached and admired his apples and cherries.

"Beautiful fruit," she said in German.

"My own," the older man said.

She bought three apples, smiled broadly, and warmed to him. Her image was perfect.

Reddish-blond wig, fair skin, hazel eyes. Her breasts were enhanced two sizes by a pair of external silicone inserts. She'd padded her hips and thighs, as well, the fitted jeans two sizes larger to accommodate the manufactured bulk. A plaid flannel shirt and tan prairie boots rounded out the disguise. Sunglasses shielded her eyes, dark, but not enough to draw attention. Later, eyewitnesses would surely describe a busty, heavyset blonde.

"Do you know where Danya Chapaev lives?" she finally asked. "He's an old man. Lived here awhile. A friend of my grandfather. I came to deliver a present but lost directions to where he lives. I only found the village by luck."

The older man shook his head. "How careless, Fräulein."

She smiled, soaking in the rebuke. "I know. But I'm like that. My mind stays a thousand miles away."

"I don't know where a Chapaev lives. I'm from Nesselwang, to the west. But let me get someone from here."

Before she could stop him, he yelled to another man across the square. She didn't

want to draw too much attention to her inquiry. The two men spoke in French, a language she wasn't overly proficient in, but she caught an occasional word here and there. Chapaev. North. Three kilometers. Near the lake.

"Eduard knows Chapaev. Says he lives north of town. Three kilometers. Right beside the lakeshore. That road there. Small stone chalet with a chimney."

She smiled and nodded at the information, then heard the man from across the square call out, "Julius! Julius!"

A boy of about twelve scampered toward the stall. He had light brown hair and a cute face. The vendor spoke to the lad, then the boy ran toward her. Behind, a flock of

ducks sprang from the lake, up into the milky morning sky.

"You looking for Chapaev?" the boy asked. "That's my grandpapa. I can show you."

His young eyes scanned her breasts. Her smile broadened. "Then lead the way." Men of all ages were so easy to manipulate.

TWENTY-SEVEN

9:15 a.m.

Rachel glanced across the front seat at Christian Knoll. They were speeding south on autobahn E533, thirty minutes south of Munich. The terrain framed by the Volvo's tinted windows featured ghostly peaks emerging from a curtain of haze, snow whitening the folds of the highest altitudes, the slopes below clothed in verdant fir and larch.

"It's beautiful out there," she said.

"Spring is the best time to visit the Alps. This your first time in Germany?" She nodded.

"You will very much like the area."

"You travel a lot?"

"All the time."

"Where's home?"

"I have an apartment in Vienna, but rarely do I stay there. My work takes me all over the world."

She studied her enigmatic chauffeur. His shoulders were broad and muscular, his neck thick, his arms long and powerful. He was again dressed casually. Plaid chamois cloth shirt, jeans, boots, and smelled faintly of sweet cologne. He was the first European man she'd ever really talked with at length. Maybe that was the fascination. He'd definitely piqued her interest.

"The KGB sheet said you have two children. Is there a husband?" Knoll asked.

"Used to be. We're divorced."

"That's rather prevalent in America."

"I hear a hundred or more a week in my court."

Knoll shook his head. "Such a shame."

"People can't seem to live together."

"Is your ex-husband a lawyer?"

"One of the best." A Volvo whizzed by in the left-hand lane. "Amazing. That car's got to be going over a hundred miles an hour."

"Closer to one hundred and twenty," Knoll said. "We're