I ambled away from the French reporters and their cop friends, back toward the Rue de Washington. I crossed the street and walked to the far corner of the Élysées Models building. The windows along the Rue de Washington were decorated with the faces of winsome, come-hither women, but the front door was locked. Just past the building was a tiny alley, not much bigger than a walkway, where trash was dumped. It ran only about thirty feet. I looked behind me, back toward the Rue Lamennais. Nobody was watching.

Do it! I told myself. I darted into the alleyway and looked for a fire escape. Toward the back of the building was a small metal ladder. I began climbing, waiting for someone to shout for me to stop. But the only sound was the muffled clanking of the metal ladder against the wall of the building. I was frightened, but there was a liberating feeling about taking a chance to get a good story. It was like waking up from a long dream. I had done something like this only once before that I could remember. It was more than ten years ago when I was covering a closed police-corruption hearing in New York City. I had sneaked up to the floor above the hearing room and listened to the proceeding through an air shaft. That story had driven the investigators crazy; they had never been able to figure out my source.

I paused after four stories to catch my breath, then continued the rest of the way. As I neared the top I remembered the police marksmen who were posted on the rooftops across the street. I moved very carefully, pulling myself gently onto the roof and crawling across it toward the end of the Élysées Models building. The light was even stranger up here, a bluish glow from the floodlights, reflected off the streets and the sides of the buildings. I continued my crawl, splayed out on the rooftop. From my vantage, I could look down to the rooftop of the Taillevent building. I saw a large air vent in the middle of the roof and a door that led downstairs. At least there appeared to be a way down toward the restaurant, if I could get that far. I crawled a few more feet to the edge of my building, rose to a crouch and prepared to jump.

In that moment I saw the policeman on the next roof, and he saw me. “Oh, shit,” I said aloud. A spotlight was trained on me instantly, blinding me briefly, and when I could see again, a half-dozen police were moving toward me, putting ladders against the wall of my building—shouting at me to freeze, put down my weapons. “Journaliste!” I cried out. It sounded so limp.