Paris, France MARK HARRIS WAS alone on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, oblivious to the rain swirling around him. From time to time a streak of lightning shattered the raindrops into dazzling diamond waterfalls.

Across the Seine River stood the familiar Palais de Chaillot, and the Trocadero Gardens, but he was unaware of them. His mind was focused on Prima and the astonishing news that was about to be released to the world.

The wind had begun to whip the rain into a frenzied maelstrom. Mark Harris shielded his wrist with his sleeve and looked at his watch. They were late. And why had they insisted on meeting here, at midnight? Even as he was wondering, he heard the tower elevator door open. Two men were moving toward him, fighting against the fierce wet wind.

As Mark Harris recognized them, he felt a sense of relief. "You're late." "It's this damn weather, Mark. Sorry." "Well, you're here. The meeting in Washington is all set, isn't it?" "That's what we need to talk to you about. As a matter of fact, we had a long discussion this morning about the best way to handle this, and we decided-" As they were speaking, the second man had moved behind Mark Harris, and two things happened almost simultaneously. A heavy, blunt instrument slammed into his skull, and an instant later he felt himself being lifted and tossed over the parapet into the cold driving rain, his body plunging toward the unforgiving sidewalk thirty-eight stories below.

Denver, Colorado GARY REYNOLDS had grown up in rugged Kelowna, Canada, near Vancouver, and had had his flight training there, so he was accustomed to flying over treacherous mountainous terrain. He was piloting a Cessna Citation II, keeping a wary eye on the snowcapped peaks surrounding him.