“I tell you frankly, madame, that I am uncomfortable in this situation. I do not know if Jihan Sonnier is your true name—do not tell me—but I believe I can guess. In strict duty, I ought perhaps to alert the authorities to your presence. But I have my client to think of, and his instructions were quite specific.”

He unlocked a drawer and brought out a large envelope and a small one. He handed her the large one. ‘‘Dr. Rochon left this for you. He told me openly that it is a substantial sum of money, in cash—American dollars—and that I was to advise you to be very careful with it. He also instructed me to put you in touch with a plastic surgeon whose name he gave me. If you wish, I will call the man, and Paul can take you to him. Finally, there is this letter for you.” He handed over the smaller envelope.

The letter explained everything. “Pancreatic cancer … six months, no more—not good months, either … and this way, they will believe it.” Through her tears, Amira read the end of the letter. “I do not believe in an afterlife, but who knows? I’m not one of those doctors who can never be wrong. Perhaps we will meet again after all. Meanwhile, keep me alive in your heart. Be safe and happy, with your son. Good-bye, my love., ”

“Do you want to read it?” she asked the attorney. “No. But tell me what you can. Use general terms.”

“He was dying. He gave his life to help me and my son escape from … from great danger.”

“You were there when it happened?” “No.”

“Ah.” He removed his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Philippe Rochon was like a son to me,” he said simply, the lawyerly tone gone for an instant. He cleared his throat. “There is one more thing, madame.

Philippe—Dr. Rochon asked me to see to your acceptance at an American school, Harvard. I’ve corresponded with an old friend of mine, an assistant dean. I know nothing of your academic abilities, of course … Well, that’s neither here nor there. In this and all else, I’ll help you in any way I can. Do you want to see this surgeon?”

“Yes. As soon as possible.” He reached for the phone.

25. Enemies

Enemies

Barely a kilometer away, in the converted ancient regime hotel de ville that served as his Paris office, Malik stared at the Le Monde article. He knew it by heart now but still couldn’t make sense of it. Before, he at least had been able to make assumptions about his sister’s disappearance, to envision a pattern. Now he felt like a man stumbling in the dark who suddenly finds his foot hanging over empty space.