She let out an involuntary grunt as the air was forced from her lungs. Now she was lying along the back of the shelter, hidden from the road.

Carver fired a single shot into the pavement, six inches from her head. She flinched as the dust and stone fragments hit the side of her face.

“The next one goes through the back of your skull. Now, let’s stop pissing around. Do you speak English?”

This time she responded with a nod of her head.

“Good. Now, very slowly, put your arms by your side, palms of your hands facing me.”

She did as she was told.

“Thank you. Now stay completely still.”

Carver shifted his position, sliding his foot down her back and over her rump, bringing it to rest on the ground between her upper thighs. Then he bent his left knee until it came to rest on the base of her spine. His right foot was flat on the ground. All his weight was bearing down on her lower back. She whimpered in pain.

He unzipped one of the thigh pockets of his cargo pants and took out a thin strip of plastic that was looped into a figure eight. The loops were secured by tiny locking boxes through which the plastic strips passed.

“Put your hands side by side in the small of your back.”

Carver placed a plastic loop over each hand, then pulled the loose ends until the plastic was tight around each wrist.

“Roll over onto your back.”

He waited as she obeyed. When she looked at him, there was a momentary flash of pure rage in her eyes, in the setting of her jaw, the pursing of her lips. She looked away and took in a single, short, harsh breath through her nostrils. When she met Carver’s eyes again, less than five seconds later, she had regained her self-control. Her face was blank, as if she knew there was more to come. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching her lose her temper, still less cry or beg for mercy.

“Sit up against the shelter.”

She levered herself upright, then shuffled backward until she was leaning against the shelter wall, her legs flat on the pavement in front of her. Carver was on his haunches opposite her. Anyone passing by would take him for a boyfriend trying to help a sick or stoned girlfriend. They wouldn’t look too closely. They wouldn’t want to get involved. They’d pass right by, just like city people always do, in any city, anywhere.

“Why does Max want me dead?”

Still she gave nothing away. But her eyes were more tightly focused on him now, more calculating this time, as if she were waiting to see what he had before she made her first move.

Carver wanted to needle her, provoke a reaction. “Look, I don’t blame you for being pissed off. I would be too if I’d screwed up. You shouldn’t have tried to take the gun out of the bag, right? You should have just shot through it. So what is it – you’re no good at your job? You’re out of practice? Maybe it isn’t your usual line of work.”

She did react, but not in the way he’d expected. She just looked at him with utter contempt, as if he hadn’t a clue. As if he weren’t even close.

He went back to Plan A. “You never answered my question. Why does Max want me dead?”

Finally she spoke. “I don’t know anyone named Max.” Her voice was flat, unyielding. She sounded like a suspect in a police interrogation cell who knows the cops can’t prove their case. Her accent was American, but spoken by a foreigner. Carver guessed Eastern European.

“Okay.”

He got to his feet and took a couple of steps to where the black bag was lying on the ground. Bending down, keeping his gun and his eye on the woman all the while, he picked up the bag, then stepped back to his original position, right beside her.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here…”

He put his free hand into the bag, pulled out a purse, and flicked it open. There were half a dozen credit cards arranged in slots, one above the other. Carver slid a couple of cards out with his thumb. They bore the name “A. Petrova.” He took another look at the outside of the purse, checking out the pattern stamped into the leather: Louis Vuitton. He was starting to put the pieces together, but he needed a little more information to be sure.

“What does the A stand for?”

She shrugged. “What A?”

“On your credit card: A. Petrova.”

“You mean, like a…for ‘asshole’?” This time she let a slight, mocking smile play around the corners of her mouth. She’d scored another point.

He kept riffling through the bag. There was a mobile phone. He opened it up and accessed the address book, keeping one eye on the woman. There were lots of Russian names. Some were people; others he guessed were shops, clubs, or restaurants. There was nothing under “Max.” He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it.

Next, his fingers wrapped themselves around a piece of thin card. It was inserted into a small, stiff booklet: an airline ticket in a passport. He pulled them out of the bag. The ticket was an Aeroflot return from Moscow to Paris. The outward segment had already been torn off and used. Now he knew where she’d come from.

He knew her full name too. The passport was Russian. It named her as Alexandra Petrova, date of birth September 21, 1967. So she was almost thirty. She looked younger. Maybe she was. Maybe she’d just assumed an older identity. And maybe he’d arranged her death about three hours ago.

“You’ve got a Louis Vuitton bag. It contains underwear, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and some kind of silky dress. So, what, you were planning to party once you’d finished the job?”

This time he knew he’d got through. She didn’t say anything, but she frowned. For the first time, the defiance in her eyes was clouded by uncertainty.

Carver pressed on. “You left the bag in a one-bedroom apartment on the Rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Ile. The bag was on the bed. There was a white Chanel carrier bag next to it, with some perfume, lipsticks, and a small black box – I’m guessing a watch – inside it. You picked that up at duty free, right? Mixing the hit with a nice bit of shopping. I like it, the feminine touch.”

She wasn’t impressed. “What are you trying to tell me? You’re some kind of stalker?”

“No, I’m telling you they planned to kill you too. I’ve got to admit, it was elegant. They got each set of killers to eliminate the other. See, when Max briefed me, he said the apartment belonged to the target. I was supposed to booby-trap it in case he escaped the hit. But it wasn’t the target’s apartment, was it?”

She said nothing. Carver let the silence hang between them. He watched Petrova. She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking down at the ground, thinking, working out the next move. A minute or more went by before she raised her eyes toward Carver again, her hostile glare replaced by a searching examination of his face, as though she were looking for the final clues that would help her reach a decision. Then she made up her mind, nodded to herself, and spoke.

“Okay. Kursk – the man you say you killed – was given our orders when we arrived in Paris. Someone called him – I don’t know if that was this man you call Max. They told us to go to the apartment and wait for further instructions. There were new clothes, boots, and helmets there, one set for each of us, weapons and a key. Also a camera, with a big flash attachment.”

“You got changed?”

“Yes.”

“So why were your clothes the only ones in the apartment? What about Kursk’s?”

“He threw them away when we left.”

“Why?”

“How should I know? Maybe he likes to travel light. Anyway, about eight thirty, they called again. We were told to go to Rue Duphot. It’s off Rue de Rivoli, near Place Vendôme. When we got there, just before nine, Kursk got another call. We were told our target would be a black Mercedes. We had to follow it and use the camera with the flash to scare the people in the car and make them drive faster. After that we had to go back to the apartment, spend the night there, and then fly out in the morning. About an hour later Kursk got another call. It seemed to give him great satisfaction.”