“It’s a pity to miss spring in Paris,” said Paul, after checking the security of her suite, “but please don’t leave the hotel. Call the concierge if you need anything. By the way, the room service is the best in the city.” When he was gone, Amira kicked off her shoes and luxuriated on the bed.

The phone rang. It was the concierge.

“What a shame, madame, that the airline should lose your luggage. All your wardrobe? If you will tell me your sizes and needs, I will have some things brought over for your selection.”

“How kind. But I’m carrying only a few thousand francs.”

“Do not disturb yourself over such matters, madame. It’s all arranged.” Coffee. She would have coffee. And a real meal. And a long, lazy rest. But before any of that, a long, hot bath. “Come on, young man,” she told Karim. For once, he didn’t object.

O

A gourmet lunch. New clothes for herself and Karim. A visit from Paul, who played with Karim and told amusing stories about Paris. A delicious dinner. Television—not readings from the Koran, as in al-Remal, but little movies, including an inscrutable American dream called Dallas.

Where was Philippe now? Was he safe? Had he made his way out of the wilds around Mount Ararat? That night she dreamed that she was drinking tea with him in a peasant’s mountain hut, snow everywhere around. The peasant smiled like J.R. on Dallas.

Maurice Cheverny called at nine in the morning. Could she meet with him at eleven? Good; he would send Paul.

A maid brought coffee, croissants, and Le Monde. As Amira spooned jam onto Karim’s plate, a headline caught her eye: “French Physician, Philanthropist Dies in Eastern Turkey.”

She dropped the spoon and ignored her son’s outcry.

Dr. Philippe Rochon … died Tuesday in an apparent accident south of Kars, Turkey … body found in a wild mountain river downstream from his wrecked car … search efforts under way for a woman and child believed to be traveling with him … extremely rugged terrain … Dr. Rochon, in addition to being one of the most esteemed members of his profession, endowed more than 100 scholarships to universities in France and abroad.

It couldn’t be true. It had to be a mistake. What had happened? What had gone wrong?

She called Cheverny.

“I’ve just seen it myself, madame. Paul is on the way. I’ve canceled my other appointments.”

O

Maurice Cheverny’s office overlooked Paris from one of the city’s new sky- scrapers. The attorney was a balding heavyset man in his early sixties. What remained of his hair was still black, slicked straight back. He wore bifocals.