“They blindfolded me and drove me north—although I did not know that at the time. Then they flung me into a cell in an abandoned jail. They beat me and whipped me.”

“But why?”

He toyed with his steak—even telling it so simply, it was hard to contain his rage. Pierre ate a mouthful of the rich meat, forcing himself to chew slowly. He must not again lose control.

“Gregoire paid them,” he said.

“But you had more money. So much more money . . .”

“They were not interested. The head of the bandits was a cousin of Lazard’s. He had been paid to kill me, not capture me.”

“Gregoire—but—a cousin in Siberia?”

“His real name was Grigory Alexandrovich. He was from Russia, not France. And he had maintained his contacts from that netherworld.” Pierre shrugged. “I was guilty of miscalculation. Since he was such a poor executive . . . I assumed he had no skill at anything. He lied to me.”

Judy digested this. “But you were away for seven years. Almost eight.”

“And during that time, I never saw the sun, once.”

She was horrified. “You did not go mad?”

He lifted his head. “I am not weak. I survive. Lesser men cannot kill me.”

“Why didn’t they just shoot you?”

Pierre hesitated—the question took him back to that dark place, where he did not want to go: to the nightly beatings, the sessions with the knife, the rats . . .

“They kept me for their amusement,” he replied, slowly.

“How did you get away?”

“I focussed on one guard. He was the poorest of them all—late, otherwise sloppy on his shifts.” Pierre’s lip curled. “I promised him riches, and in the end he believed me. He snuck me food until I was improved in health, enough to travel, and he set aside clothes and boots for me. Eventually, one night, he brought me a gun. His name was Mikhail.” His eyes drifted away. “We shot the bandits after their evening meal, when they were drunk around the fire.”

Pierre did not elaborate. He recalled the moment with perfect clarity; the satisfaction of aiming multiple rounds into the stomach of each man, so that they would take hours to die—horrible, brutal hours, helpless and terrified.

“And when we were done, I shot Mikhail.”

“But why?” Judy whispered. She had not touched her meal.

“Why do you think?” An indifferent shrug. “Because for seven years, I had not seen the sun. Do you know what kept me going during that time?”

She shook her head.

“Julius Caesar,” Pierre said. “He was captured by pirates, who took him to their lair and held him for ransom. He told them he would return and crucify them all. The ransom was paid, and they released him. A year later, he returned, hunted them down, and nailed them to their crosses.” His eyes glittered. “I had no crosses. But,” he said softly, “I made do.”