She returned a moment later with a stack of cards and letters, neatly bound, as always, with a scented pink ribbon. Martineau went upstairs to his apartment. He switched on the television, turned to Channel 2, then went into the kitchen to make coffee. Over the sound of running water, he heard the familiar voice of the French Interior minister. He shut off the tap and went calmly into the sitting room. He remained there, standing frozen before the television screen, for the next ten minutes.

The Israelis had chosen to alert the French. Martineau had expected they might resort to that. He knew that the increase in the threat level would mean a change in security tactics and procedures at critical sites all around Paris, a development that required one minor adjustment in his plans. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

“I’d like to change a reservation, please.”

“Your name?”

“Dr. Paul Martineau.”

“Ticket number?”

Martineau recited it.

“At the moment you’re scheduled to return to Aix-en-Provence from Paris tomorrow morning.”

“That’s right, but I’m afraid something has come up and I need to return earlier than expected. Can I still get on an early-evening train tonight?”

“There are seats available on the seven-fifteen.”

“First class?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take one, please.”

“Are you aware of the government’s terror warning?”

“I’ve never put much stock in those sorts of things,” Martineau said. “Besides, if we stop living, the terrorists win, do they not?”

“How true.”

Martineau could hear the tapping of fingers upon a computer keyboard.

“All right, Dr. Martineau. Your booking has been changed. Your train departs at seven-fifteen from the Gare de Lyon.”

Martineau hung up the phone.

24 TROYES, FRANCE

24

TROYES, FRANCE

“SUMAYRIYYA? YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT Sumayriyya? It was Paradise on Earth. Eden. Fruit orchards and olive groves. Melons and bananas, cucumbers and wheat. Sumayriyya was simple. Pure. Our life moved to the rhythms of the planting and the harvest. The rains and the drought. We were eight hundred in Sumayriyya. We had a mosque. We had a school. We were poor, but Allah blessed us with everything we needed.”

Listen to her, thought Gabriel as he drove. We . . . Our . . . She was born twenty-five years after Sumayriyya was wiped from the face of the map, but she spoke of the village as though she’d lived there her entire life.

“My grandfather was an important man. Not a muktar, mind you, but a man of influence among the village elders. He had forty dunams of land and a large flock of goats. He was considered wealthy.” A satirical smile. “To be wealthy in Sumayriyya meant that you were only a little bit poor.”

Her eyes darkened. She looked down at the gun, then at the French farmland rushing past her window.