For a few minutes, Brad thought his ploy had failed. The general returned to his house but appeared again with a short, squat man in tow, most likely an aide, summoned to question the strapping young fisherman who had recently shown up on his neighbor’s property. Brad pretended total absorption in removing a streamer lure from his hook, but he had the eyes of a dragonfly and was keenly aware of the scene going on on the other side of the hedge.

As he approached, the aide called in French with a German accent, “You there, Frenchman! Who are you and what are you doing on Madame Gastain’s property?”

Brad, pretending surprise, said, “Ich bin Deutscher.” (I am German.)

The aide seemed taken aback and repeated the question in their mutual language.

Brad appeared flustered. “Why, I am…just fishing. Madame gave me permission. I’ve rented the rooms above her stable.” He gestured toward the upper story of a handsome structure whose purebred occupants had long been sold for meat.

“What do you do?” the aide asked.

“I am a fishing guide for a riverboat company in the fifteenth arrondissement.”

“The name of the company?”

“Claude Allard Fishing Tours.”

“And your name?”

“Barnard Wagner.”

The aide motioned toward Brad’s fly rod and his open tackle box with its assortment of artificial bait. “A fly-fisherman?”

“Ja.”

“Ach so,” the man said in apparent satisfaction and set off to report to the general. They conversed a few minutes, then Brad’s mark dismissed his aide and, as Brad had hoped, started toward him. Fly-fishermen were a breed apart. They belonged to an exclusive club—a cult—that paid no heed to social rank or other boundaries. Brad watched the general’s approach. Even out of uniform, in casual, everyday wear, Major General Konrad March’s military stride left little question of his profession and rank. He was middle-aged and carried a small paunch, but he walked with an air of authority and the agility of a strong and fit younger man.

At the hedge, he paused without a smile, but the lack of it told Brad nothing. Men in his position had a face trained to remain neutral, but Brad thought he saw a trace of sadness far back in his eyes, no meanness, which was surprising, given the man’s line of work. He understood the general had lost his wife a few years back. The loss of a spouse…human eyes had a certain bareness to them when a mate died. He’d seen it in his mother’s every day.