“I’m here.”

“Anything Analyst Smith was investigating is no longer your concern. No longer his concern either. His work here is finished. Are we clear about that?”

“Perfectly,” I said and hung up.

I went through the motions of cleaning my loft, a way to work off my anger. Was it that INTERPOL didn’t care about these unscrupulous art collectors or that anything connected with Smith had been discredited, dismissed?

Anything Analyst Smith was investigating is no longer your concern. No longer his concern either.

Cabenal’s words played in my mind as I made a show of organizing my desk, crumpling papers, jamming pens and pencils into a holder.

His work here is finished. Well sure, he was dead.

I stopped a moment, stared out the window at a neighboring building without seeing it, kept hearing Cabenal’s words, something about them odd, the phrasing off—no longer his concern—his work here is finished. Did that imply it was not finished elsewhere? Was it possible she had just told me that Smith was alive?

I replayed the call I had made to the hospital in Paris.

Mr. Smith is no longer in critical care.

At the time, I had assumed that meant he’d died, reinforced by the fact that Cabenal had never let me know if Smith survived, which had been our deal. But what did she care about a deal with me? She was finished with me and with Smith—dead or alive.

I called her back, but this time, it went to voicemail. I didn’t bother to leave a message. I got the international operator for Lyon, France, asked for John Washington Smith. No listing. But somewhere, I had Smith’s number; I was sure of it, remembered him handing me his card. No, he hadn’t handed it to me, he’d stuffed it into my shirt pocket. And after that? I thought for a moment, remembered calling him, scrolled through my call log but nothing looked familiar. So where had I called him from? The taxi—after I was attacked. Right.

I dug out my wallet, went through it, and there it was, the small white card jammed in between euros and dollars.

I listened to the phone ring three, four, five times. Maybe I was crazy; maybe Smith was dead. Then his voicemail kicked in. “Leave a message.” That was it, no identification, but definitely his voice. An old message? Would his phone still be working if he were dead? Maybe.

“Smith,” I said, “this is Luke Perrone. I have something to tell you. Call me back, uh, if you’re alive—”

I hung up. A moment later, my phone rang.

“Perrone.”

“Holy shit! You are alive!”

“How did you get this number?”

“You gave it to me, remember? Jesus, all this time, I thought you were dead.”

“I may as well be.”

“Self-pity never suited you, Smith.”

“Fuck you, Perrone.”

“Fuck you too. Just tell me, are you in one piece?”

“I’ve got more stitches than a football, but I’m fine.”

“Cabenal told me you were dead. Not exactly. She said there was little chance you’d survive, internal organs punctured, shit like that.”