Lindsay almost fell, then recovered her balance. She clung to Markov.

“What on earth… I thought they used them only for riots—antiterrorist stuff?”

“Don’t argue with them, that’s for sure.” Markov gave a little smile. “Seriously bad news. Not renowned for their sense of humor. And positively bristling with arms. Quite delectable though—don’t you think, Lindy? All that black leather? Those wicked fascist boots?”

“What are they doing? And stop showing off…”

Markov, here today in his capacity as a celebrity, gave another small smile. He always played to the crowd, and his comments had been made in a loud voice.

“I rather think,” he said more quietly, “that they’re filtering people out. They’re making for the animal pen right now. No, don’t look—we’re nearly inside.”

They surged through to the entrance doors. Beyond, Lindsay could see rows of gold chairs, banks of cameras, the glitter of lights. Black-dressed female Cazarès minions were patrolling the sanctum, spraying scent from cut-glass bottles. She smelled spring, the scent of narcissus and hyacinth: L’Aurore. She glanced back one last time. The animal pen was a small area, chain-link-fenced, off to the side of the courtyard. It was crammed with the young, the poor, and the impassioned: art students, fashion students, fans; a few might possess admission tickets, most would not. Every year, at every collection, some of them would manage using guile, deception, theft, forgery, or sometimes force, to get in. Lindsay found their desperation frightening. It was like her own, but she felt—irrationally—that it was worse.

And Markov was right, she saw; it was these people who seemed the focus of the attentions of the black-garbed special police. She could just see a tall, dark, long-haired young man being yanked to the side. He was screaming abuse, being pulled by the hair. As she was propelled forward through the entrance doors, he gave a sudden scream of pain; then his yells stopped.

It was past eleven; even at Cazarès, where events were usually organized with near-military precision, the collection would begin late. The salon was still less than half full, its space a bewilderment of color and movement, of air kisses and embraces and shrieks. The usual arguments were breaking out about seating; the usual accusations and miniaturized fights. At Chanel yesterday, two exquisitely dressed women had come to blows; they had hit each other with their identical quilted, gold-chained Chanel bags. Both Markov and Lindsay had enjoyed this.

It was as always—and yet it was not as always. Once she was seated, and as the great room began to fill, Lindsay realized there were police inside as well as outside—not GIGN, but plainclothes police. They were moving along the back rows, and they had a dog handler with them. She stared in astonishment and craned her neck. It was difficult to see exactly what was going on because the seating was tiered and the lights dazzled her eyes, but there was obviously a serious security alert. She could feel a new tension in the room, a buzz of rumor and alarm. It spread from the photographers clustered around the end of the runway up and through the room. She caught little whispered clutches of words and sudden nervous glances: bomb, terrorist threat, sniffer dogs.