The water of the Canal St. Martin was as black and shiny as vinyl. She was surrounded by lovers, bicyclists, laughing college kids, tattooed writers, and sloe-eyed poets, scowling into the night as they scribbled their random thoughts.

Each café was a nexus of its neighborhood, and though each had its own patrons, there was always room for the occasional guest. Waiters, long-haired and slim-hipped, came and went, dispensing plates of steak-frites and carafes of pastis. It wasn’t only French she heard spoken at the adjacent tables, but German and English as well. The endless existential arguments remained the staple of the city’s café society.

Her head hurt so much that she rested it in her hands. Her eyes closed, but this only caused her to become dizzy. She opened her eyes with a start and a muttered curse. She had to keep herself awake until the danger from a concussion had passed. Flagging down a passing waiter, she ordered a double espresso, gulped it down while the waiter was still standing beside her, then asked for another. When this came, she dissolved three teaspoonfuls of sugar in it and sipped slowly. The dual jolts of caffeine and sugar elbowed away the exhaustion. For the moment, the pain in her head eased and her thoughts became clearer.

She wondered whether it had been a mistake to run away from Aaron. She had needed to get out of the hospital immediately—the place reminded her of too many colleagues’ deaths. He had been unwilling to help her and she had neither the strength nor the inclination to explain. Besides, she needed to be alone. She needed to think about Amun.

She was torn up inside. It was as if the dark thoughts she’d had about him had conspired to kill him. On the surface, she knew this was crazy, but right now she was feeling just a bit crazy, just a bit out of control. She had thought she’d loved Amun, then had come his anti-Semitic remarks, and her confidence in her own feelings had been shaken. Her love for him could not have been real if it had been destroyed by one nasty incident. But she couldn’t know that for certain, and now she would never know. She looked out at the canal, seeing Amun’s face, wanting him to speak to her. But the dead could not speak; they could not defend themselves or apologize. They could not proclaim their love.

Her eyes welled up and tears rolled down her cheeks. The world seemed empty and endless. Amun was dead and it was her fault. She had asked him to join her in Paris to help her investigation, and, out of love, he had come. There was a finality about what had happened, as well as an inevitability. She never should have allowed herself to become involved with him. She should have taken a page out of Jason’s book and kept herself at a healthy remove. But this wasn’t why she was crying.

I should have been punished, she thought. Not Amun.

Unable to bear her sanctuary a moment longer, she rose and, throwing several euros down on the table, walked off across the glistening cobbles into the secret heart of Paris. Three blocks later, holding on to a lamppost for dear life, she doubled over, vomiting up the contents of her stomach.

Before Bourne rose, he searched both the Russians, hoping to find a clue to the identity of the organization to which they belonged. Apart from keys to the van and the Vespa, twenty thousand euros, three packs of cigarettes, and a cheap lighter, there was nothing, no rings or jewelry of any kind. Opening up the driver’s mouth, he dug out his cyanide capsule and pocketed it. Then he stripped them, figuring he might be able to identify their affiliation from their tattoos, but they had none. He sat back on his haunches. Now he knew these men were not part of a grupperovka family, and yet they didn’t look like SVR agents, either. The mystery deepened.

Rising, he grabbed the crowbar and went through the rear door. Beyond was a short, evil-smelling corridor that led to a bathroom whose stench made his eyes water, and, at the end, a tiny office, furnished with a scarred metal desk, a swivel chair, and a steel filing cabinet. A single window looked out on a grimy air shaft.

The drawers in the cabinet and the desk were empty, not so much as a paper clip left behind. There was, however, a manila folder taped to the underside of the desk’s kneehole. Bourne opened it to find twelve shipping labels, matching the number of crates in the warehouse proper. They were all going to the same recipient: El-Gabal, Avenue Choukry Kouatly, Damascus, Syria.

Now he really wanted to know what was inside those crates. He was closing the folder when he heard the rumble of the front gate opening up and the burble of a car engine. Quickly he stowed the folder back in its hiding place. He heard voices raised, then shouts of alarm. Stepping to the window, he threw it open and climbed through.

There was no direct egress; he had to go up the shaft. Turning, he closed the window, which would give him a couple of minutes at least. The building was white stucco, affording no hand- or footholds. Grasping a drainpipe, he began his ascent.

Five, Rue Vernet was lit up like it was New Year’s Eve. At least half a dozen Quai d’Orsay vehicles were parked in front and the area was cordoned off, patrolled by policemen gripping submachine guns.

Jacques Robbinet found Aaron inside the Monition Club, directing a cadre of operatives as they combed through the labyrinth of offices. The club’s skeleton crew of nighttime personnel looked on, frozen in shock.

“What are you looking for?” Robbinet said.

“Anything. Everything,” Aaron said.

“And Soraya Moore?”

“She’s missing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I left her room for a moment and when I got back…” He shrugged.

“So now you’re here instead of searching for her?”

“I combed the hospital. Then I sent two units out in a grid search.”

Robbinet stared at him. “But you didn’t see fit to go yourself.”

“Listen, sir, M. Marchand was in league with a group of Arab terrorists. This has become a matter of national security.”

“You’re telling me what’s a matter of national security?” Robbinet took Aaron by the elbow and led him away from the others. In a voice so low only Lipkin-Renais could hear, he said, “I asked you to take care of this woman, Aaron, and I expected you to do so. She’s an extremely important person.”

“I understand,” Aaron said. “But the incident in the basement precludes any—”

“Any orders I gave you?” Robbinet finished for him. “The Moore woman is co-director of an American intelligence agency. The American secretary of defense, a friend as well as an opposite number, asked me to do him a favor. Now she is injured and missing, and what are you doing? Standing around here watching your men stuff papers into boxes. Delegate, Aaron. There are any number of colleagues you could have tapped for this.”

“I wanted to oversee the confiscation of all the computers myself. It’s there we are most likely to find—”

“That was not your choice to make, Inspector. But since you’ve made it, keep at it.” Robbinet’s icy tone conveyed his fury. “This, at least, I know you’re competent at.” He began to walk away, then turned back for a moment. “Agents with limitations have limited careers.”

Using the drainpipe, Bourne hauled himself up the warehouse facade. Halfway up, the stucco gave way to horizontal timbers. They were so rough-hewn he was able to gain toeholds to help him ascend. He was nearing the roof when he heard a noise and froze. The scrape of a match left him certain someone was on the roof, and he continued upward slowly and silently. When he was just beneath the lip of the roof he could smell the cigarette smoke and make out the two voices conversing in low tones.

He rose a bit more, until he could take a quick look over the parapet. Two men, submachine guns slung over their shoulders, were talking languidly in Russian about girls and sex as they smoked. Neither was turned in his direction.