He watched the man’s face carefully. He had expected some reaction when he moved through the gates, but there was none. The man seemed to be reacting to his name; as soon as Gini used it, he registered racing disbelief, then glazed incomprehension, then—as they traveled upward, and he seemed to get a fix on the name, a curious elation and relief.

Not in the elevator, Pascal was thinking, and not in the tenth-floor lobby either. These spaces were too confined, and the man was still holding Gini too tight. In the apartment, he thought as the man tossed him some keys and told him to open the door; yes, here, Pascal thought as they entered a large, overfurnished room: here—when he finally moves away, if he relaxes, loses concentration…

“I know you, Pascal…” The man’s face now wore an expression of almost messianic triumph. He had had the sense to position himself with his back to the fireplace wall, with Gini still in front of him, the gun still at her neck.

“I know you. I’ve followed your work. I have pictures of yours. Those ones of Caroline of Monaco you took? Remember those? I clipped those. And that American movie star—Sonia Swan? Those were great. I clipped those too. You work for all my favorite magazines—Paris Match, People…” He frowned. “I haven’t seen your stuff so much recently…”

“No. I’ve been doing other things recently. You know how it is.”

“Sure. Sure. I do. I mean, it must have been tough, getting in so close to all those celebrities, getting past the security, the dogs. Taking the pictures the world wasn’t meant to see… I loved that. I mean, that bitch Sonia Swan, no better than a hooker. You showed us what she really was.” He was quivering with excitement. Pascal thought: how ironic. The three years of his own life he most despised, the three years of his life that shamed him still—and yet they were the three years that were useful now. He looked at this man, and thought: a specific kind of insanity; a fan; a fanatic.

“I still have pictures of yours I clipped.” He gave a high-pitched laugh. “I’ve got them here. I keep some of my things here, in my mother’s room across the hall. We could look at them later, maybe? They’re in this suitcase, under the bed…” He paused again, then regained control. He gave another small, twitchy movement.

“So, listen, Pascal—you’re smart, right? This is what I want you to do. I want you to go through this apartment, every room, and close the shades and the drapes. Put the lights on and leave them on. Then go in the kitchen and get me some water. Bottled water, okay, out of the fridge. Mathilde keeps it there for me. Bring the sealed bottle and a glass. And don’t stop being smart, Pascal, because—”

“No. No. Sure. I understand.”

Pascal moved to the windows of this room. He was calculating time. Five minutes? Ten? Would they use sirens, or opt for the silent approach?