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of a cross. The long main transept ended in a curved apse that faced to the east and the rising sun that symbolized Christ. The shorter, north-south transept bisected the main vestibule at the choir and led to richly decorated chapels.
    Three tiers of soaring granite arches, all intricately carved and decorated, supported the vaulted ceiling high above Mallory’s head. Unlike so many other European cathedrals, however, this one was filled with light. Gloriously white and shimmering, it poured in through the tiered windows and added a luminescent sheen to the gray granite walls.
    Guidebook in hand, Mallory took in the richness of the altar and choir before exploring the side chapels. The musky scent of incense lingered in the alcoves and mixed with the smoke from hundreds of flickering votives. She stood for long moments before a bank of votives dominated by a stained-glass window depicting Saint Michael slaying a dragon.
    Part of her ached to drop a franc in the slot, light a candle and pray for the strength to forgive Congressman Kent and everyone in the media who’d slandered her. The rest of her was still too bruised and hurt. She wasn’t ready to forgive or forget, and she figured God would recognize a fake prayer quick enough.
    Sighing, Mallory followed the signs pointing to the stairs that wound down to the crypts. There were two of these subterranean chambers, one under the north transept, one under the south. The first was big and ornate and contained the sarcophagi of previous bishops and abbots. The second was much smaller and plainer. Barrel-vaulted and constructed with Romanesque simplicity, it had the dank smell of centuries long past.
    There, in the south crypt dedicated to Saint Martin, Mallory founded a semblance of the serenity that had eluded her upstairs. It was so quiet in the crypt, and so empty. The only objects in the round-roofed chamber were a plain altar topped by a wrought-iron cross and a narrow wooden prayer bench set alongside one wall.
    Mallory eased onto the bench and leaned her shoulders against the granite wall. A chill seeped through her navy blazer, but she barely noticed it.
    Why couldn’t she forgive and forget? Why had she let Congressman Kent destroy her pride along with her reputation?
    Her friend, Dillon Porter, had tried to warn her. In his serious, no-nonsense way, Kent’s senior staffer had reminded his coworker how Jennifer Flowers and Monica Lewinsky had become the butt of so many vicious jokes. Yet Mallory had plowed ahead, convinced she had right on her side.
    Yeah, sure.
    With another long sigh, she tilted her head against the granite and closed her eyes. Maybe if she just sat here a while, the utter calm of this place would leach into her troubled soul.
     
    What the hell was she doing?
    Cutter lounged against a stone pillar, pretending interest in a brochure he’d picked up at the entrance to the abbey. The brochure happened to be in Japanese, a fact that had escaped his attention until he’d been forced to hide behind the damned thing for going on twenty minutes now.
    Was she waiting for someone? The Russian? The obnoxious tourist?
    Or had the woman fallen asleep? Sure looked like it from where Cutter stood.
    Her head rested against the granite wall. Her lashes feathered her cheek. The arms she’d hooked around her waist had loosened and sagged into her lap.
    She’d stirred, blinking owlishly when the muted sound of an announcement drifted down the stairs. They were too deep in the bowels of the church to distinguish the words, and she was too lethargic to do more than turn her head toward the distant sound. Moments later, her lids had dropped and she was breathing deeply again. This time a small smile played at the corners of her lips.
    Sweet dreams, Dawes?
    Thinking about all the goodies you’ll buy when and if you sell the data you stole?
    Frowning, Cutter shot a quick look at his watch. The warning signs posted around the island were vivid in his head when the