Slaton spent another hour roaming the area. He circled the Brunswick Monument, pretending to study the carved stone lions that stood noble sentry, notwithstanding the humiliation of pigeons perched on their noses and loins darkened by summer mildew. With a walking guide in hand he crossed the bridge to the left bank and stopped at prominent buildings, marveling at high facades and rooftop spires, and viewing his kill box from every conceivable angle. He took a tour of the harbor, riding in a small boat with open seats that circled the Jet d’eau and wetted everyone with mist, and puttered past the tiny lighthouse at the end of the jetty, and whose guide rambled historical snippets and converted jokes into three languages, the punch lines invariably dimmed by translation. By noon Slaton was back ashore, his head full of geometry and his stomach empty, and he decided to cross the busy Quai du Mont Blanc in search of a café.

He was standing on a corner, waiting to cross and still reckoning vantage points, when his well-ordered thoughts swerved into a ditch. The trigger was a scent. Three women stood beside him, and somewhere sprayed to the nape of a neck was a tester of Christine’s favorite perfume. Slaton’s mind lurched through a series of disjointed images, and in the end one jagged question drilled into his mind.

When would their child be born? Slaton realized that he didn’t know the due date. Realized that he hadn’t even asked.

How could I not have asked?

He stood stunned for a moment, dazed and bewildered as traffic thundered past, and as the three women giggled and carried on a chattering exchange. He was saved when the streetlight changed. The prattling threesome set off at a brisk pace, taking the familiar scent with them. Slaton followed after allowing a gap, and by the time he stepped onto the far side of the street he had righted his mental ship.

He turned down the sidewalk and picked up his pace, the day pleasant and the sun bright. As he’d done all morning, the kidon appraised the setting before him. Faces and bodies and traffic all went under his capable eye. Unlike the rest of the morning, what he saw set off an alarm, and his easy stride froze to a stop on the sun-drenched sidewalk.

Chapter 39

THIRTY-NINE

Slaton watched two black Mercedes limousines glide to a stop at the reception awning of the Hotel Beau Rivage. The first car had metal brackets bolted to the leading edges of the front fenders, a dead giveaway that was reinforced by a set of diplomatic license tags. Four swarthy men emerged from the two cars, and after a brief discussion disappeared into the hotel.