"Because one of the neighbors reported that, on that Friday afternoon, around four, she'd let in a man with a red beard and a funny accent. He said he was a civil engineer, checking on the foundation of the building."

"Was she with him the whole time?"

"She was just heading out."

"I think that was Angela's murderer."

"I do, too," Morel said, then looked past the bar, where Einner and Lambert were talking animatedly. "The rain's stopped. Are we done?"

"I guess so. What are you going to do about this?”

“About what?"

"This. When you go back to the office."

She pursed her lips in an expression of consideration. "I'll have to report the meeting. There were witnesses, after all." Milo nodded.

"But it doesn't have to be immediate. And once I've typed up the report, it'll certainly take a while to reach your embassy. A day or two."

"Try to make it two, will you?”

“I'll try."

He just about believed her. "Thank you. For being so open."

Morel leaned closer. "When you do finally talk to them, please tell your masters that if anyone else in Paris ends up dead because of their misinformation, your government can forget about having so much flexibility in the French Republic. You understand?"

"I'll pass it along," Milo said.

He felt poor, as if he owed her something for all her cooperation, but had nothing to give. Then he realized that, small as it was, he did have something.

"You know, Angela dealt with the end of your relationship by throwing herself into her work. She told me that. But that's not why she had to take sleeping pills. It's not your fault she died."

Morel began to nod, then changed her mind, remembering who she was, and who he was. "Of course it wasn't my fault. It was yours."

She stood up, crossed to the bar, and tugged at Lambert's sleeve. Milo, from his seat, nodded at Einner's questioning glance, and the Tourist handed back their cell phones. Then they watched the French intelligence agents walk out into the cool, damp afternoon. Both men stared at the empty doorway a few seconds more.

Rue David d'Angers was one of six major streets that grew like irregular flower petals out of Place de Rhin et Danube 's ovule. It was decided-that is, Milo decided-that Einner should stay in the car, parked along the street as lookout, while Milo and his knapsack went inside. He trusted Diane Morel to a certain extent, though her partner, Lambert, might do anything. "Need the gun again?" Einner asked.

"If I do, that means I'm doing something wrong."

Number 37 lay at the beginning of the street, its corner facing the Danube metro stop in the middle of the square. The one key Milo had from Angela's apartment didn't fit it, so he looked at the board of buzzers. Rather than listing apartment numbers, there were only names. There-one of them was a business: Electricien de Danube. He pressed it.

"Nous sommes fermes," came the answer, a man. We are closed.

"S'il vous plait," said Milo. "C'est une urgence." It's an emergency. "Oui?"

"Mon ordinateur." My computer.

The man didn't answer at first, but he could hear him sighing. The door buzzed as he said, "Quatrieme etage." Fourth floor.

"Merci."

Milo pushed inside, then moved under the stairwell, where five soiled trashcans were lined up. He hid, squatting behind them, suffering the stink of old cabbage and bad meat.

First he heard the sound, four floors up, of a door opening. Then: "Hello?" Then feet stomping as someone came down the stairs, muttering to himself. The old man came all the way to the ground floor and peered out the front door, finally saying, "Merde," and slowly ascending the stairs again. Once his door slammed shut, Milo emerged from the claustrophobic stink and mounted the stairs.

Luckily, apartment seven was on the third floor, so he didn't have to pass the electrician's door. The name beside the doorbell was Marie Dupont-essentially, a French version of Jane Smith.

On the off chance a friend named Dupont actually did live there, he rang the bell, but got no answer. He heard a television (Formula One racing) from the next apartment, number six, but nothing from seven.

It was a typical old-Europe heavy door with two small opaque windows that opened from the inside so that fearful pensioners could have entire conversations without ever opening their doors. And, he noticed, there were two locks.

His heart sank, because he knew before he verified it what would happen. His key fit the lock in the center of the door, which worked a loud double dead bolt-but it didn't fit in the second lock, just below the handle. He had no idea where that second key could be. It wasn't under the doormat.

Damned Angela and her overdone security. Like the door itself, the frame was heavy and old, reinforced on the outside by steel. Very effective, just like Angela Yates.

Milo quietly returned to the ground floor and went back into the courtyard, looking up. On this side, terraces rose up, beginning with the second floor. Each terrace was accessed by a sliding glass door, and in the five-foot space between the terraces was a small, high window, probably from the bathroom.

A drainpipe along the corner grew to the building's height, but, after tugging at it, he knew it wouldn't hold. So he returned to the third floor and rang the bell for number six.

After a minute, the inset window opened an inch and a young man stared back at him. "Qui est la?"

"Uh," Milo began, trying to sound flustered. "You speak English?"

The man shrugged. "A little."

"Oh, wow. That's super. Listen, can I use your bathroom? I've been waiting for my girlfriend, Marie, all day. She just called and it looks like I've got another half hour. You mind?"

The young man rose slightly so he could see down the length of Milo 's body, perhaps checking for a gun.

Milo showed off his empty hands and flashed the unzipped knapsack at him. "A change of clothes," he explained. "Really. I've just got to take a dump."

Convinced, he unlocked the door, and Milo kept up the act, pointing and asking, "This way?"

"Yes."

"Swell."

Once inside, he closed and locked the bathroom door, turned on the noisy fan, then listened until he heard the man walk back to his television.

The small window sat at head height above the tub. Its deep frame was grimy from old showers and dust, but a flip of the latch popped it open. He reached into his knapsack and took out the duct tape, then filled it with his jacket, tie, and dress shirt. He put the knapsack on the floor beside the toilet. In his undershirt, he held the duct tape roll in his teeth, climbed on the edge of the tub, and pulled himself up so he could slip his head through the window. Two and a half feet to his right, and down, was the guardrail of Marie Dupont's terrace. Five feet to the left of it was this apartment's terrace. Directly below, a long drop led to the hard courtyard floor.

It was a narrow window, but by turning himself sideways he could get his shoulders through. It was difficult holding his body aloft, his legs inside the bathroom swinging until they caught the shower curtain rod.

Eventually, gasping through clenched teeth holding the tape, and sweating, he got out to his waist, and for a moment, to an outside observer, it looked as if the apartment had grown a human torso, one arm propped against the outside wall to keep it perpendicular. His center of gravity was off now, and if he let go of the wall he'd tumble to his death. He used his free hand to take the duct tape from his mouth and toss it onto the Dupont terrace, where it rolled until it hit the railing.

It had been a long time since Milo had put himself through this kind of thing, and he was suddenly sure he didn't have it in him anymore. As Tina had pointed out to him a few times, he'd gotten fat. As Einner liked to point out, he'd gotten old. Why was he hanging out of a window three floors above Paris?