“Oh, but I don’t want to escape,” He gave her a white smile. “You didn’t realize that?”

“No. No. I guess I didn’t. But, Star…”

“Look—I’m not dumb, all right?” She heard another of those unpredictable flashes of anger. “No one ever escapes. Today, tomorrow, next week—they close in and they finish you off. Meantime, you’re my hostage—this is a hostage situation, right? So you know what they do, I know what they do. They evacuate the building. They surround the building. They put their best fucking snipers up on the roofs. They move into the apartments opposite, and next door and underneath. They install their listening devices so they know what room you’re in. They make a telephone connection. They get some smooth fuck, some asshole shrink, to talk to you on the phone. They start in on their psycho-profiles, right? And meantime, they’re oh-so-nice, oh-so-fucking-cooperative. You tell them you want a car, a plane, a helicopter—some shit like that—and they never miss a beat. They say, sure, Star, no problem—anything else we can get you? You’d like a yacht, maybe? Concorde? How about we fix you up on the Orient Express?”

He laughed. “You think I’m dumb enough to buy all that? I’ve watched the movies a million times…Make a left here…and I know what they do. They let you sweat. They wait for the tension to get to you. They wear you down. They figure, sooner or later you’re going to need to sleep, you’re going to start to crack. And then, when they figure they’ve got the timing right, they send them in. And those guys—SWAT, the SAS, the GIGN—they’re good. Thirty seconds—less—and you’re out of there, Gini. And me—you know what’s happened to me? The same as happens to all the other poor fucks: I’m dead, like some fucking rat in a fucking hole…” He gave a long, slow sigh. “Well, I don’t plan on dying like that. Never did.”

Gini listened to this long recitation in silence. Its accuracy chilled her. She gripped the steering wheel hard. They had just turned into the far end of the rue de Rennes. Three blocks ahead was Mathilde Duval’s apartment building. She slowed.

“But you do plan on dying?” she said quietly. “Is that it?”

“Maybe.” He shot her a secretive look, then smiled. “That worries you, doesn’t it?”

“Sure. You die—I die. I have this feeling you just pronounced my death sentence.” She felt some nerve return and glanced at him. “Though I don’t see how I get to write your story if I’m dead.”

“You’ll find out. Soon enough.” He gave another secretive smile. “Just don’t ask questions—okay? I don’t like women who ask fucking questions all the time. I—what the fuck are you doing?”

Gini had just seen the pedestrians ahead of her—seen them, and recognized them. Walking slowly, forty yards in front, still about twenty yards short of Madame Duval’s building: Pascal and Marianne.

They were hand in hand. Pascal had his camera case slung over his shoulder. He was bending toward Marianne slightly, listening to her. Marianne was skipping along, chattering, her face lifted to her father’s. Gini hit the accelerator pedal. Star jabbed the gun hard in her crotch.