If only he hadn’t been such a fool.

He could torture himself with hypothetical situations. Sometimes he did. He would see their faces with such stark vividness, and remember how they’d trusted and believed in him. Emily when, clinging to him, she would tell him her fears of childbirth, and he would reassure her that everything would be all right. It hadn’t been. Gisela, his friend, who’d wept on his shoulder in her despondency over the loss of her Jupiter Stones. He had made cavalier assurances to her, as well.

Stephen, Benjamin, Quang Tai. All dead because Thomas Blackburn had insisted nothing would happen to them in that part of the Mekong Delta.

It was true, he thought. He held himself responsible for his own son’s death, a solitary burden no parent should have to bear.

He never let on to anyone the measure of his despair, of course. The sleepless nights, the agonizing walks, the countless times he would find himself drained and exhausted, perspiring and trembling like one of those stereotypical bony old men. He wanted no one’s pity. Even in those terrible moments of despair, the prospect of not carrying on never occurred to him. He would never give in, if for no other reason than to be there should anyone else have to suffer for his mistakes.

“Grandfather?”

The squirrel had scrambled back onto the fire escape and was teasing another thinner squirrel. Thomas watched for a few seconds, composing himself before he turned to this granddaughter. He had left a note at the house telling where he was. Another mistake?

Looking pale and unusually serious, Rebecca held up a paper bag. “I brought sandwiches. You haven’t had lunch yet?”

“No. Rebecca, something’s wrong-”

“Can we eat in back?”

They went back to the stacks, where they unwrapped their sandwiches at an oak table library volunteers could use. Thomas often worked in the climate-controlled rare books room. He poured a couple of cups of coffee and sat across from Rebecca.

“You’re looking grim,” he told her.

“I’ve spent the better part of the last two hours reading old articles on the ambush.” She didn’t need to specify which ambush; they both knew. “I discovered several coincidences that are too much for me to swallow.”

He gave her a mild look, but it felt as if something hot and sharp had just been stabbed into his lower abdomen. “Did you?”

Her eyes seemed huge in the dim light; she didn’t smile. “The driver of the Jeep that day was a Frenchman, a former member of the Foreign Legion. He was the only survivor, but he was believed captured by the Vietcong. I couldn’t find his name or anything about what happened to him.” She paused, then added bitterly, “I gather, though, that he’s still alive.”

Thomas pushed aside his sandwich, roast beef with lots of red onion; he wouldn’t have blamed Rebecca if she’d sprinkled arsenic over the works. “Are you asking me what I know about him?”

“I’m not finished. I did some more digging, Grandfather, and I discovered an old 1959 photograph from the Boston Globe. It was taken during the trip you and I took to France. I was just four, so I don’t remember much of what we did. But one of the things you did was show up at the funeral of Baroness Gisela Majlath.”

She paused to assess Thomas’s reaction to her dramatic announcement, but he’d had many, many years to perfect his ability to maintain his composure under the most trying of circumstances. The only reason the Globe had bothered running that photograph was because he was in it.

“For someone who never completed her college education,” he said, “your research abilities are impressive. Of course, most research simply requires tenacity, and you certainly have that, Rebecca.”

“Gisela committed suicide.”

“Yes, I know.” He breathed out, his memory of that dreadful day still fresh. “She was a friend of mine.”

Rebecca was obviously restraining herself. “You never mentioned her.”

“I had a great many friends I’ve never mentioned to you. I am a good deal older than you are, my dear. My friendship with Gisela was a quiet one.”

Her eyes flashed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re being impertinent.”

“Impertinent is one of those words that went out with Calvin Coolidge.”

“I knew Calvin in his later years-”

“Grandfather, Gisela Majlath claimed to have been a victim of a jewel thief called Le Chat.”

Thomas picked a bit of onion from his sandwich and nibbled on it. “Why is it,” he said rhetorically, “that when the young stumble upon something new to them they assume no one else could possibly have known about it before they did? Yes, Gisela told the police this Le Chat stole some gems that had come into her family-”

“The Jupiter Stones.”

The woman was annoyingly thorough. “Correct.”

“And no one believed her, so she threw herself into the Mediterranean.”

“Baldly put, but apparently, also correct.”

“Apparently?”

“I wasn’t there.”

She digested that for a moment, then asked, “Do you want to tell me about Le Chat?”

“Why should I?” he replied testily. “Obviously we both already know.”

Rebecca was so rigid, Thomas thought she would crack and crumble any second. “The police were going to arrest a popular Grand Prix driver named Jean-Paul Gerard as Le Chat, but he disappeared.”

“And you’re assuming he turned up in Vietnam in 1963 and again in 1975.”

“I know he did.” Rebecca swallowed, still working at controlling herself. “I found an old photograph of Gerard in his racing days. Turn his hair white and add some scars and we’ve got our Frenchman.”

Thomas stared up at the milky glass flooring of the stacks. He hated this kind of deception. And for years he’d dreaded precisely this confrontation with his granddaughter. “Rebecca, you’ve done enough digging,” he said. “Now stop. Drop this before you end up getting yourself or someone else hurt. Yes, Jean-Paul Gerard drove the Jeep when your father, Benjamin and Tai were killed in 1963. He was captured and spent five years in a jungle prisoner-of-war camp before escaping during the Tet Offensive in 1968. He’s the Frenchman who participated in Tam’s killing in 1975.”

“And he blames you for what happened to him?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Rebecca inhaled, an obvious act of self-control. “Has he been to see you?”

“Not yet. I haven’t seen Jean-Paul in twenty-six years.”

Her gaze was ice. “Lucky you.”

Thomas shrugged. What could he say? He and Rebecca had never really talked about 1963. If he had his way, they never would. An uncomfortable silence descended between them. The two sandwiches and coffee remained untouched.

Finally, Rebecca asked, “You knew who I was talking about when I described this Jean-Paul Gerard yesterday, but you didn’t mention him.”

“Correct.”

“Why not?”

“What would have been the point?”

She didn’t answer. “What have you told Jared that you haven’t told me?”

“Nothing. Rebecca, Jean-Paul Gerard was a bitter and dangerous man before his captivity. I can only imagine what he’s like now. You should do everything you can to avoid him. That’s all you need to know.”

“Are you protecting me,” she said angrily, “or yourself?”

Thomas rose, neither hurt nor insulted, simply determined to have his way-and that didn’t include defending himself to his furious granddaughter. “I’m doing what I feel I must. If that’s insufficient for you, you’ll have to decide for yourself what to do about it. I’ve given you my advice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m not terribly hungry.”

Neither was Rebecca. She threw down her sandwich and watched her grandfather return to the reading room. The Frenchman-this Jean-Paul Gerard-had been a jewel thief and race-car driver on the Riviera in 1959. He had driven the Jeep the day of the 1963 ambush that had left Quang Tai, Benjamin Reed and Stephen Blackburn dead.