“A good vintage,” he noted. It was Perrier Jouët ’74, and there was a Mouton-Rothschild claret to go with the main dish. An appetizer of goat cheese and caramelized onion tart with a radic chio and rocket salad, deliciously bitter with the sweetness of the onion; a substantial, rich steak tartare with creamed spinach; and a dark chocolate flourless cake with ginger ice cream. Ah, God—not that he believed in God—the food, the food in France!

He had longed for this, his birthright; imagined it, and it was here. Lazard had died, and horribly. Pierre had no doubts—the bright star of his destiny remained in the ascendant.

Soon House Massot would be his again; he would settle in the château; wife and child would be under his control. . . .

“You were going to tell me, darling,” Judy prompted. “If you feel up to it, of course . . .”

“Yes.” Pierre assumed his most engaging stare, and was rewarded by a loving smile. He took a sip of champagne to cover his disdain.

“You deserve to know. I believe I told you of Lazard’s promise to be loyal . . . to take care of my business.”

She nodded.

“I went to Russia that day. I left everything behind. Everything. My family. The houses, my wealth. Everything. You ...” He ran a finger down her cheek and despite herself, Judy shivered with fear. Pierre looked at her, and continued. “Briefly. I will omit . . .” He would give her the bowdlerized version. “I had documents . . . maps of an area in Siberia, where Gregoire said kimberlite was found. You remember, I had been to Russia in my adolescence, and speak the language fluently?”

Judy nodded, her lips parted. She was swallowing that story the same way Lazard had done.

“I made my way to the area. It was very cold, even in summer; they mostly drill for natural gas that far north. There are mining towns.” He paused. “Bars. I made my way back to a bar I had known once before . . . long ago. It was still standing. The owner is an old man called Pyotr.” He smiled thinly. “He did not recognize me.”

“And the contacts?”

Pierre sliced off a portion of the goat cheese tart; it was superb. He enjoyed it, and continued.

“I called them to meet me at the bar. They took me out to the site in a jeep. . . . They had guns.” He shrugged. “This is normal, you understand, in the new Russia. Since the fall of Communism, there is lawlessness everywhere.”

“And was there kimberlite?”

“Oh, yes.” Pierre smiled coldly. “I could see lumps of rough in the ground, glinting under the snow. I got out of the truck and bent down to pick one up. And the chief of the men slammed the butt of his gun into my neck.”

Judy’s hand went to cover her mouth.