Prince of Fire

of the rue de Lyon they turned left. The station, set on a slight promontory, loomed before them.
    “I don’t have a ticket.”
    “I have a ticket for you.”
    “Where are we going? Berlin? Geneva? Amsterdam?”
    “Just walk.”
    As they neared the corner of the boulevard Diderot, Gabriel saw police officers patrolling the perimeter of the station on foot and blue emergency lights flickering in the traffic circle.
    “They’ve been warned,” he said. “We’re walking straight into a security alert.”
    “We’ll be fine.”
    “I don’t have a passport.”
    “You don’t need it.”
    “What if we’re stopped?”
    “I have it. If a policeman asks you for identification, just look at me, and I’ll take care of it.”
    “You’re the reason we’ll be stopped.”
    At the boulevard Diderot they waited for the light to change, then crossed the street amid a swarm of pedestrians. The bag felt too light. It didn’t sound right rolling over the pavement. They should have put clothing in it to weigh it down properly. What if he were stopped? What if the bag was searched and they found that it was filled with balls of paper? What if they looked inside Palestina’s bag and found the Tanfolgio? The Tanfolgio . . . He told himself to forget about the empty suitcase and the gun in the girl’s bag. Instead he focused on the sensation he’d had earlier that day, the feeling that the clue to his survival lay somewhere along the path he’d already traveled.
    Standing at the entrance of the station were several police officers and two soldiers in camouflage with automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They were randomly stopping passengers, checking IDs, looking in bags. The girl threaded her arm through Gabriel’s and made him walk faster. He could feel the eyes of the policemen on him, but no one stopped them as they went inside.
    The station, its roof arched and soaring, opened before them. They paused for a moment at the head of an escalator that sunk downward into the Métro level of the station. Gabriel used the time to take his bearings. To his left was a kiosk of public telephones; behind him, the stairs that led up to the Le Train Bleu. On opposite ends of the platform were two Relay newsstands. A few feet to his right was a snack bar, above which hung the large black departure board. Just then it changed over. To Gabriel the clapping of the characters sounded obscenely like applause for Khaled’s perfectly played gambit. The clock read: 6:57.
    “Do you see that girl using the first telephone on this side of the kiosk?”
    “Which girl?”
    “Blue jeans, gray sweater, maybe French, maybe Arab, like me.”
    “I see her.”
    “When the clock on the departure board turns to six fifty-eight, she’s going to hang up. You and I will walk over and take her place. She’ll pause for a moment to give us time to get there.”
    “What if someone else gets there first?”
    “The girl and I will take care of it. You’re going to dial a number. Are you ready?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t forget the number. If you do, I won’t tell it to you again, and your wife will die. Are you sure you’re ready?”
    “Give me the fucking number.”
    She recited it, then gave him a few coins as the clock turned to 6:58. The girl vacated her place. Gabriel walked over, lifted the receiver and fed coins through the slot. He dialed the number deliberately, fearful that if he made a mistake the first time he would not be able to summon the number correctly again. Somewhere a telephone began to ring. One ring, a second, a third . . .
    “There’s no answer.”
    “Be patient. Someone will pick up.”
    “It’s rung six times. No one’s answering.”
    “Are you sure you dialed the proper number? Maybe you made a mistake. Maybe your wife is about to die because you—”
    “Shut your mouth,” Gabriel snapped.
    The telephone had stopped ringing.

29

P ARIS
    “G OOD EVENING , G ABRIEL .”
    A woman’s voice, shockingly familiar.
    “Or should I call you Herr Klemp? That’s the name you used when you came to my club, isn’t it? And the name you used when you ransacked my apartment.”
    Mimi Ferrere. The Little Moon.
    “Where is she? Where’s Leah?”
    “She’s close.”
    “Where? I don’t see her.”
    “You’ll find out in a minute.”
    A minute . . . He looked up at the departure board. The clock rolled over: 6:59 P . M . A pair of soldiers strolled past. One of them looked at him. Gabriel turned away and