HARTMUTH STARED AT THE fluorescent dial of his Tag Heuer watch-5:45 A.M. Place des Vosges, swathed in mist, lay below him. A lone starling twittered from his balcony ledge, lost when its flock headed south, Hartmuth imagined. He sipped his cafe au lait in the gray light. The aroma of buttery croissants filled his room.

He felt overwhelmed by regrets-his guilt in loving Sarah and most of all for not saving her all those years ago. A knock on the adjoining door of his suite startled him. He pulled his flannel robe around himself, redirecting his thoughts.

"Guten tag, Ilse." Hartmuth smiled as she entered.

Ilse beamed, eyeing the work pile on the desk. With her snowy white hair and scrubbed cheeks, a gaggle of grandchildren should be trailing behind her begging for freshly baked mandelgebäck. Instead, she stood alone, her stout figure encased in a boxlike brown suit with matching support hose, pressing her palms together.

Almost as if in prayer, he thought.

"A milestone for our cause!" she said, her voice low with emotion. "I am proud, mein Herr, to be allowed to assist you."

Hartmuth averted his eyes. She bustled over to close the balcony doors.

"Has the diplomatic courier pouch arrived yet, Ilse?"

"Ja, mein Herr, and you have an early meeting." She held out a sheaf of faxes. "These came earlier."

"Thank you, Ilse, but"-he raised his arm to ward off the faxes-"coffee first."

Ilse did a double take. "What's that on your hand?"

Startled, Hartmuth looked at the rusty crescents of dried blood in his palm. The fluffy white duvet cover on his bed was streaked with brown stains, too. He knew he clenched his fists to combat his stutter. Had he done this in his sleep?

Ilse's eyes narrowed. She hesitated, as if making a decision, then thrust the blue leatherette pouch at him. "Diplomatic courier pouch, sir."