It was 10 o’clock at night, the black sky winking with bright stars. As the taxi sped him along the Boulevard Bargue in Montfermeil, Crane stared out alertly. It was said the two Frances met here: To his left spread tidy prewar family homes with neat gardens and carefully painted black steel fences, while to the right was his destination—a public housing project of big apartment blocks 10 stories high, sheltering thousands of immigrants and their French-born children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

The tenements were called Les Bosquets, “The Groves,” evoking visions of lush natural beauty. But what Crane saw through his taxi window was an asphalt-and-concrete jungle awash with graffiti, broken sidewalks, thirsty weeds and deep shadows. This was the last stop before homelessness for those who could afford no other shelter, which helped to explain its unemployment rate perennially hovering around 50 percent.

The bleak scene only increased the oddity of Crane’s presence: The man he was to meet was wealthy and powerful and about as likely to live in Les Bosquets as a nun in a Las Vegas whorehouse.

“Nous sommes ici,” Crane told the driver in perfect French. His mother had been French, and he had spent many happy childhood summers with her family in the Champagne country around Reims.

The driver responded instantly, pulling to the curb and announcing the fare. He stuck out his hand. “S’il vous plaît.” The expression on his worried face said it all—he was ready to leave now.

Pierre Crane handed over euros and climbed out into the night. Thirty-eight years old, he was tall and gangly with pasty skin, dull brown hair, a large nose and a long neck. Teased as a child because of his physical appearance, and called “The Crane” behind his back by his colleagues (he enjoyed the fact that he knew that), he had developed a quick sense of humor and an appreciation for being underestimated. In service to both, he also held a black belt in karate, about which few people knew—and had for 20 years.

Dressed casually in khaki trousers and a nylon jacket zippered up against a cool autumn wind, Crane turned slightly on the sidewalk as the taxi squealed into traffic. Keeping his gaze neutral, he watched as a half-dozen teenage boys reversed direction and headed toward him through a pool of lamplight, snapping their fingers and doing a pimp walk to Algerian hip-hop music blaring from the boom box one carried on a heavily muscled shoulder.

As they drew closer, Crane bent his knees slightly, found his balance and let his empty hands drift down to his sides, fingers unfurled.

The youths appraised him with stony gazes, their bodies still rolling and dipping.

He shrugged, grinned and touched the snap-brim of his cap.