“Some of Farouk’s followers came to France. That means the French government accommodated them. And if Sylvie’s grandfather was a legionnaire, he may have been involved. He might even have been part of the evacuation, maybe developed some sort of connection. A love affair or a friendship. I’m talking a couple of generations back, but these ties endure, especially if you’re in an alien culture. Then the kids are part of the same circle. You know what I mean. When you were a kid, you played with my friends’ kids, right?”

Elizabeth smiled. “But Richie Goodman and Tim Stillings haven’t tried to break into my apartment,” she said.

“And they certainly wouldn’t ever harm you,” said Lucy, her mind a confusing whirl of possible motives. “They would protect you.”

“So it’s some other faction, some rival faction, that killed Sylvie,” said Elizabeth.

“Unless,” said Lucy, thinking out loud, “unless her grandfather did something against their families.”

“A love affair, that would do it,” said Elizabeth. “They’re all crazy about honor.”

“Then it could be a revenge killing,” said Lucy.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared this up,” said Elizabeth as the train glided into the Montparnasse station.

“Clear as mud,” said Lucy, remembering Richard’s assertion that the Arab Spring had created a huge power vacuum as dictatorships were toppled in some countries and civil war broke out in others. He’d said there were numerous factions, including Al-Qaeda and the Muslim Brotherhood, busy raising money in Paris. These groups didn’t go door-to-door, begging for donations. They went into the much more profitable drug trade or the black market. It was possible that Chef Larry and Sylvie had run afoul of somebody’s scheme, but whose?

They were making their way through the crowded Montparnasse train station to the Métro platform, which was busy with jostling commuters and noisy from the arriving trains and occasional loudspeaker announcements, when Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed, “Merde!”

“What is it?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, just one more reason why I hate France,” fumed Elizabeth. “The transit workers are having yet another slowdown. They just announced it. They’re désolés, of course, which is one word I’ve really come to despise. They’re not the least bit sorry, much less seriously grieved at all. They’re pleased as punch to cause a lot of trouble for everybody.”

“They must have their reasons,” said Lucy.

“Oh, sure. Maybe they can have only twenty-nine instead of thirty sick days a year, or they won’t be able to retire until they’re fifty instead of forty-five, or their vacations have been cut back from six weeks to five.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” said Lucy.

“Not as much as you’d think,” growled Elizabeth as they descended the steps to a very crowded Métro platform.