“Wait until tomorrow,” Bloch said, ignoring her question, “then use your phone to contact him. Do it from a cab or a bus, something mobile. If he doesn’t answer, turn it back off and keep moving. Try again one day later, at the same time. Whatever you do in the meantime, don’t go back to your hotel. If I can’t stop them, it’s the first place they’ll look.”

“If you can’t—” Her thoughts froze, stilled like a metronome hitting a stop. “Why are you doing this, Anton?”

He seemed to take care in choosing his words. “I’ve asked a great deal of David over the years. This is a decision I made just over a week ago, during Yom Kippur. It is our Day of Atonement.”

The waitress came with the check. Bloch took it, settled in cash, and stood. “Now,” he ordered.

Christine pushed away from the table, but her legs seemed weak. He put a hand under her elbow and she rose, falling in beside him. The man on the sidewalk was still chatting on his phone. He was thirty feet away.

“Are you ready?” Bloch whispered, adding a staged smile. He might have been escorting his daughter to a high school dance.

Christine responded by looking squarely at the man outside. It was a mistake. When he recognized her eye contact, his manufactured smile disappeared. He slipped the phone under the lapel of his jacket. His hand came back out with a gun.

“Go!” Bloch yelled, pushing her aside.

Christine stumbled, but caught her balance. Frozen with indecision, she saw Bloch draw his own gun, then heard a crash of shots. The man on the sidewalk went down and gunfire burst in from the street. The legs that had wobbled only moments ago found new strength. Christine broke into a run, shouldering past scrambling patrons into the shadowed dining room. People were screaming, trying to get away. She slowed down and turned, caught a glimpse of Bloch aiming his gun at something—no, someone—and then his body rocked once, twice, and he dropped like a stone. Stunned, Christine’s first urge was to go to his side. But then she was stepping backward, all the while watching, willing him to rise. He didn’t move.

The gunfire paused.

Christine whipped around and slammed straight into a waiter, his tray clattering to the ground in an explosion of food and china and cutlery. If the men on the street had lost track of her in the confusion of the firefight, that advantage was gone. Sure enough, she spotted the heavy man who’d been standing by the car. He was running across the street and pointing a finger at her.