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"There's a man in brown pants who seems to be watching Volko," she whispered.

"I only saw a woman," George said.

"Where?"

"She's standing in the adjoining room," he said, "the one with the Michelangelo. She's reading her guidebook, facing this room."

Peggy pretended to sneeze so that she could turn away from the painting. She saw the woman, her eyes in her book, though she was holding her head very steady and definitely watching Volko with peripheral vision.

"Good catch," Peggy said. "They've got both exits covered. But that doesn't mean they know who we are."

"Maybe that's why they sent Volko," George said. "They're using him as bait. And he was letting you know that."

A minute had passed and, looking at his watch, Volko began walking away from the painting. The round-faced man began to turn away as Volko approached, but the woman only half turned. The way she was standing, she could still look into the room. The round-faced man stopped.

"Why did she keep watching?" Peggy wondered aloud as she and George wandered over to the next painting.

"Maybe our friend Ronash described us to him."

"It's possible," she said. "Let's split up and see what happens."

"That's crazy. Who'll watch our backs--"

"We'll have to watch our own backs," Peggy said. "You go out behind Volko and I'll go past the woman. We'll meet in the ground-floor main entrance. If one of us gets in trouble, the other gets out of here. Agreed?"

"No way," said George.

Peggy opened her own guidebook at random. "Look," she said quietly but firmly, "someone's got to get out and report on what's happened. Describe these people, break them. Don't you see that?"

George thought, That's the difference between a Striker and an agent. One is a team player, the other a lone wolf. In this case, however, the lone wolf had a point.

"All right," he said. "Agreed."

Peggy looked up from the book and pointed to the room with the Michelangelo. George nodded, glanced at his watch, then pecked her on the cheek.

"Good luck," he said, then set off in the direction Volko had headed.

As George approached the round-faced man, he felt a kind of undertow pulling them together. He kept his face averted, searching the crowd for Volko as he entered the Loggia of Raphael, a gallery copied from one of the same name in the Vatican. He didn't see the round-faced man as he walked beside the spectacular murals by Unterberger, nor could he find Volko- "Adnu minutu, pazhahlusta," someone said from behind him. "A moment, please."

George turned, his muscles tensing as the round-faced man approached. He understood "please," and gathered from the raised index finger that the man wanted him to wait. Where the conversation would go from here, though, he had no idea.

He was smiling pleasantly as, suddenly, Volko came rushing from behind the round-faced man. He'd doffed his windbreaker, which was why George had lost sight of him, and had it stretched tightly between his hands. In one quick motion, he wrapped it around the throat of the round-faced man while he was looking at George.

"Damn You, Pogodin! " he yelled, his own face turning crimson from the strength he put into the attack.

Two security guards from down the hall came running toward Volko, radios pressed to their mouths, calling for support.

"Go!" Volko gurgled at George.

The Striker backed toward the entrance to the Western European gallery. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Peggy would come back and saw that both his partner and the woman were gone. When he looked back at Volko, Pogodin had already drawn a small PSM pistol from inside his jacket. Before George could move, Pogodin had reached around his chest and fired backward at his assailant.

He shot just once and the Russian fell to a knee and then onto his back, blood pooling at his side. George turned away quickly and, resisting the urge to go after Peggy and make certain she was safe, he headed toward the magnificent Theater Staircase and made his way downstairs.

As he departed,