He’d been lingering with some German tourists a few yards away. They were watching the boats in the river. He was watching the woman on a bench, seeing her handbag loose on her shoulder. It would slide off with a grab, if he only had the courage to do it. Which he now felt sure he did. He could feel the virus from the cat inside him. The Christians were right. God moves in mysterious ways. He watched as the woman leaned toward the man she was with. Shamefully flirting where anyone could see. Her thoughts perhaps on licentious behavior. As his own, shamefully, started to be. She was beautiful, a Western goddess. And the man with her looked Arab. How did they come to be together? What kind of things did they do together? The Syrian had never seen a woman naked. He had never . . .

He smashed the thought down and darted away from the river rail and, passing behind the bench, grabbed the woman’s bag and ran.

Catherine jerked around and yelped. Majid jumped up but didn’t give chase, first looking down at Catherine to see if she was all right. She was shouting, “My bag! Son of a bitch!” So Majid started to run, but by then the thief had darted across the street and was sprinting down the opposite sidewalk, heading toward the doorway where Rafe, who had seen it all, was standing. The thief reached him and Rafe lunged, missing the man but getting hold of the strap of Catherine’s purse. The thief strained against it, and the strap broke, and the bag ended up in Rafe’s hand as the purse snatcher kept running and veered off into the maze of narrow streets that led away from the river. Rafe did not follow. He stood there holding the bag, looking slightly surprised, as if it had fallen from the sky and landed on him. This had all happened in seconds. And then Majid was beside him, and then Catherine was there, too, looking at Rafe, looking at her bag.

“Here,” Rafe said. He held it out to her.

“Rafe?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping,” he said.

“Here?”

Why not here? Rafe turned and looked at the shop in whose doorway he’d been sheltering. It was a high-end cosmetics boutique.

“For mascara?” said Majid.

“Were you following me?” said Catherine.

“No,” Rafe said. “Don’t be ridiculous. If I want to see you I know where to find you.” He was still holding his arm out, the purse in his hand. “Do you want this or not?”

She took it.

“I think the strap is broken,” Rafe said. “But otherwise . . .”

Catherine was examining the bag for damage and, it appeared, possible contamination. A boat with an orange sail glided by on the river behind her.