The old man’s car keys hung on a rusty nail by the kitchen sink. Pyotr calmly turned off the kettle. Then he slung the first sack over his shoulder, went down to the alley by the side of the house, and opened the door of the Renault. The woman fit into the trunk; the man he placed on the backseat. He reversed carefully into rue Lunette. Then he drove back to the dingy basement. The best thing about that building was the underground parking lot. He had selected it with his usual caution, and that painstaking preparation was about to pay off. Nobody would see him unload these two. And nobody would see him leave.

“But who are they?” Natasha asked, almost pleading.

She stared in fascination as Pyotr laid each body out on the bed: the man looked distressed, his face livid with blood, his eyes red; the woman simply frozen and slack-jawed. She knew he had killed them. She did not care. She gazed at Pyotr, feeling her passion mount. He trusted her enough to show her what he had done. She was his partner. His woman.

Natasha thought of Aud, briefly, and with hatred. Her fingers tightened on Pyotr’s sleeve. No woman would ever be to him what she would be. He shared this with her, and only her.

“How can you ask that?” Pyotr said, grinning. “That’s your brother. And sister-in-law.”

She stared at him, not daring to ask more.

“Step back.” He produced a small can of petrol from the back of the car, doused the two bodies with it, and sprinkled the bed and the heat lamp. “Move towards the door. We don’t want any of this on your pretty dress.”

She obeyed him.

“Walk out onto the pavement. Cross the street, and wait for me by the Café d’Argent. Go.”

A minute later, hovering on one foot, she saw him, Pyotr, walking fast, and intently, and smiling. Natasha glanced towards the window slit—smoke, black and thick, was pouring up from it.

“Turn around,” he said, not looking at her. “Walk down the street. Keep going until you get to the Métro station. Then get in and ride to the Tuileries. There’s a restaurant there, Il Greco. A table is booked under the name Pierre Massot.”

Natasha stared at him, nervously.

“If the maître d’ should ask, your name is Katherine Massot,” he said. “And you’re my mother.”

She opened her mouth to ask a question. But he had gone, vanished down a side street. She hesitated, but then heard shouts—people had noticed the fire; a woman yelled, and the acrid scent of smoke hit her nostrils.

She put her head down and walked in the direction he had commanded her.

“Please, Pyotr . . .”

“Pierre,” he replied sharply. “Get used to it . . . Maman.”

“Pierre.” Natasha felt sick. “Please, darling . . . tell me something . . . what is happening . . . ?”

He nodded.