She lifted her face to his, her eyes wide and fixed on his. He felt a second’s terror that she would cry, or argue, or cling to him. Then he saw her features become set and still and determined. She nodded, and Pascal, seeing for the first time how much she was his daughter, felt a sudden tight and agonizing love for her. He pressed her hand in his, ran soundlessly back along the sidewalk and up the steps. More tiny, quick flashes of information as his hand closed over Gini’s and he helped her insert the key in the lock. The gun was a Beretta, a 93R, he saw, and the man holding it was unused to firearms, hyped, but with a delayed reaction speed. Pascal watched his white face and jittery eyes. He thought he wasn’t really aware of Pascal, hadn’t taken him in until they were all three in the lobby with the entrance doors shut. Then, in the middle of that black-and-white chessboard floor, with the elevator behind him, Gini clasped in front of him, and the gun still thrusting at her neck, jabbing under her chin, he seemed to see Pascal for the first time. Slow the film down, Pascal thought, because he could see the man had some movie racing in front of his eyes, looping, too many frames per second, so he’d get sense, then a gap, sense, then a gap.

Pascal met his eyes and smiled at him as if they were old acquaintances. Shouldering his camera bag, he said, “You want me to get the elevator? Which floor?”

The simplicity of the question seemed to help the man.

“Just get the gates,” he said.

Pascal did so, moving slowly, without threat. The man backed inside, still clutching Gini, still jabbing the gun at her throat. Pascal made to close the doors on them, then, at the last moment, held them and inserted his foot in the space.

He was trying to read Gini’s expression, trying to pick up some tiny hint. He could make no violent move, and no threat. Gini’s eyes, wide with fear, had been fixed on him. As he held the door, he saw her face become tight with meaning. He saw her look very deliberately at his camera case.

“Can I help?” Pascal said, trying to read this message. “I work with Gini, you see, and”—he frowned, then understood—“I’m a photographer…”

“You are?” The man was staring at him, his eyes glazed, then alert. He made a small twitchy movement.

“That’s cameras?” He jerked his head at Pascal’s case. “You have cameras in there?”

There was, just perceptibly, something that might have been excitement, even awe, in his voice.

“Sure. Cameras. Lenses. Film. Color. Monochrome…”

“Well, what d’you know? Now, how about that?”

The man gave a small shiver. He kept the gun under Gini’s chin, and his eyes on Pascal.

“This is Pascal Lamartine,” Gini said in a low voice. “He and I—we work together…”

“Look, why don’t I come up with you?” Pascal stepped into the elevator. He stood well back, by the gate. “Which floor?”