Gray had still not been able to light a cigarette or even move his arm. "Why don't you just say it, Vadime."

"Nicky, listen. There are always options in situations like this. Dutch intercession. A presidential review—"

"Just say it, Vadime. They're going to kill her ..."

His friend's silence was loud confirmation. He got up from his chair and moved to the edge of the terrace. After another moment he began to work the shoulder, began to work it up and down, back and forth. It was still stiff but he could handle the pain.

"Where is she?"

"Nicky, don't do it."

"Where?"

"Saint-Lazare. Nicky, for Christsakes listen to me—"

"And where's Dunbar?"

"Nicky, please."

"Where?"

"Fourth floor at the Continental. Nicky, don't do this."

Gray turned and looked at him, watching that good eye as it shut to avoid the issue. "I'm not asking you to help. I just don't want you to try and stop me."

"Nicky, if you could only see yourself for a moment, just one moment—"

"I will, however, need that revolver you're carrying. And a few rounds of ammunition."

"Nicky, how can you possibly think that she's worth this? How can you possibly think that anyone is worth this?"

Gray began working the shoulder again—up and down, back and forth. "You never did like her much, did you Vadime? I mean you never really liked her, did you?"

Again, his friend's silence was loud confirmation.

Gray left just after dark, moving on foot through the back streets, de Massloff's revolver in the waistband of his trousers. A warm breeze had temporarily replaced the rain, filling the air with the familiar scents of charcoal and refuse, vegetables and oil, damp leaves from surrounding gardens.

After the first mile on foot he realized that his shoulder was hurting again, so he sat for a while until the pain subsided. Then he pushed on, because, after all, she had been waiting a long time too. There were military caravans everywhere, but only the boulevards were still alive. There were a number of prostitutes along the side streets, but no one perfect enough to kill for.

It was close on to ten when he reached the Continental. The doorman had retired and the night clerk seemed half asleep. Like all of Dunbar's favorite hotels, the ambiance was definitely English. There were odors of boiled meat and bay rum, potted rubber plants in the tearoom. There was even a portrait of the King—who according to some had also once made love to Zelle.