The Englishman cracked first. There was another brief scurry of feet up ahead. Kursk put both hands on his gun and leaned forward into the firing position. He was just about to pull the trigger when the blackness of the tunnel was lit up by a white-hot ball of flame, a deafening crack of explosive, and a sudden blast of air. It picked Kursk up, smashed him against the ceiling of the tunnel, then flung him back down in an avalanche of wire and debris, down through the gaping hole where the metal grating had been, slamming him into the torrent of water and filth down below.

Two short cross tunnels led from the display area of the Belgrand gallery to the Bruneseau gallery, which ran parallel to it. Carver had set the timer detonator on his packet of C4 putty to five seconds, then dashed down one of these cross tunnels, the Avaloir. The flame from the explosion flared down the passage, chasing after Carver, scorching his back as it licked against him.

Now he just had to get back to the surface. But which exit? There were two people on the bike chasing him, so one of them was still up there. Carver wanted him, alive if possible. He tried to put himself in the guy’s place. Where would he station himself if he were up top? The smart move would be to find a place where you could cover both exits. On that basis, it made no difference where he came up. The risk would be the same.

There was another factor to consider. The area around the ticket kiosk was an ambusher’s paradise. There was cover everywhere and no passersby to witness what happened. But if Carver’s sense of direction was in working order, the other exit must be near the south end of the Alma Bridge. That was much more open, with many more cars and people.

So that was where he’d take his chances.

It took him several minutes to work his way back through the darkness toward the man-made cave where the giant ball had been. At last there was a glimmer of light. He dashed toward it with intense relief, running toward the stairs, past the open red door, and almost up to the stairwell before he forced himself to stop.

He edged into the stairwell, then looked up, sighting his gun vertically, ready to fire at the slightest movement above him. There was a grille of some kind across the top. He couldn’t see any padlock or chain holding it in place. He walked steadily up the circular steel staircase, pausing every few steps to watch and listen for any sign of suspicious activity.

The steps ended at a small platform a couple of feet from the surface. Carver crawled onto it on his belly, keeping himself below the lip of the manhole. He slithered as close as he could get to the side of the hole, then placed his hands on the ground level with his shoulders, the left hand flat, the right bunched around the grip of his gun. Next, he shifted his weight onto his arms, leaning his torso forward and bringing his feet up so that his knees were pressed against his chest.

He sprang forward, throwing himself out of the manhole, keeping his trajectory as low as possible, so that he landed flat on the tarmac sidewalk. As soon as he hit the ground, he rolled to his left, bringing his hands together in front of him, clasping the gun. He kept his head up, his eyes focused forward, along the line of his arms and his weapon.

He saw nothing. Just a couple of cars crossing the Alma Bridge. There was no sound of gunfire, no smack of a silenced bullet hitting the tarmac beside him.

Carver had rolled through 270 degrees onto his right shoulder when his legs slammed into something hard. He grimaced at the impact of bare metal on his anklebone. He looked around and saw that he’d come to rest against the dead man’s Ducati. The man’s helmet was still hanging from one of the handlebars. The sharp, almost nauseating bolt of pain from Carver’s ankle had been inflicted by the foot rest.

He pulled himself into a sitting position, leaned back against the bike, and again checked his surroundings. Still no sign of an enemy. He looked down at his ankle and flexed his foot. It rotated without any trouble, so the bones and ligaments were undamaged and his movement would be unimpaired. He’d certainly have a nasty bruise in the morning, but if he lived long enough to see it, there’d be no reason to complain.

As he sat on the pavement, two young Parisians walked by, a boy and a girl, arm in arm. Carver tried to look relaxed and nonchalant, as though it were perfectly normal to be leaning against a motorcycle, covered in concrete dust and scorch marks. He needn’t have bothered. The young lovers were far too busy gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes to care about anyone else.

He got up and used the kids as cover, following them as they crossed the road at the end of the bridge, walking toward the riverside embankment and the kiosk by the entrance to the sewers. The Honda was still where he had left it. He walked toward it, holding his gun straight down by his side, still sheltered by the two lovebirds in front of him.

There was no sign of the other man. Carver looked at the trees on the river side of the walk – nothing. He scanned the bushes: nothing. To the right of the kiosk ran the Quai d’Orsay, the main road along the Left Bank of the Seine. It led down to the National Assembly and the Musée d’Orsay art museum. Carver walked a few paces down the road.

A bus shelter stood no more than twenty meters away. It was shaped like a rectangular, three-sided box, open to the quai on the fourth side. A woman, a blond, was leaning up against the outside of the shelter, looking down the road in Carver’s direction. She was wearing a skimpy sleeveless black tanktop, no bra, and a tiny denim miniskirt. The black nylon strap of the bag on her back crossed her chest diagonally, separating and emphasizing the swell of her breasts.

Carver let his glance linger on her a second longer than it should have. She felt his appraising look, pulled the bag off her back, held it in front of her chest, and replied with a frank, uncompromising stare of her own.

He lowered his eyes, like any other guy caught with a prick for a brain. Now he saw the woman’s boots. They were heavy, black, calf-length, buckled at the ankle and midcalf: motorcycle boots. He’d seen them before; he’d seen the black nylon bag before. And why was the blond looking in his direction? Any bus on this side of the road would be going the other way.

Christ, he’d been stupid. He raised his eyes, bringing his gun up from his side and running toward her flat out as she reached into the bag, pulled out a silenced Uzi, and brought it to bear.

Carver slammed into her before she could fire, grabbing her gun and ripping it from her hands. He spun her around and smashed her face-first against the side of the bus shelter. He kicked the gun away, then he wrapped one arm around the woman’s chest, pinning her arms by her side. He held her tight against him, squeezing her between his body and the side of the shelter, making it impossible for her to wriggle free.

He felt the softness of her body against his and caught a trace of her rich, dark scent. For a second, something about it, an unexpected familiarity, distracted him. The hell with that. He stuck his gun against her temple.

“Listen carefully,” he hissed into her ear. “Your boyfriend is dead. You’ll be dead too, unless you do exactly as I say.”

She did not react in any way.

He tried again. “You speak English?”

No response.

Carver took a pace back, aiming his pistol straight at her. Still keeping his eye on the blond, he bent his knees and picked up the submachine gun, stuffing it into his jacket.

“Turn around.”

She didn’t move.

Carver stepped forward and kicked out at her legs, hitting her in the side of the shin. She crumpled to the ground, landing to the left of the bus shelter. As her knees hit the pavement, Carver stamped his left foot between her shoulder blades, pinning her to the ground.