Every few seconds her eyes alternated between the rearview and side mirrors. She went through lights at the last possible instant, and often doubled back on what Boris assumed was their route.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

She smiled a secret smile, and that, too, was different about her.

“Somewhere no one can find me, I assume.”

“Not exactly.” That secret smile expanded. “I’m taking you to the one place no one would think to look for you.”

She put on a burst of speed, and Boris felt his torso pressed back into the seat. “And that would be where?”

She shot him a mischievous look, then returned her gaze to the traffic ahead. “Where else?” she said. “The Mosque.”

Paris was laid out like a shell in the water of the Seine. Each district—or arrondisement—spiraled out from the center, the higher the number, the farther from the heart of the city. The outermost arrondisements were inhabited by immigrants—Vietnamese, Chinese, and Cambodians. Just beyond were the banlieues, or outskirts, which were given grudgingly over to the North African Arabs. Isolated on the cramped, unsightly fringes of the city, these disenfranchised were denied jobs or any meaningful contact with everyday Parisian life, culture, schooling, or art.

Aaron followed Marchand’s BMW into one of the northernmost banlieues—the filthiest, most congested and degraded outskirt any of them had ever seen.

“Allah, this stinking place looks like Cairo,” Amun muttered under his breath.

Indeed, the streets were narrow, the sidewalks cracked, the ugly whitish buildings looking like the worst of the British council flats, tumbled one on top of the other without any space between them.

Soraya, still on high alert, felt a renewal of tension between the two men and wondered at its origins. She sensed that Aaron was becoming more and more uncomfortable. As they rolled down the unlovely street, faces dark and tight with a toxic mingling of hatred and fear turned in their direction. Old women, their arms dragged down by bulging mesh shopping sacks, hurried away from them. Groups of young men came off the walls where they had been lounging or crouched, smoking, pulled toward the unfamiliar car like street dogs to a scrap of meat. She could feel the hostility directed at them from waves of black eyes, coffee-colored lips. Once, a bottle, thrown in a high arc, smashed against the Citroën’s flank.

Ahead of them, the BMW had turned left into an alley. Aaron pulled over to the curb and parked. He was the first out of the car, but Amun said, “Considering the atmosphere, it might be better if you stayed with the car.”

Aaron bristled. “Paris is my city.”

“This isn’t Paris,” Amin said. “This is North Africa. Soraya and I are both Muslims. Let us take care of this part of the operation.”

Soraya saw Aaron’s face go dark. “Aaron, he’s right,” she said softly. “Take a step back. Think about the situation for a minute.”

“This is my investigation.” Aaron’s voice was shaking with barely suppressed emotion. “Both of you are my guests.”

Soraya engaged his eyes with her own. “Think of him as a gift.”

“A gift!” Aaron seemed to crush the words between his teeth.

“Don’t you see? He’s used to these Arab slums; he can connect with the residents. Considering the way in which the investigation has turned, it’s a great stroke of luck having him help us.”

Aaron tried to push past her. “I don’t—”

She blocked him with her body. “We wouldn’t even have this lead without him.”

“He’s already gone,” Aaron said.

Soraya turned and saw that he was right. Amun wasn’t wasting any more time, and she understood—coming this far, they didn’t want to lose Marchand now.

“Aaron, stay here.” She began to follow Amun down the alley. “Please.”

The alley was narrow, crooked as a crone’s finger, and twilight-dark. She could just make out Amun’s back as he slipped through a battered metal door. Racing ahead, she caught the door before it closed. As she was about to enter, she saw a rail-thin young man at the far end of the alley. She squinted. She could make out his red polo shirt, but the light was so dim she couldn’t tell whether he was looking at her or at something else.

Inside, a grimy iron staircase led downward. The area was lit by a single bare bulb, hanging from a length of flex. Ducking below it, she moved cautiously down the stairs. As she descended, she strained to hear the sounds of Amun’s footsteps—anyone’s footsteps—but all that came to her were the creakings and protestations of an old, ill-maintained building.

She came to a tiny landing, and she continued down again. She could smell the dampness, mold, the sharp odors of decay and decomposition. She felt as if she had entered a dying body.

Approaching the end of the stairs, she found herself on slabs of rough concrete. Cobwebs brushed her face, and, now and again, she could hear the click and chitter of rats. Soon enough, other small noises came to her—hushed voices opened up the darkness. Doggedly, she groped her way forward, guided by the voices. Within fifty feet, she began to make out a wavering light that illuminated what appeared to be a warren of cave-like rooms. She paused for a moment, struck by the similarity between these spaces and those used by Hezbollah when they were preparing to cross the border for a raid into Israel. There was the same stench of sour sweat, anticipation, forgotten hygiene, spices, and the bitter, metallic smell of ordnance being prepped for detonation.

She was close enough to make out the voices—there were three of them. This brought her up short. Had Amun engaged them already? But no, now that she had crept close enough, her ears told her that only one of the voices was familiar—the miserable liar Donatien Marchand.

Approaching a corner, she peeked around. Three men stood in the dim fizzy light of an old-fashioned oil lamp. One was very young, thin as a reed, dark-eyed and hollow-cheeked. The other was only a bit older with a full beard and hands like ax heads. Facing them was Marchand. From the tone of their voices and their body language, it appeared they were in the middle of a difficult negotiation. She risked a glance around. Where was Amun? Somewhere close, she had to assume. What was his plan? And how could she get close enough to hear what the men were arguing about? Looking all around, she saw nothing that would help her. Then, directing her gaze upward into the shadows, she saw the massive beams that crisscrossed the space, keeping the entire building from collapsing into the Arabs’ basement lair.

Using a series of boxes she found strewn over the floor, she climbed up until she could loop her arms around one of the beams. Hauling her torso upward, she wrapped her ankles across the top of the beam and, using that leverage, swung fully up. She had to be careful not to disturb the accumulated filth—grime, sticky cobwebs, iridescent insect shells, and rat droppings—which, raining down, would announce her presence. On her belly, Soraya inched along the beam until she was more or less above the three men.

“No, man, I say triple for that.”

“Triple is too much,” Marchand said.

“Shit, for that bitch triple’s too little. You got ten seconds, then the price goes up.”

“Okay, okay,” Marchand said after a short pause.

Soraya could heard the slither of bills being counted out.

“I’ll have a photo downloaded to your cell phone,” Marchand said.

“Don’t need no pho-to. That Moore bitch’s face is etched in my brain.”

Soraya shuddered. There was something grimly surreal about eavesdropping on the plans for her own imminent demise. She could feel her heart hammering in her throat as the meeting broke up.

She hated these Arabs, but she remained motionless. The mission was to discover whom Marchand had called after they had scared him half out of his wits. These Arab thugs couldn’t tell her; only Marchand could do that. He would never have talked on his own territory, but now that she had caught him in a compromising position with these hit men, he might be more inclined—