the truck. The animal leaped out and he had to run to catch it while the seller laughed uproariously. He stuffed it into the passenger seat, where it promptly emptied its bowels and bladder. He rolled down the window and drove on.
The old man accepted the goat, which was a fine one. Food was food. After much talking about the animal, the old man led it away. While he butchered it, Rodet worked on Qasim’s arm. The young man never whimpered, never made a sound as he scraped the wound, cleaned and disinfected it, and injected the boy with a massive dose of penicillin. After he dressed the wound, he rolled up his pant leg and showed the boy his scar, which he had collected in a motorcycle accident years before.
He left a stack of bandages and instructions to change the bandage daily. He stayed and ate goat and had to stop alongside the road when the vomiting and diarrhea got him.
Yet when he went back two weeks later the infection in Abu Qasim’s arm was gone, the wound had a healthy scab, and the boy smiled at him.
Henri Rodet smiled back.
Callie Grafton started at the Sorbonne’s main records office. It helped that she was herself a professor of languages at Georgetown University and that she spoke fluent French. The clerks were helpful, but after twenty minutes, they confessed defeat. They had no record of a student named Abu Qasim, nor one named Abdullah al- Falih.
The library was cool and quiet. Two hours later, Callie admitted defeat herself. She could find not a single scrap of paper in the building with either name written on it. Some of the records were incomplete, with the records of entire years missing. It was suggestive, she thought, but proved nothing.
She headed for the philosophy department, only to find the doors locked.
Tired and frustrated, Callie asked directions to the faculty club. Yes, the university had one. Armed with her passport and Georgetown University ID, she had no trouble talking her way in.
It was nearly six o’clock when Jake Grafton pulled the rental car over to the curb and watched his wife come out of the club. She was listening intently to the white-haired man beside her, who was talking a mile a minute. He held on to her arm to steady himself. As they approached the car, Jake realized the man was at least eighty.
Jake got out and came around to the passenger side. Callie introduced him to the man, Professor Heger, as cars swerved by the illegally parked vehicle. The French flew thick and fast. Jake nodded and smiled as passing cars beeped. Callie kissed the professor on the cheek and got into the car. Jake shook hands with Heger and got back behind the wheel.
When they were rolling along, he said, “You look as if you had a wonderful afternoon.”
“Oh, I did. I met some delightful people. And Professor Heger is a gentleman, a ladies’ man, and, believe me, he loves to talk.”
When she fell silent, thinking about the conversations of the afternoon, Jake prompted, “Well, what did you find out?”
“Professor Heger taught philosophy until he retired, but he remembers no student named Abu Qasim.”
“Huh,” Jake grunted.
“He was lying,” Callie said. “Chattered away about Paris and teaching and Americans he had known, tried to recall Abdullah al-Falih and couldn’t. Then I mentioned Qasim’s name, and he gave me an abrupt denial. He was lying — I’m sure of it. He did know Qasim, and now he refuses to admit it.”
“We need more than a denial,” her husband said gently.
Callie smote the dashboard with her fist. “I know that,” she roared in frustration.
CHAPTER TEN
I could tell by the sound exactly what Elizabeth Conner was doing in her bathroom every morning, which was proof positive I was wasting my life… and probably should be locked up to protect the public. I listened on my floor bug while I performed my own ablutions. The thought occurred to me that audio voyeurism was like being married without sharing the toothpaste.
When I thought she was within a minute or two of completing her routine, I quickly stowed my stuff, shoved it under the bed, and let myself out. I slammed the door, rattled it to make sure it locked, then headed for the stairs.
She was coming out of her door as I trooped downward.
“Good morning,” I muttered.
“Morning,” she chirped, and fell in behind me. “Going running?”
“Getting cabin fever.”
“I’ve been meaning to say hello,” she said as we trotted down the stairs.
When we got to the street, I said, “Want to run together?” as I looked her over. She wore her hair in a modern, windblown style and was decked out this morning in blue Lycra pants, a sweatshirt, good running shoes and a headband. She wore a small fanny pack on her waist that probably contained her wallet, passport and door key.
“Okay,” she said, and trotted right off. I fell in beside her.
“Do you run every morning?” I asked.
“Except when it’s raining. I hate getting soaked and cold. Don’t think the exercise does me any good when I’m in that condition, y’ know?”
She ran at a good pace, so conversation became difficult. I concentrated on staying just behind her, out of traffic, and not running over pedestrians. The air was crisp and moist and there was a wind. It was very pleasant running through Paris, soaking up the sights and sounds and smells, running behind a woman who knew how to run.
Just when I was getting in rhythm, she picked up the pace. I lengthened my stride and managed to stay with her, but my days off were telling. She knew Paris better than I did, because I was thoroughly lost when we came pounding up to Sacre Coeur in Mont-martre. Now she headed back to the Rue Paradis. When we began slowing a few blocks from the apartment building, I glanced at my watch. We had done about four miles, I thought.
“Whew,” I told her. “You always run this far?”
“I’m addicted to it.”
“So what are you studying?”
“European history. On a self-study program.” She mentioned the university, one of the traditional women’s colleges in the northeastern United States. “And you said you are a writer?”
“Travel writer.”
“Have I read your stuff?”
“Do you read bumper stickers? ‘Free the French: Whack Chirac,’ and ‘Make the world safe for war!’ Those were mine. My biggest was ‘Save Social Security: Free Cigarettes for Retirees.’”
She laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I freelance a lot. Working on a book on Paris just now, updating an existing guidebook.”
“Sounds interesting.” We were standing in front of our building.
“I like it. Enjoy the change of scenery and exploring. Long as I can pay the bills, I’ll stay at it.” I looked her straight in the eyes and grinned. That’s a rule, you know — when you’re lying, look ‘em in the eyes and show ‘em your teeth. Of course, whether she believed a single word of my spiel was another question.
She glanced at her watch. “I’d better get upstairs and get a shower.”
“Thanks for the run,” I said as she disappeared into the building. I smiled at the streetwalkers, nodded at a few prospecting Johns, and after a minute or so, followed her up the stairs.
The limo slid to a stop near the curb; the driver got out and opened the door for his passenger, a well- dressed Middle Eastern businessman.
The man went into the building, which was old. He wandered along until he came to a sign that listed university faculty and the numbers of their offices. He went down the list, found the one he wanted, and walked to the stairs.
There were a few young people, men and women — students, no doubt — clad in jeans and sweaters and
