The Confessor

The cardinal smiled, never an encouraging development. "Actually, Carlo, I prefer the view of Rome from the windows of the Apostolic Palace."

With that, he turned and walked away. A moment later, he vanished into the darkness.

NORMANDY, FRANCE

Early the next morning Eric Lange crossed the English Cha

Lange ordered more brioche and another bowl of coffee. He found that he was in no hurry to leave. The long night of driving had left him drowsy, and the idea of spending the day traveling back to Zurich depressed him. He thought of Katrine, her secluded villa on the edge of a dense Norman forest, the pleasures that could be found in her enormous canopied bed.

He left a few euros on the table and walked along the quay to the Poisso

He loaded the food into the backseat of the Peugeot and set out. The road hugged the edges of the cliffs, rising and falling with the contour of the coastline. Below lay a rocky beach. In the distance, a line of fishing boats was motoring in to port. He passed through a string of quaint fishing towns, devouring one of the baguettes while he drove. By the time he reached St-Valery-en-Caux, the car smelled strongly of shrimp and mussels.

A mile before St-Pierre, he turned onto a narrow local road and followed it inland through apple orchards and fields of flax. Just beyond the village of Valmont, he turned onto a narrow track lined with beech trees and followed it for a kilometer or so, until it dead-ended at a wooden gate. Beyond the gate stood a stone villa, concealed in the shadows of tall beech and elm. Katrine's red jeep was parked in the gravel drive. She would still be asleep. Katrine rarely found a reason to get out of bed before noon.

 Lange climbed out, opened the gate, then drove onto the grounds. Without knocking, he tried the front door and found it locked. He had two options: bang until Katrine woke up or begin his visit with a bit of fun. He chose the latter.

The villa was shaped like a U and surrounded by a tangled garden. In summer it was a riot of color. Now, in the last days of winter, it was somber green. Beyond the garden rose the outer edges of the forest. The trees were bare, and the limbs lay motionless in the still of the morning. In the center of the house was a stone courtyard. Lange picked his way through a minefield of broken flowerpots, careful to make no sound, and started trying the latches on each of the six sets of French doors. The fifth was unlocked. Silly Katrine, thought Lange. He would teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget.

He let himself inside and padded across the shadowed sitting room to the staircase, then climbed up to Katrine's room. He peered inside. The curtains were drawn. Lange could see Katrine in the half-light, her hair strewn across the pillow, her bare shoulders poking from the top of a white duvet. She had the olive skin of a southerner and the blue eyes and blond hair of a Norman girl. The red highlights were a gift from a Breton grandmother, as was her explosive temper.

Lange eased forward, hand reaching for the spot beneath the blanket where her foot appeared to be. Just as he was about to seize her ankle, Katrine sat bolt-upright in bed, eyes wide, hands wrapped around a Browning nine-millimeter pistol. She squeezed off two quick shots, just as Lange had taught her. In the confines of the bedroom, the explosions sounded like ca

"Don't shoot, Katrine," Lange said, laughing helplessly. "It's me."

"Stand up! Let me see you!"

Lange slowly got to his feet, hands in plain sight. Katrine switched on the bedside lamp and gave him a long, fiery look. Then she drew back her arm and threw the gun at his head. Lange ducked and the gun fell harmlessly onto the pile of glass shards.

"You fucking bastard! You're lucky I didn't blow your head off."

"I wouldn't have been the first."

"I loved that mirror!"

"It was old."

"It was an antique, you asshole!"

"I'll buy you a new one."

"I don't want a new one. I want that one!"

"So we'll get it fixed."

"And how will I explain the bullet holes?"

Lange put his hand on his chin and made a show of thought. "Actually, that might be a problem."

"Of course it's a problem. Asshole!" She pulled the duvet over her breasts, as if aware of her nudity for the first time, and her anger at him began to soften.

"What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

She gazed at his face for a moment. "You've killed again. I can see it in your eyes."

Lange picked up the Browning, set the safety, and dropped the Sun on the end of the bed. "I was working nearby," he said. "I need a day or two of rest."

What makes you think you can drop in here whenever you Please? I might have had another man here."

You might have, but the odds were in my favor. You see, I

 am aware that, with few exceptions, most men bore you to tears---intellectually and in that grand bed of yours. I am also aware that any man you bring here isn't likely to last long. Therefore, I felt it was well worth the gamble."

Katrine was trying desperately not to smile. "Why should I let you stay here?"

"Because I'll cook for you."

"Well, in that case, we should work up an appetite. Come to bed. It's too early to get up."

KATRINE Boussard was quite possibly the most dangerous woman in France. After earning degrees in literature and philosophy from the Sorbo

Lange usually worked alone, but in the case of Katrine, he made an exception. She was a skilled operative, cold and pitiless in the field, and highly disciplined. She and Lange suffered from a similar affliction. Operational stress increased their desire for sex, and they had used each other's bodies to great effect. They were not lovers--they had both seen too much to believe in something as pedestrian as love. They were more like skilled craftsmen in pursuit of perfection.