He held her tight then, feeling her substance, as he always had, ever since he could remember. "I wish I had your faith."

"Faith is a lesson to be learned, just like everything else in life," she whispered in his ear. "I pray that one day you'll find yours."

And in his other ear his dead father whispered: "Beneath the surface-where loss manifests itself-that's where you must begin."

"Bravo, I am so relieved to hear from you," Jordan Muhlmann said when Bravo finally returned his call. "I haven't heard from you in days. I was going out of my mind with worry."

"I'm sorry, the concussion has made things a little fuzzy," Bravo said into the cell phone.

"Yes, of course. As long as I know you're all right."

"I'm fine." He was walking down the street toward his bank. He had recovered enough to be discharged from the hospital and he was ready to leave New York; there was only one thing to consider-besides, of course, Emma.

"You can't be fine, Bravo," Jordan said. "It's altogether understandable that you're not."

"You're right, of course."

"It's not simply what I say, mon ami. It's what I feel. You are family, Bravo, you know that."

Of course Jordan would understand. Though he was six years younger than Bravo, they had bonded almost immediately. During one long drunken evening in Rome, when they had freely exchanged confidences, he'd told Bravo that he'd lost his father at an early age, and mourned him still. He knew about family and loss. All at once, Bravo missed Jordan, his life in Paris. They spent so much time together, had gotten so close in the space of just over four years, they were like family. "On that score, I have no doubt."

There was a cop on one corner, leaning against his car, drinking coffee out of a paper cup. Across the street a little girl skipped along with her dog, her mother by her side. Just behind the girl and her dog, a man and woman held hands. They were young, both blond and blue-eyed. He wore black slacks and shirt, she a short skirt and sleeveless top.

"Listen," Bravo went on, "I'll be home in a couple of days. I want to get back to work."

"Non, you have more important matters to deal with."

A dam burst, and Bravo's eyes abruptly filled with tears. "My father dead, my sister blinded-this is a nightmare, Jordan."

"I know, mon ami. My heart goes out to you-Camille's, as well." Camille Muhlmann, Jordan's mother, was his advisor, and an integral part of Lusignan et Cie. "She wishes me to tell you that she's sick with grief."

"As always, she's exceptionally kind. Thank her for me," Bravo said.

"Take your time. Do whatever you have to do. In all things you have my support, whatever you need you have only to ask."

The woman laughed at something her lover said and glanced at Bravo. She had the face of a hungry cat.

"Thank you, Jordan. I appreciate… everything."

"Ah, no. I just wish I could do more."

The couple had stopped to chat with the cop, but the woman's eyes remained on Bravo. She smiled a secret catlike smile behind her lover's back.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know. You could've been jailed, and then where would I be?"

The lovers had moved on, but the woman's smile lingered in his mind.

"Now listen to me, mon ami, you must take your time winding up your father's affairs. We will manage without you. And, Bravo, remember, you must call on me if there's anything I can do. Here in Paris, so far away, I feel helpless. It will be better for both of us if I can help in some way."

He was outside the bank. "Merci, Jordan. Just talking to you… this connection. You know, I feel a whole lot better."

"Then I am happy. Bon, a biento^t, mon ami."

Putting away his cell phone, Bravo went through a glass door into the bank. As he crossed the marble floor he remembered his father taking him in here when he was eight, recalled with a startling vividness the confidence he felt with his hand clutching his father's. Dexter had opened up the account for him. When he'd turned eighteen, at his father's behest, he'd gotten the safety deposit box. Though he now lived a continent away, he'd never gotten rid of them. Their importance to him was immeasurable. Wherever he might be in the world, part of him always would remain here in New York.

At the rear of the bank, he asked to see the manager. Within moments, a middle-aged woman in a conservative business suit was escorting him downstairs to the vast vault where the safety deposit boxes rose in gleaming reinforced steel banks. The vault had about it the oppressive look and air of a mausoleum.

Inside, he sat in a curtained booth while she went to fetch the box. He knew he was lucky to have a friend like Jordan. They had met in Rome five years ago when Muhlmann had come to the university where Bravo was then working. Bravo had had a unique position in the department of medieval religions. He was not expected to teach but to research the ages-old mysteries that dogged his field. Though Bravo was then still in his twenties, he had already gained something of a reputation not only as a scholar but also as cryptanalyst. As it happened, that very field of knowledge fascinated Jordan, and he was eager to observe firsthand Bravo's facility in decoding medieval texts and solving seemingly unsolvable puzzles.

Jordan had stayed in Rome six weeks. During that time, he and Bravo had struck up a close friendship based on common interests and outlooks. They had studied together, run track and hit the heavy bag together, had even squared off in fencing matches-remarkably, their skills matched each other in the e'pe'e and the saber. They went out to dinners and got drunk on good food, excellent wine and fascinating talk. Finally, Jordan had made Bravo an offer to join Lusignan et Cie. Bravo at first declined, but Jordan had persisted and, eventually, after some further back and forth, he had managed to persuade Bravo to come work for him.

The manager returned with a long flat gray metal box and, setting it down on the table in front of him, left him. He took out the key and opened it. Inside, he discovered stacks of money, neatly wrapped and bound, his secret fuck-you money. Yet another thing Dexter Shaw had taught him. There were two layers, each double bundle bound together. He untied the lower left-hand corner bundle, pulled from between them the key his father had given him six months ago.

The meeting had been brief but unprecedented inasmuch as Dexter had flown into Paris, something Bravo couldn't recall him having done before. They hadn't even sat down but instead at Dexter's suggestion had crossed the Seine on the Pont d'Iena, walking briskly along the rather unlovely Quai de Grenelle. The morning was unnaturally warm for a normally raw and forbidding February, and people could be seen strolling happily with their winter coats open or slung over their arms. Once they passed the Hotel Nikko the tourists vanished and the natives dwindled, which was apparently the whole point of the exercise. That was when Dexter had handed him the key, an old-fashioned item, odd in both shape and design.

"If something happens to me," Dexter had said, "you'll need this."

"If what happens? Dad, what are you talking about?" Another dark and unfathomable secret, another bit of shrapnel lodged in his chest so close to his heart he could feel it flutter.

The sky was the color of peat. The overheated weather was causing mist to rise off the river, smudging the outlines of the buildings on the Right Bank. Halos throbbed around the moving lights. A horn hooted mournfully as a barge slid slowly past them. Down on the lower quai a dog was running loose, its tongue out and lolling. The leaves of the horse chestnut trees rustled, as if anxious.

"Just listen, Bravo. Put the key somewhere safe, will you promise me that? And if something happens, take the spare key I gave you and go to my apartment." Dexter Shaw had smiled, gripping his son's shoulder. "Don't look so stricken. Chances are it'll never come to that."