The Mosque of Notre Dame

^{CHAPTER 15} THE BARRICADES

He barely managed to park: First, the wheels went up onto the sidewalk. In his second attempt, he scratched the door of a laundry truck. That wasn’t good. The driver would remember that a fancy Ferrari had scratched him.

Kasim glanced around stealthily: There was no one in the truck or nearby. For good measure, he staggered as if drugged. (For members of the true faith, you couldn’t say that they staggered as if drunk.) Kasim closed the door, forgetting his purse, CD player, and expensive umbrella on the seat.

Sliding into a courtyard passage covered with drying linens, Kasim, bending down to avoid the wet laundry, crossed into the next street. He needed to choose a place from which his car wouldn’t be seen.

And he really should have removed the things from the seat. He didn’t care if they were stolen but if they were, he would have to report it, and if he reported it, he would be asked an inconvenient question—where he had been? He really had no reason to be here in Marais. They would connect the awkward facts.

Oh, to hell with it. Why was he afraid of his own shadow?

Kasim decisively looked around. A small shop like many in similarly poor neighborhoods caught his attention. It was a general-store-pharmacy-bakery with small items for the household. Everything necessary.

As you might expect, the only person in the store was the owner, a fat woman in a black chador who was counting packages of school markers on the counter.

“Forgive me, hanuma,” he said in Turkish. In neighborhoods such as these, they did not even know lingua franca, and they prayed only in Arabic. “My cell phone is out of order. May use your telephone?” In order to be more convincing, he pulled out his cell phone, which he had turned off, and showed it with a frown.

The owner bustled about, excited by the chance to do a favor for the handsome senior officer—and yet a little miffed that he had not come in to buy something. Soon, she came out of the inner rooms with a telephone.

He dialed, and waited a long time. Eight rings. That did not bother Kasim, because he remembered that at the other end, there was a similar shop also filled with a mixture of smells too thick for such a small space. Cloves, cinnamon, thyme, and the rubbery smell of cheap detergent, the horrible smell of an accidentally broken vial of smelling salts, and coffee grounds fought for dominance with eau de toilette and plain old dust.

“Hello.” An old voice could be heard, unexpectedly loudly.

He could speak French in peace and no one would notice. No one would dare to ask which language an officer of the Interior Army ought to speak. Telephones in the ghetto were not tapped. No official was curious about the thoughts of cattle about to be slaughtered. But the telephones of state officials were a completely different story.

“Forgive me, Monsieur. I’m a friend of your upstairs neighbor, Monsieur Antoine Thibault. Would you be so kind as to call him?”

“Just a moment.” He could hear the unsure steps thudding up the squeaky stairs.

The wait was long, very long. Surely it would be enough for him to enter the next room to find himself in the house next door. A voice came on.

“This is Thibault.”

Kasim could not speak right away.

“…Allo?”

“Antoine…” Kasim’s mouth had become dry. “This is a relative on your mother’s side.”

He did not dare say who he was. But it should be unnecessary. Antoine would understand, even if he didn’t recognize the voice. Perhaps he would not recognize it. When was the last time they had talked? Iman had been a year old.

There was no response for a long time.

“A little unexpected, no?” There was a somber irony in his cousin’s voice.

“Antoine, I can’t talk for long…” stammered Kasim. “Please tell me whether you have a card to leave the city.”

“I didn’t get one this year. Why?”

“You should go visit your family in Compiègne. If you don’t have money, I’ll send you some.”

Yes, I can do that. No one traces the transfer of small amounts of money. And a trip to Compiègne for four, for which a family from the ghetto had to scrimp and save for half a year, was a very small sum. How was it even possible to live as they did—in two connected rooms above a shop, without their own telephone, with a small shower in the corner of the kitchen? Linoleum worn out from thousands of steps, tiles falling off, unmatched furniture from the twentieth century…

“Tell me, dear cousin, why this sudden and touching concern for my summer vacation?”

“Toto, don’t be sarcastic!” Kasim wiped the sweat from his forehead. Was the shop owner looking at him too closely? There was no way to tell, through those rags she wore… No, she was not. She waddled off again into the residential part, from which he could smell couscous. “Believe me, I’m not talking off the top of my head. Do you hear me? I don’t have a lot of time!”

“I understand. I don’t need money. I have a little saved. I wanted to buy an old Ford. So you’re telling me I should not buy the car and I should go to Compiègne instead?”

“You have to go. You have to. As soon as you can prepare your documents.”

“Or I may find myself in an awkward situation?”

And not only you, thought Kasim with a kind of mute sorrow. But he didn’t dare say that. If the inhabitants of the ghetto all headed out of Paris, an investigation would be launched to find out where they got their information. They would search, and they would undoubtedly find.

“Yes, you may find yourself in an awkward situation.”

“All right then, in three weeks we’ll be in Compiègne.”

“Not in three weeks. As soon as you can prepare your documents.”

“Very well,” Antoine said with a frown in his voice. “But our officials have all gone mad here. Imagine, today they announced new rules: For every lousy document, you have to wait almost a month! Even worse, the old cards aren’t valid from today. Everything has to be done over! But if necessary, I can give them a few francs and they’ll do it faster. Should I do that?”

“Mmm, no. There’s no reason to.”

“Alright then. And how long should we stay there?”

“As long as possible. I can’t tell you more—forgive me.”

“All right, Babar,” Antoine’s voice became warmer. “And how is your family?”

“Thank you, my wife and daughters are well. That’s all. I can’t talk more.” Kasim cut off the connection and threw the receiver onto the wood counter as if it had burned his hand.

He left the store, forgetting that he had intended to buy something to thank his hostess. So much risk. All for nothing.

He had feared his own shadow for nothing. He had come up with some precautions for nothing. He waged a battle with himself for nothing, reminding himself that he was a sixth-generation soldier… for nothing.

They were already at work, those devilish green helmets. The plan to liquidate the ghetto had barely been drawn up. Not twenty-four hours had passed since he had learned of it, and those Abdulwahids had already pulled the necessary levers.

The devil take them, the devil take them all! What would change if he only managed to save Antoine and his wife and children? Nothing—although for Kasim, it was very important. How much better he would feel if he at least managed to save Antoine… Not even because of their shared childhood—although that was a reason, too—but because Antoine was the only man he could warn…

As a practical matter, the policy was absolutely correct. The ghetto was essential to the existence of Maquis. If the word Maquis had once meant a scrub tree, then the roots of that scrub were in the ghetto. As a soldier, he couldn’t disobey, and of course, he would carry out his orders.

But how many young people were there in the ghetto who were still infected with the silly prejudices of their parents? Those prejudices were no longer as strong. Their children in turn could become a normal part of society. The more generations that passed, the further from fanaticism they would become. Many were not ready today, but tomorrow they would grow tired of rotting and barely eking out a living.

But there would be no tomorrow. Whoever did not convert in the coming days would be sentenced to death. Antoine, why did you allow this to happen? You have sons! How many people will die because prejudices still run strong, and the higher-ups will no longer wait for them to become slowly diluted?

The Maquisards, the Maquisards were to blame for everything! If it were not for them and their murders of eminent Paris figures, the ghetto would have gotten smaller with each passing year, and no one would have to destroy it!

When had he gotten behind the wheel? He had been driving for some time, but he didn’t even remember getting into the car.

He was going somewhere, staring at his windshield as if it were the screen of a forbidden television. There was a film on the screen. Two boys were running home through a green meadow—tired of playing, hungry. Here they were in the dining room. The rays of the sun streaming through the high windows were reflected from the polished hardwood floor. The balcony doors were open. Near every opening, there was a narrow crystal vase with a rose, the crystal refracting the sun… And Aunt Odile in a white summer dress, looking so much like his mother.

“Dear, I warned you!” Uncle Dominique made a dissatisfied face, making a gesture to hold back the plate that had almost touched the tablecloth in front of the boy. On the white porcelain with a blue border, among the pieces of roasted potato sprinkled with parsley, was a golden pork chop with semi-translucent edges.

“Oh, I forgot!” a shadow fell across his aunt’s face. “Forgive me, my dear,” she said to her nephew. “I’ll bring you something else.”

The aunt quickly removed the plate from under his nose. Why did he have to eat veal cutlets when everyone else was eating pork chops? He sat, insulted, and watched Toto eating. At the same moment, a cutlet appeared and he started chewing automatically and absent-mindedly.

“You know that Léon gave us specific instructions with the child. You need to be more careful.”

“Yes, I know. But is it really something that important?” Aunt Odile looked at the children, who were busy eating. Actually, his cousin was too hungry to pay attention to what the adults were saying for about ten minutes, but he… The prepared veal cutlet was pulled from a cardboard box of the type that are stocked in one’s freezer and then rapidly heated in a microwave oven. It wasn’t very tasty. He foggily remembered that the conversation of his aunt and uncle had something to do with him, if he could only recall what they said.

“All too important,” said his uncle quietly. “Our Léon has always been a talented careerist. I can’t say that he’s not capable.”

“But it’s such nonsense…”

“You’re wrong. It is very serious, Odile—as serious as the fact that this will be our last summer in this house. What can I say? Unlike me, Léon doesn’t want to pay a penalty now for a “family reunification” law from 1976 that flooded the country with Muslims. I do understand. It’s humiliating for grandchildren to be charged for the debts of their grandfathers.”

“I think it’s better to lose our summer house than to take part in such a farce.”

“I’m afraid our losses will not stop there, Odile. This time, I’m no less far-sighted than Léon. When you start to withdraw, you can’t stop.”

Kasim suddenly braked, barely stopping in time for the light. So that’s where that sentence came from! How powerful childhood memories could be!

So where did your far-sightedness take you, Uncle Dominique? Your grandchildren live in misery, denied everything that Antoine and I had as children! They have no summer house, no Internet, no polo, no cricket, no tennis!

But my children, let alone my grandchildren, also have no polo, no tennis, and there is no money on earth that can buy them the right to play computer games.

When you start to withdraw, you can’t stop.

At least the grandchildren of my father will not die this week.

They won’t die. But the great-grandchildren of my father will not be his great-grandchildren. They will not even be my grandchildren. They will be foreigners.

So no one won. It was all pointless. No cocaine could help. He was a soldier, and he had to carry out his orders.

Kasim understood that he was driving on the Champs d’Élysées, right by the spot where qadi Malik was killed. The passage where the explosion occurred was closed. The sidewalk in front of it was sealed off with a net. Turkish workers were lazily collecting the remnants of broken tiles. All they needed to do was put in new glass and tiles, but they hadn’t even begun.

He had to phone Aset, as he had promised he would. She was nervous, as before. Last night, it was as if she felt they were calling him with orders to carry out some reprehensible act. She did not ask anything, but she had that tense, strange look of the guilty…

Kasim swore through his teeth. His cell phone, which he had turned off to seem more convincing, had been off for more than half an hour. He had to control himself. Absent-mindedness was a very bad personal quality.

The phone rang the moment he turned it on. It was from work. Why were they calling him so frequently all of a sudden? They couldn’t let him finish his lunch in peace. He was on his way to work, after all, even though he hadn’t been called. It was recorded message:

“All officers are ordered to immediately assume positions! Disregard usual deployments. Battle readiness! Urgent!”

It must not apply to him. They had sent a text like that through the general network. What else could it possibly be?

Disconnecting, Kasim dialed the number of his colleague Ali Habib.

“What are these corrections of Plan 11-22? My battery wasn’t working and I just heard. I’m turning off Champs d’Élysées right now.”

“Apparently Plan 11-22 isn’t in effect anymore!”

He was relieved, whatever had happened, the liquidation of the ghettos had been deferred. He couldn’t believe it!

“So what’s going on?”

“Some kind of nonsense. A military operation in the city.”

“Talk about nonsense. Don’t tell me the Russians have attacked Paris?”

Kasim was already speeding down Rivoli Street. Now it would be better to turn onto the New Bridge, he thought. He slowed down, because there was a crowd of people walking in the street instead of on the sidewalk.

A dark-skinned policeman shouted at him: “The road is closed! The road is closed! Go back!”

Kasim extended his plastic card to him without a word.

“You still can’t pass over the New Bridge, sir!” the policeman said, saluting.

“What’s going on?” barked Kasim.

“Mon capitaine can see for himself, sir!”

Kasim had never seen an accident like it in his life. A big bus of the type that drove students to classes in madrasahs outside the city lay sprawled on the bridge, not even on its side, but with its wheels straight up in the air. There was an empty truck on the left side. How had they managed to collide like that, and completely block off the bridge? It was impossible.

“Cunning swine, they’re not there, they’re not in the vehicles,” fumed the black man.

“And who are they?”

“You haven’t heard, sir? It’s the Maquisards.”

“This is called a peribolos.” Larochejaquelein leaned on a bag of cement, pulled out a crumpled pack of Gauloises and began looking for at least one cigarette. “It’s super to line up everything with a gas tank like that. If they start to advance through this mess of cars, you know what’s going to happen. And we’re as safe here as if we were under Christ’s wing. If we unintentionally puncture a gas tank, it’s not important—we’ll get a wall of fire. The most important thing is the empty space between the two barricades. They’re bringing in engineering units now to move the bus…”

Jeanne laughed. Honestly, she was impatient to see what would happen when the Saracens finally tried.

“Larochejaquelein,” asked Eugène-Olivier, “wouldn’t it have been easier to just destroy the bridges?” The question had been on the tip of his tongue for several hours, and he finally had the chance to ask it.

“Think about it, Lévêque.” Larochejaquelein contentedly pulled a cigarette from the pack—it was a little wrinkled, but not broken. “By leaving the bridges in place, we’re the ones who define where they’re going to go. As long as the bridges are intact, they won’t attack us from the water. But if we force them, they’ll be the ones to decide how to attack us. That’s one reason. There’s also another one.”

“They don’t need to know how what explosives we have!”

“Yes. The less serious things look to them now, the longer we’ll be able to hold out.”

Eugène-Olivier nodded. The bag of cement he was leaning on seemed incredibly soft. His eyes were closing. The lull before the new phase of the battle was playing with him. He hadn’t slept all last night.

The attack on the Île de la Cité began before dawn. Since six the evening before, armed units had slowly gathered in the underground around the metro station. In the station itself, the evening crowd of Muslim passengers had gone into the metro as usual, hurried to grab seats in the cars, and sat rustling their evening newspapers and their bags of chips—never guessing that gathering around them quietly was the soul of a humiliated people.

There were almost no passengers getting off at Cité. Most people got on the metro there to get to Cluny, Concorde, Maubert-Mutualité, and so on, the residential neighborhoods. By about 8 p.m., the river of people passing through the underground started to dry up, dividing into rivulets, and finally into individuals running late and no longer in a hurry to make it home in time for dinner. At about ten, the blacks in orange overalls were bringing out the platform cleaning machines as the last passengers were getting onto their trains.

Automobiles, mostly expensive ones, took their sleepy owners over the New Bridge, the Little Bridge, the Iron Bridge—which was once called St. Louis Bridge. Those who lived in Champs d’Élysées and in Versailles also hurried home.

At about midnight, as the serene May night enfolded the city, the Cité station closed. The island was empty— from the park in bloom on the east side—where they say there was once a memorial to the French killed by the Fascists—to the Palace of Justice on the west side. There were still windows with lights on here and there in the Palace of Justice, in the Conciergerie, and in the long, concrete building that housed the French division of Europol. That had been built on the spot where the stained-glass miracle of Sainte-Chapelle once stood—before being leveled by the Wahhabis.

The scattered yellow flashes from those few windows made the dark silhouettes of the buildings look even darker. In Notre Dame’s former vestry, which now served as the imam’ s apartment, there was also a light.

A black named Mustafa (in his language, the name sounded different) was lazily pulling plastic bags from trash cans and throwing them into a wheeled bin, which he was pulling behind him. There was a satisfied smile on his wide lips. Every few minutes, he touched the upper pocket of his overalls. In that pocket there was an old pen. Today he had angered his boss by trying to sign a receipt slip with an unsharpened lead pencil.

“What kind of people are you!” fumed his boss. “Here’s a pen, you fool; keep it!” This was a crowning achievement. Mustafa had been waiting for this pen for four months, not a day less. The respected Sharif-ali was so stingy, he wouldn’t give anyone so much as a box of matches.

This evening Mustafa planned to go to Marais to a well-known fortune-teller. He would give her the present he had received from his boss. After that, the boss would have no choice—he would have to increase Mustafa’s salary to thirty euros, no less, and even give his daughter in marriage. Let him just try to cross Baron Subotka—who, they say, was created by the woman whose name was better left unsaid. Baron Subotka was easy to pick out in a crowd. He wore a black suit with a narrow black tie and black eyeglasses. He smoked and he liked to joke around. He ate for three men—in the blink of an eye, he could wolf down ten pita breads with mutton and the same number of portions of couscous. Whatever fool did not honor Fridays, Baron Subotka would laugh on the day of that man’s death. The fruit tree in the backyard is not growing there by chance, and the empty clay pots on the shelves in the room are not there for decoration!

They said that in old times, when the Catholics came, it was even worse. Their priests in the colonies punished and destroyed for such things… But where were they now? The black people were more intelligent than everyone else, and in the end they would outlive everyone else.

If Mustafa didn’t honor Baron Subotka, he would have been afraid to work in the metro. There were all sorts of stories about abandoned stations. It was said that they intersected with underground graves with white bones, unsuitable for fortune telling. These bones were guarded by white spirits who served the dead who once ruled the city. The white spirits appeared in the old branches on the metro, wandering through them as they liked. Baron Subotka had always protected Mustafa, and would protect him from all the white spirits.

Dropping a bag into the container, Mustafa straightened up. What was that noise coming from the tunnel? Aaaaaaah!

The white spirit had long, silver, wavy hair that fell down its back and it held an automatic rifle in its hands. What was a spirit doing with a rifle? Something was not right! Spirits could not stomp their feet—but he could hear a muffled clattering coming from the tunnel. Another spirit, also with an automatic rifle, and another, and another…

Mustafa threw down his bag and fell on the concrete, painfully scraping his hands and making them bleed. He jumped up and ran toward the staircase, screaming at the top of his voice…

If he hadn’t started making so much noise, they would have allowed him, a cleaner who was not to blame for anything, to walk away. But they couldn’t allow a living siren to run out into the street like that at the beginning of an operation. A single shot was heard.

Mustafa didn’t even have time to get angry with Baron Subotka.

Eugène-Olivier put his pistol back in its holster.

Upon exiting the metro, the units of the advance guard separated into two groups. One made for the Palace of Justice and the Conciergerie as the other half ran in formation to cut off the bridges.

The unit of defensive guards led by Brisseville was also divided. Heavy weapons had to be brought to the Cité platform—the weapons whose existence had to be kept secret. They needed to create an underground line of defense in tunnels at three stations: Châtelet, Saint Michel and Pont-Neuf.

They had at most four hours at their disposal to do this. Brisseville bit open his adrenalin vial to help his breathing. In World War II, their great-grandfathers had injected adrenalin.

Several spacious rooms on the second floor of the Palace of Justice, on the front side, were brightly lit, although there was no one in the reception area. Sheik Said al Masriv, walking alone through the offices, had already knocked over a stool and a pot with a miniature tree. There was no one to pick them up, and he was reluctant to call his driver from downstairs. Consequently bits of ceramic kept finding their way under his feet and he had already managed to scratch himself with them. The spilled earth was smeared all over his shoes and on the plush carpet.

Usually he walked thoughtfully—slowly, as if he were sleepy—in accordance with his corpulent body. Excitement made him clumsy.

There were a dozen papers scattered on his desk. The computer monitor flickered. The Sheik had not prepared a document by himself for many years, but the report he had to compose now could not be entrusted to even his most trusted aide.

An invasion: an incredible, impossible intervention. The agent from Moscow had advised that the network of saboteurs who had been so carefully prepared had been discovered, invalidated, and pulled up by the roots. After advising this, he stopped reporting. Twenty-four hours had passed since then. Sheik Said neglected sleep, food and prayer trying to verify this claim once more. Was it possible that it was true? It bore a strong resemblance to the truth.

A resignation, in the best case: that would be something better for him to submit himself. But how was it possible? It was incomprehensible. Was there anything in the drawer for blood pressure? Or at least for tachycardia? He couldn’t call a physician. Why give them material for rumors in advance. But if only he could find a little tablet… There was something here—no, it was for digestion, for gastritis.

It was always like that, whenever he didn’t need something, it would always appear from somewhere!

The door opened silently. The Sheik simply felt a draft of air—the well-greased hinges did not make a sound.

He certainly didn’t expect the person who entered, but he wasn’t surprised. The director of the atomic laboratory was hardly a stranger.

“You’ve come to pay me a visit, effendi? Who informed you?”

“What difference does it make?” answered Ahmad ibn Salih loftily.

That was true. So he knew everything. Sheik Said, suddenly feeling tired, lay down on a sofa.

“I think that it would be better for you to think about who informed Moscow,” Ahmad ibn Salih stood at the door, not hurrying to close it. In fact, he was holding it open.

“What?” Sheik Said choked and began coughing. “It’s already known who leaked the information?”

“Such comprehensive and thorough leaks of information don’t just happen.” Ahmad ibn Salih’s lips curved into a spiteful smile. “It could only have been a direct and intentional betrayal. Differently put, it could only be the work of a spy who managed to deeply penetrate the system. Very deeply. So deeply that you know him personally.”

“Who is it?” The Sheik’s heart was beating in his temples. His career was finished, in any case, but at least he would have some consolation if the son of the devil was punished. Oh, he would bite through his windpipe with his own teeth—if he could. “He’s still alive? He hasn’t managed to kill himself? Effendi, in the name of Allah, tell me he’s still alive!”

“Alive as alive can be and feeling quite well, actually.”

“You’ve consoled me as much as possible in this situation, may Allah bless you for it. But please tell me, who is he?”

“Me.”

Slobodan suddenly felt as light as a feather. He felt that he could do anything—to swim at the bottom of the ocean without worrying about breathing, to marvel at the algae and coral, to fly like a bird above the city, to pass through cliffs.

For so many years he had forbidden himself to even fantasize about the moment he would cast the truth into their faces. Ahmad ibn Salih still held the door. Sheik Said felt as if he were delirious, as if he were losing his mind. Consequently, the news did not surprise him.

But then an older woman dressed like a kafir walked into the office after the scientist. This was impossible, it simply didn’t happen that a kafir woman in black jeans with hair that was not only uncovered, but fell loose down her back should suddenly walk into the office of a senior state official.

“You didn’t hear well, you son of a bitch,” she said nonchalantly and cheerfully. “Not only is he a Russian spy, he’s also a Serb. And now guess who I am. Here’s a clue: What lullaby do they sing to put your grandchildren to sleep?”

Trying to wake up, the Sheik moved toward the alarm button. The delirium continued—no one tried to stop him. Or maybe—the thought crossed his mind—the security alarm was not working any more?

No, everything was fine, everything was fine with the alarm. The red button blinked, indicating the signal had been sent.

He stood there, repeatedly pushing the button as the two of them watched him.

“There’s no one there to answer to your signal,” explained the woman. “The security guards are already cuddling with black-eyed houris.”

“Sevazmios!”

“Finally. I asked our friend from Russia to show me who came up with the plan for poisoning our water supplies. I’m looking at you and I just can’t believe how it’s possible for such trash to provoke such enormous, irreparable misfortunes. When a mountain gives birth to a mouse, that’s logically comprehensible. But when the opposite occurs, my mind just can’t grasp it. I’m afraid that all the misfortunes of humanity in the last hundred and fifty years have occurred because mice like you kept coming up with mountains. Luckily, before me I have a mouse who didn’t manage to give birth to his mountain.”

“How… how did you manage to get in here, kafirs? Where is security? Where are the police?” The Sheik’s desperate desire to understand something, anything, suppressed even his fear.

“It’s just that the ninth crusade has begun outside,” said Sophia, flashing a smile, motioning to Slobodan with her hand. “We’ve prepared for it a long time, but now there will be no more Euroislam and soon there will be no more Islam, period. All right, Slobo, finish him off. As you can see, it’s not as grand a feeling as you might expect.”

Sheik Said, whose eyes saw nothing—as if they were made of glass—didn’t even try to save himself. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware he was in danger. He just quietly and rhythmically rocked back and forth.

Slobodan took out his pistol.

The strangest thing was that between them, there was none of the intimacy that hatred engenders. To the sheik, it seemed as if they could walk through each other—each moving in the space of his own dream. But Slobodan’s dream was shiny and light. The dream of Sheik Said was a nightmare that caused him to break out in cold sweat.

When the Sheik’s body fell with the back of his head on the floor—between the overturned stool and the broken pieces of pottery—Slobodan looked with a strange disappointment at the disfigured face with a hole above the left brow. It did not resemble his fantasy of so many years. He felt a slight revulsion—as though he had touched a cockroach with his bare hand—and an icy coldness in his heart.

“Sonya, don’t you think you exaggerated?” Slobodan now spoke Russian without an accent, his fluency finally returning after so many years. “Perhaps you played up the colors just a bit?”

“Haven’t you ever played poker? A little bit of bluffing sometimes helps to put the dot on the ‘i’. The Palace of Justice is ours, but there is still shooting at the Conciergerie. Do you hear it?”

The noise of gunfire in the dark seemed far away—no louder than crickets on a summer night. Modern, double-glazed windows are very good at neutralizing sound.