I stood in the doorway of an optometrist’s shop on the corner of the Rue Lamennais, just outside the command post, waiting for my police escort to accompany me home. It was demeaning. The hostages and their captors were only a few dozen yards away from me now. It embarrassed me, all over again, to be so close to the story and yet so powerless to do anything about it. As the seconds passed I thought again of how I might get inside. The only possible way in, it was now obvious, was through the front door—as a guest of the terrorists. But how could I do that?

A mental spark fired in my reporter brain. Inside my coat was the pocket Guide Michelin, which I, like every Paris-based reporter, kept handy to make reservations for the appropriate expense-account meals. I stepped back into the shadows and opened the little red book to the page for Taillevent. I removed my cellular phone gently from my other pocket and punched in the phone number. I waited, trying to think of what I would say if anyone answered. But an instant later I heard a recording saying that the line had been disconnected. I looked in the pocket guide again and found a fax number. I pressed the buttons and waited. From my perch in the doorway of the optometrist’s shop, I was almost invisible. My police escort still hadn’t arrived. The phone rang once, twice.

On the third ring a voice answered. He said he was the sommelier, and he sounded absolutely terrified. I asked to speak to the man who was holding the hostages, and he handed over the phone to someone else.

“Who is this?” asked a deep voice in heavily accented French.

“I’m an American reporter,” I answered. “I’m nearby. I would like to come interview you, to hear about French weapons tests in Africa. You tell me, and I will tell the world.”

“Are you police?” He sounded suspicious, but also curious.

“No. I’m a reporter. And if you don’t decide quickly, you’ll lose the chance to tell your story.”

I could hear him talking to someone else, in quick, frantic bursts of French.

“It’s okay,” he said. “When will you come?”

“Right now,” I said. “I’m fifteen meters away. Go open the door.” I really didn’t have time to think about what I was saying, it happened so quickly.

“Now?” the voice repeated. But the line had gone dead.

Now. I stood in the shadows for another instant. I had that sweet-sickness in my gut that every reporter feels before going into a combat zone. You know it’s a great story, you’re pumped with adrenaline, but you’re also terrified. I was poised in the doorway like a cocked gun, knowing that if I didn’t move quickly, the police would take me away.