She was doubled forward now, with her head between her knees. He grabbed her by the neck and pulled her upright, then lifted the veil and examined the damage to her face. From his expression it was unclear whether he thought they had been too hard on her or too lenient. She gazed back at him. Leather trench coat, cashmere scarf, small round spectacles with tortoiseshell rims: the very picture of a successful Zurich moneyman. His dark eyes radiated a calculating intelligence. His expression was identical to the one he had worn the moment of their first meeting.

“Who are you working for?” he asked benevolently.

“I work”—she coughed violently—“for Zizi.”

“Breathe, Sarah. Take long slow breaths.”

“Don’t—hit—me—anymore.”

“I won’t,” he said. “But you have to tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“I want to know who you’re working for.”

“I told you—I work for Zizi.”

His face betrayed mild disappointment. “Please, Sarah. Don’t make this difficult. Just answer my questions. Tell me the truth, and this entire disagreeable episode will be over.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Unfortunately, this is true,” he said, as though agreeing with her assessment of the weather. “But if you tell us what we want to know, you’ll be spared the knife, and your death will be as painless as possible. If you persist in these lies, your last hours on earth will be a living hell.”

His cruelty is limitless, she thought. He speaks of my beheading but doesn’t have the decency to look away.

“I’m not lying,” she said.

“You’ll talk, Sarah. Everyone talks. There’s no use trying to resist. Please, don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s—”

“I want to know who you’re working for, Sarah.”

“I work for Zizi.”

“I want to know who sent you.”

“Zizi came for me. He sent me jewels and flowers. He sent me airline tickets and bought me clothing.”

“I want to know the name of the man who contacted you on the beach at Saline.”

“I don’t—”

“I want to know the name of the man who spilled wine on my colleague in Saint-Jean.”

“What man?”

“I want to know the name of the girl with the limp who walked by Le Tetou during Zizi’s dinner party.”

“How would I know her name?”

“I want to know why you were watching me at my party. And why you suddenly decided to pin your hair up. And why you were wearing your hair up when you went jogging with Jean-Michel.”

She was weeping uncontrollably now. “This is madness!”