“Pardonnez-moi,” he said, apologizing for startling me. “Je ne voulais pas vous effrayer.” A homeless guy with a surprisingly young face half-hidden under a scraggly beard and matted hair.

I dug around in my pocket, came up with a handful of damp, crumpled euros, and handed them to him.

He thanked me and wished me “bonne chance.”

I wished him good luck as well. I felt like we both needed it. I was tired, my body aching and heavy, the day finally catching up to me. And I was lost.

I huddled under a bus stop, got my cell phone out, and ordered an Uber. I felt for the paper in my jacket lining again, my mind churning with thoughts and images—Yves Chaudron’s initials in the paintings, the dead girl on the staircase, Smith’s threats—so I didn’t see anything until the blow came against my back. Stunned and stumbling, I turned but was hit again, and this time, I went down, knees against concrete, filthy water splashing into my face, my mouth. I looked up to see the man who had been fighting with me and Smith, the recognition processed in split seconds before he hauled me to my feet, knife at my neck, a hiss in my ear. “You have other papers.”

“I already gave them to you,” I said, trying to breathe, to think.

“Time to kill you.”

“No—wait. You’re right. There are other pages, but they’re—in my hotel room.”

“Perhaps your life means nothing to you,” he said, his flat, colorless eyes on mine as he drew the knife around to the back of my neck, slid it across my skin. “It is up to you.”

I didn’t think, thrust my arm into his gut, heard the air go out of him, saw him stagger and hold his side, then fall. I sprinted down the street, saw the Uber turning onto it, waved my arms, shouted for it to stop, pulled the door open, “Allez! Allez! Go! Go!” I said, collapsing into the back seat, winded, in shock.

I looked back to see the man on the ground getting to his feet and staring after the car as we drove away.

The driver asked what I’d been doing in such a bad neighborhood, but I didn’t answer, intently checking the lining of my jacket to make sure the paper was still there. I touched the back of my neck, and my hand came away stained with blood. Then I noticed my knuckles and palms were scraped, the knees of my jeans torn and bloodied.

I fumbled the card from my shirt pocket, hands shaking. Not feeling very tough anymore, I got the cell phone to my ear and made the call.

64

I slammed the palm of my hand against the hotel room door, knuckles too bruised to make a fist.

Smith opened it. He was in boxer shorts and a tee, eyes puffy from sleep.

“Attacked—” I said before my knees gave out.

He got an arm around me, led me to the bathroom, knocked the toilet seat down, and told me to sit. Helped me out of my jacket, then my shirt, ran a washcloth under cold water, dabbed at the back of my neck. “It’s nothing, just a flesh wound,” he said, opened the medicine cabinet, came out with a bottle of alcohol, swabbed the back of my neck, then helped me up again.