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"I mean to be," she paused. "Charles is going to resign as Prime Minister of Canada and run for President of Quebec."
He turned and stared at her. "Repeat that."
"My husband is going to announce his candidacy for President of Quebec."
Villon shook his head in exasperation. "I can't believe he'd do it. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Why? There's no rhyme or reason for such a stupid decision."
"I think it stems from anger."
"He hates me that much?"
She lowered her eyes. "I think he suspects something between us. Perhaps even knows. He may be out for revenge."
"Not Charles. He's not given to childish reactions."
"I was always so careful. He must have had me followed. How else could he have caught on?"
Villon tilted his head back and laughed. "Because I as good as told him."
"You didn't!" she gasped.
"To hell with that fastidious little toad. Let him stew in righteous selfpity for all I care. There's no way the sniffling bastard can win the election. Charles Sarveux has few friends in the Parti quebecois. The mainstream of support belongs to me."
The ferry dock was only a hundred meters away when a man got out of the fifth car behind Villon's Mercedes sedan and joined the passengers returning to the parking deck after lining the railings to enjoy the view.
Through the rear window he could see two profiles in conversation, muffled voices seeping from the rolled-up windows.
Casually he moved alongside the Mercedes, pulled open the rear door as if he owned the car, and slipped into the back seat.
"Madame Sarveux, Monsieur Villon, good evening."
Confusion swept Danielle's and Villon's faces, replaced with disbelieving shock, then fear when they saw the .44 magnum revolver held in a rocklike hand, slowly wavering from one head to the other and back again.
Villon had genuine reason for his astonishment.
He felt as though he was staring in a mirror.
The man in the rear seat was his exact double, a twin, a clone. He could see every detail of the face from the spotlights on the landing dock that shone through the windshield.
Danielle let out a low moan that would have worked its way into a hysterical scream if the gun barrel hadn't whipped across her cheek.
The blood sprang from the gash in her otherwise flawless skin and she sucked in her breath at the instant agony.
"I have no qualms about striking a woman, so please spare yourself any senseless resistance." The voice was a precise imitation of Villon's.
"Who are you?" Villon demanded. "What do you want?"
"I'm flattered -the original cannot tell the fake." The voice took on a new inflection, one that Villon recognized in a horror stricken flash. "I'm Foss Gly, and I intend to kill you both."
A light drizzle began to fall and Villon turned on the windshield wipers. The gun muzzle was pressed into the nape of his neck, the pressure never easing since they left the ferryboat.
Danielle sat beside him, holding a blood-soaked handkerchief to her face. Every few minutes she made little strange noises in her throat. She looked like a woman lost in a nightmare, a woman numbed by terror.
All questions and pleas had been met by icy silence. Gly opened his mouth only to issue driving directions. They were rolling through a rural area now, marked by the lights of an occasional farmhouse.
Villon had no recourse but to do as he was told. He could only hope and wait for an opportunity to act, to somehow gain the attention of a passing motorist, or with luck, a cruising policeman.
"Slow down," Gly ordered. "A dirt road is coming up on your left. Take it."
