There were no more thoughts of London or New York. Those places were vulgar—beneath him. Pyotr saw Paris and desired it intensely, desired France like a lover. Here the women were unfailingly chic, the food excellent, the public spaces unsurpassed. It was worthy of him.

He changed direction. He would walk to the place Vendôme, his favourite spot in the city. The glorious open square, a vast column in its center upon which perched a statue of Napoleon, pleased him. Napoleon was an interesting man; Pyotr had no desire to risk his skin in battle, but otherwise . . .

It was a new world; there were easier ways to build empires.

But first, he had to erase the past.

He turned aside before reaching the square. Vendôme was the great center of the Parisian jewellery trade, and in the little side streets and cobbled alleys that surrounded it were satellites of the industry: gem merchants, hiding behind tiny, unmarked store fronts; leather goods salesmen; and watchmakers.

And there were also jewellers. Small timers, those who could not afford the high rents and luxury addresses of place Vendôme itself. Pyotr had been exploring the area for two months, very discreetly; he had worn caps, and glasses; he had gone early in the morning, late at night. He knew how to blend in. Already, his French was perfect.

Ah, here it was, the store of his target: shabby, run-down, with peeling paint on the doors and dirty windows facing the street. The stencilled name on the wooden sign said GILES MASSOT.

He pushed open the door. The little bell tinkled, and as he waited, glancing around at the almost bare shelves, the sawdust on the floor, the dust that lay thickly on the tops of the cabinets, he was rewarded; the terribly slow, dragging sound of old footsteps came down the wooden stairs in the back of the store.

It was the old man. He stumbled a little on the last step, and Pyotr rushed forward; he was in time, and Giles Massot clutched at his strong, wiry arms.

“Merci, merci mon brave.” The old fool smiled toothily at him. “You’re a good boy, Pierre. And I’m getting old . . .”

You certainly are. Pyotr lifted him up, returning the smile with a warmth he did not feel. He despised weakness in others more than anything. This man was a senile fool, and he was dirty. There was no pride in this house, or this shop.

“Thanks, my dear uncle,” he said. “I’m glad to see you so well. Where is Aunt Mathilde?”

“Preparing our breakfast.” Giles nodded proudly. “Why, you are just in time. She is laying out the patisserie now. You must come, you must join us.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Pierre said truthfully.

It was time. Why put it off? There was an optimum moment for action, and the moment was now.

“Mme Minette came to visit her yesterday.”