In the evening Cerny introduced her to a Frenchman named Maurice, a lanky Parisian cop who did extracurricular stuff the same way Rizzo did. Maurice was unshaven in a leather jacket and jeans. He didn’t seem to be the brightest man she’d ever met.

In any case, Maurice would be posted in the entrance foyer of her building, keeping an eye on whoever went in and out, while another local guy named Jean, whom she met at the same time, would watch the entrance at the restaurant. At the end of their twelve-hour shifts, others would rotate on and off.

“Do I get a weapon to defend myself in case you guys screw up again?” she asked.

Cerny reached to his attaché case. He pulled out a box and handed it to Alex.

She opened it and found a Glock 9 with twenty-one rounds of ammunition, enough for a full clip plus a half dozen for good luck. She hefted it in her hand and looked around the table.

“Looks exactly like mine,” she said suspiciously. “The one I own back in Washington.” She continued to examine it. “Even has the same little nicks as mine. Imagine that.”

“What could make you feel more secure than having your own weapon?”

She looked at them angrily, not surprised. “If I knew you were going to burglarize me, I could have used some clothing changes too.”

They weren’t sure whether she was joking or not.

“You guys better know what you’re doing this time,” she said. “I can only be shot at so many times before I get hit.”

She clipped the holster to her waist of her skirt on the right side. There seemed no end to what had been put in motion in January.

At La Coupole, Alex sat across the table from Lt. Rizzo. The restaurant, which dated from the twenties, was pure art deco, with characteristic light fixtures on the many square pillars that held up the ceiling of the large, not-very-intimate room. Above the light fixtures were paintings that had been done by local artists in exchange for food and, more probably, drink all those decades ago. Alex wondered which, if any, of them had lived full, happy lives pursuing their muse.

She wore a black skirt, cut well above the knee, comfortable and flexible in case she needed to run for her life later. A light rain fell outside and added a gloss to the Boulevard Montparnasse. Against the rain she wore a pair of chic leather boots, which she had bought late that afternoon in a shop across the street from her lodgings. The boots were supple and flexible while still looking sharp.

They spoke Italian. “LaDuca” meant “the duchess” in Italian, Rizzo noted, a quirk he liked. He asked about the origin of her name. She explained about her father. She shied away from other personal information, however, and he did too; one never knew when a listening device had been dropped. But he did speak of his boyhood, growing up in the slums of Rome, learning English from his father who had been in a POW camp and how he had done his own stint in the Italian army. He amused her with a tale of blowing up a bridge in Spain in the 1970s, part of a prearranged NATO training exercise, but no one had warned the Spanish police.

“It all got blamed on the Basques,” he said with a snort, following an account of how his brigade of Italians had to hightail it to France in their socks.

In return, she told him about Venezuela and the slaughter in Barranco Lajoya. He listened seriously and offered condolences. They did not discuss Kiev. He knew the details of her loss and stayed away from the subject.

Things were playing out in her mind in three dimensions now. The first was the present, in a nostalgia-laden restaurant on Paris’s Left Bank where the relics of eighty years ago-in addition to the painting on the pillars, portraits of Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Kiki of Montparnasse, Man Ray, and Foujita-haunted the walls. Amidst this, Jean sat near the door, poised and intent, his eyes fixed on comings and goings.

The second dimension was one step beyond the immediate present, the notion that at any given moment a bullet could find her, putting her into the same earthly blackness that had consumed Robert. For the first time, she really considered what death would be like. It occurred to her that she might have just days, hours, or minutes to live.

But beyond that, even as she conversed with Rizzo in the forefront of her mind, her mind played out its own recent memories. This evening had taken on its own madness and it gripped her. She thought of Robert and his funeral, of the chaos in Kiev, and the massacre in Barranco Lajoya, and she thought of the six slain missionaries, Father Martin, and her friends back in Washington who would probably be playing basketball that night.

Then dinner was finished. She was conscious of the Glock she wore on her hip, concealed carefully under a light jacket.

She reminded herself that she had loaded the weapon and even chambered the first round. The Glock had a concealed hammer, but it was there, back and ready to fall and fire the round. All that prevented it doing so was the safety catch, which she could snap to “fire” with her thumb as she drew the weapon. This practice was dangerous, but the second or two needed for the operation of the slide to chamber the first round might make all the difference between-it was best not to think about what came after “between.” In her mind she went through the reflexive motions of using it.

She ordered a Caesar salad, while he had a blanquette de veau, thus confirming her suspicion that Italians largely lived on veal. He matched her stereotype for stereotype, and neither was completely wrong.

“Voi americane sempre mangiano delle insalate, perché non vogliono ingrassare,” he said with a smile. You American women always eat salads because you don’t want to get fat. “Ma è chiarissimo que per Lei non c’è pericolo a proposito di quello”-but it is clear that you’re in no danger of that.

“That’s because we do eat salads,” she answered with a laugh.

For a moment Alex wondered if he was hitting on her, but from his expression it was simply a compliment, and she felt flattered. Of course, she realized that any compliment of a young woman by an Italian male was at least a potential hit.

It didn’t bother her. In some ways, it made her felt normal again. And shortly after, Rizzo began to speak affectionately of his own lady friend, Sophie, who would be joining him in three days.

Coffee, the check, and then they were out the door, leaving. Jean had her back and Rizzo found a taxi.

The driver took them back to the apartment building on the rue Guénéguad.

Rizzo stepped out first and scanned the quiet block.

“Check your telephone,” he said to her. “I’ll check mine.”

They both checked. The devices worked. Then, as they stood there, a shadow moved in a sturdy black Peugeot that was jammed into a parking spot twenty feet from her front door.

In a light rain, a window on the driver’s side descended.

Startled, Alex’s hand went to her gun.

“Va bene,” Rizzo said in Italian. It’s okay.

From the driver’s seat in the car, Michael Cerny gave Alex a small and almost playful salute. “The block is clear,” he said. “You’re fine.”

“Maurice is inside the building?” she asked.

“Talked to him ten minutes ago,” he said.

“And he was alive when he was talking to you?” she needled.

“He sounded like he was,” trying to make light of it. “I didn’t specifically ask, though.”

“Very funny,” she said. But she relaxed slightly.

Rizzo gave her an embrace. She walked the rest of the way down the street to her door, tuned into the sound of her own footsteps on the sidewalk.

She stopped, tried to take a sense of the situation, and arrived at the big blue double doors that led into her building.