The guard at the gate called for the Brigade Spéciale, then nodded me inside. Another guard searched me and confiscated my derringer. I was escorted to Massu’s office and found him on the telephone, stroking his mustache while listening to the voice at the other end of the line. There was a pile of blankets on the floor in a corner where he must have slept, and my notebook was lying open on his desk. He gestured to me to take a seat. “Very well, mon général. Consider it done.” He hung up and looked at me with a resigned expression. “The government has evaporated. Shops are being looted. The army is now in charge. And the Germans are only forty kilometers away. We expect their arrival any day now. Paris will be declared an open city.”

“Why?”

“Because there is no point defending it, it’s already lost,” he said.

“What is the orange fog?” I asked.

“The army is setting the petrol reserves on fire as it retreats.” He took my notebook in his hands, licking his index finger each time he turned the page. “Things are about to get very dangerous for you, monsieur.”

“They took my gun,” I said.

“You don’t have a license for it. Technically, we could have you arrested.” He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m a German—you could have me arrested for that too.”

“True. But what would it achieve? Your compatriots will be here soon enough. Thankfully for you, the gun was empty. Given the circumstances, we can let that go.”

“Will it be returned to me when I leave?”

“Monsieur, please, be reasonable.” He looked back at the notebook. “So this is what you write?”

“They’re notes for a book I hope to publish some day.”

“What is Shéhérazade?”

I wasn’t sure if he was being serious. “She’s a character in the Arabian Nights.”

Massu blinked. “I see. Why is her name written in your notebook?” He held the notebook up for my scrutiny, opened to the last of the written pages. There, in handwriting other than mine, was scrawled the word Shéhérazade.

“I’ve never seen it before. Perhaps you wrote it.”

“Now why would I do that?” He examined the word. “The Arabian Nights, you say.”

“Yes, it’s a medieval story cycle, in which the heroine marries a murderous king and saves her own life by telling him tales.”

“Is that so?” Massu drummed his fingers on his chin.