His regard was, Lindsay knew, returned. And his promise that Quest would talk to him but no one else seemed now to be confirmed. Lindsay could not hear what Quest was saying, but she was speaking rapidly, with emphasis.

Lindsay hoped she was coming up with some useful information, since the quest for Quest had used up an entire evening. She and Markov had begun by canceling the Grand Vefour—the headwaiter had not been amused. Then they had chased around Paris, visiting what Markov claimed were Quest’s favorite evening haunts. Lindsay had followed Markov up and down a particularly lonely stretch of the Seine; she had shivered in the medieval streets of the Île St. Louis, and shivered again in some tiny Russian Orthodox church, where Quest—according to Markov—came every evening to pray.

“What does she pray for, Markov?” Lindsay had asked.

“Don’t know.” Markov lit a candle—for Maria Cazarès, he claimed. “Spiritual enlightenment? Cows?”

“For heaven’s sake, Markov. I’m freezing. Can we go? I’m giving up on Quest. She’s not going to know anything anyway.”

“She will. You should get to know her better, Lindy. You’d like her. You could learn from her too.”

“Learn what?” Lindsay started moving off to the door.

“How to be alone. That’s valuable.”

Lindsay had not replied; she eased back the huge door of the church, and the wind gusted. Behind her, pyramids of candles guttered, the gold of icons burned. Lindsay could smell incense, that tang of religion; she was not a churchgoer, and she occasionally found Markov too Californian.

“Hurry up,” she said, making for the street and the city air. That church had been their penultimate port of call. Then they had come here, to this back-street restaurant, high on the hill of Montmartre, down an alleyway, with a slanting view up to the floodlit white dome of Sacré-Coeur.

The visitations, the delays, seemed to have been fruitful. Lindsay could feel the odd journey they had made, five hours plus of searching, working in her mind; she could feel Markov’s earlier comments too, bubbling away like yeast. He was returning to her table now, his face bright with discoveries evidently made.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking Lindsay’s arm. “You’re not going to believe this. I’ll drive you back to the hotel. We can talk in the car.”

In the car, the CD kicked in as soon as he started the engine. “My Foolish Heart” had been rejected, it seemed, in favor of an old Annie Lennox number, a great Annie Lennox number: Lindsay heard that love was a stranger in an open car. She leaned forward and switched off the sound.

“That isn’t a message I want to hear right now,” she said.

“Why not? Great song. Great singer. Great lyrics. The essential impetuosity of l’amour. I feel it speaking to me, Lindy…”

“So do I. That’s the problem. Anyway, I want you to talk. Come on—what did she say?”

“She said… some very interesting things.” Markov, who drove fast and well, and who could provide information fast and well when he chose to do so, accelerated.