“On time,” said Brother Peter. “I’ve always wanted to witness a real miracle, and here it is. A good sign, Mme. Sonnier.”

He and the soldier saw her to the plane. “Sagol” said the soldier.

“Sagol to you, too. And you, Brother Peter.”

She was in Ankara by noon, in Istanbul by evening. That night, she slept seven miles above the earth on a jet bound for Paris.

24. M. Cheverny

Mr. Cheverny

Customs at Orly came as a welcome anticlimax; a yawning official barely glanced at her papers before stamping them.

She was in France.

The airport teemed with arriving passengers. Amira towed Karim with one hand, clutching the bag containing all she owned in the other. If they were hunting her, they would be here. Who might be a hunter? A Turk- ish-looking man scanning the crowd—had he lost someone, or was it an act? A couple who might be Iranian conversing near a ticket counter—did the woman glance Amira’s way? A blue-jeaned young man lounging on a bench, reading a textbook—wasn’t he a little old for a student?

She found a telephone, changed a ten-franc note, and tried to remember which coin was needed. Suddenly, someone was beside her.

The man in blue jeans. “Mme. Sonnier?”

Should she deny it? Run? What?

He smiled. “My name is Paul. I work for Maurice Cheverny. You are calling him?”

“Yes.” Thank God.

“Go ahead.” He inserted a coin for her.

Cheverny’s voice was rich and cautiously cordial. “Welcome to Paris, Mme. Sonnier. You had a safe journey?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We have work to do, but there’s no rush now that you’re here. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I imagine you need rest. Paul is with you?”

“Yes.”

“Let me speak with him.”

She handed over the receiver. Paul listened and said, “Ça va,” then “Non,” then “Oui, m’sieur” and hung up.

He had a car. As they pulled away from the airport, Amira could not help glancing over her shoulder.

“No one is following,” said Paul. “There was no one watching you in the airport, either.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “Part of my job.” He was tall and thin, almost frail, but somehow he reminded her of Jabr.

“What do you know about me?”

“Only that someone is looking for you—someone with the full resources of a foreign government—and that M. Cheverny does not wish for you to be found.”

“Where are we going?”

“A hotel that M. Cheverny sometimes uses for clients who require … privacy. Small, very discreet, quite nice.”

It was more than nice; it was a quietly elegant jewel a few blocks north of the Seine.