The plane landed ten minutes late, but his mind was unwearied and clear as he jogged to the rental desk to pick up a car they had arranged for him—prepaid in cash, which indicated they had quite some network. He hated being so exposed in a car they could trace, but he hadn’t much choice. In twenty minutes he had a small Citroën and was leaving the airport precincts in greasy rain for a house in Arbonne le Forêt. He’d have to ignore the elements if he was to make it in under an hour, by the appointed time of half-past midnight. Being late was not an option for them or for Lucy. She should have taken her drugs by nine o’clock French time. To be a few hours late could be life-threatening.

The journey toward Fontainebleau and on to Arbonne was surprisingly swift in the deteriorating conditions. Nothing was on the road and Alex, who knew the route to Fontainebleau itself quite well, followed the additional directions without trouble. He turned into the village, swung along a lane, and started looking for house names on the walls. He came on the right house easily, as it was illuminated in an otherwise sleepy place. He knocked. A housekeeper came to the door.

“Je suis desolé…”

“Oui, Monsieur. Il attend. Entrez, s’il vous plaît.” She was nervous, and Alex realized something had been foisted on her unwillingly. She asked him to sit in a large room with great stone walls that had probably once been a simple farmhouse, but renovation had made it more baronial. There were photos of a very pretty young blond woman on the wall, with amazing cheekbones. Alex looked at them in confusion.

“No clues for you here, Dr. Stafford. The house belongs to a German actress who was once a lover of mine, but we haven’t been on good terms for years.” A dark-haired man of tanned complexion in a cream turtleneck and dark cord trousers came down a showy staircase from what must have been a converted attic or barn. This was not the voice on the phone. “She has no idea I’m here; and her pregnant daughter is in London…I’m not sure either of them would be happy to see me, so it would be politic to mind your manners.” A slight accent; unknown origin, now disguised behind English learned in an American school, Alex decided. He was reminded in looks—though not in manner—of a brilliant asthma and allergy specialist Alex knew, who was Israeli.