“When was the last time a cop paid you five hundred euros for two fake handbags?”

“I gave the phone to Papa.”

“Great,” said Gabriel. “Who’s Papa?”

*  *  *

While loading his inventory into plastic rubbish bags, the street vendor introduced himself as Amadou Kamara and explained that he was from Senegal, the unstable former French colony on Africa’s west coast where joblessness and public corruption were endemic. A father of four, he concluded that he had no choice but to go to Europe if his family was to survive. He attempted the typical Senegalese route north, an overcrowded fishing boat bound for Spain’s Canary Islands, and nearly drowned when the vessel capsized in the treacherous waters off Western Sahara. After washing ashore, he walked to Morocco’s Mediterranean coast, a journey of more than a thousand miles, and managed to reach Spain in an inflatable raft with twelve other men. He did backbreaking agricultural work for a couple of years in the blistering Spanish sun—for which he was paid as little as five euros a day—then moved to Catalonia to peddle counterfeit goods on the streets of Barcelona. After a scrape with the Spanish police, he made his way to Paris and went to work for Papa Diallo.

“The local distributor for Prada and Louis Vuitton?”

“And a lot of other luxury brands as well,” replied Amadou Kamara. “The bags are manufactured in China and then smuggled into Europe aboard container ships. Papa is the biggest player in the Paris market. He’s from Senegal, too.”

“What else is Papa into?”

“The usual.”

“Stolen iPhones?”

“Mais bien sûr.”

They were walking along the rue Muller, a dark and uninviting street rarely traversed by foreign visitors to the Eighteenth Arrondissement. Their destination was an immigrant quarter known as Goutte d’Or. Gabriel was carrying one of the contraband-stuffed plastic bags, an accessory after the fact. Not for the first time he wondered how his life had come to this.

“And what’s your story?” asked Amadou Kamara.

“It is so insignificant compared to yours that I won’t bore you with the details.”

“At least tell me your name.”

“Francesco.”

“You’re not French.”

“Italian.”

“Why do you speak French so well?”

“I watch a lot of French movies.”

“What kind of work do you do, Monsieur Francesco?”

“I clean old paintings.”

“Is there money in that sort of thing?”

“Depends on the painting.”

“My daughter likes to draw. Her name is Alima. I haven’t seen her in four years.”

“Don’t tell Papa about the five hundred euros I gave you. Send it to your family instead.”

Goutte d’Or, otherwise known as Little Africa, lay to the east of the boulevard Barbès. Its densely populated streets were among the most vibrant in Paris, especially the rue Dejean, the quarter’s bustling open-air market. Gabriel and Amadou Kamara threaded their way through the evening crowds, a mismatched pair if there ever was one.

There were more markets on the rue des Poissonniers, and a café called Le Morzine. Its windows were obscured by lotto ads and posters for African sports teams. Papa Diallo was holding court at a table inside, surrounded by several associates. He had biceps the size of stockpots. His spherical hairless head appeared as though it was mounted directly atop his torso.

A chair was procured from a neighboring table and Gabriel was invited to sit. Amadou Kamara explained the situation in a Senegalese dialect. At the conclusion of his discourse, Papa Diallo displayed two rows of large white teeth.

In French he asked, “Why do you want it so badly?”

“It belonged to my friend.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Amadou and I have already covered that ground.”

The two men exchanged a glance. Then Papa nodded at one of his associates, who placed the phone on the table. It was an iPhone. The screen had survived its collision with the steps of the rue Chappe intact.

“Original SIM card?” asked Gabriel.

Papa Diallo nodded. “I can get two hundred on the street. But for you, I’ll make a special price.”

“How much?”

“One thousand euros.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“Neither is life, Monsieur.”

Gabriel looked at Amadou Kamara, who had not seen his child in four years. Then he opened his billfold and peered inside. He had twenty euros to his name.

“I need to find a cash machine,” he said.

Papa Diallo flashed a luminous smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

11

Queen’s Gate Terrace

By the time Gabriel left the café with Emanuel Cohen’s phone in his pocket it was too late to make the last Eurostar back to London, so he slept for a few hours at a dreary hotel near the Gare du Nord and was on the morning’s first train. He rang Sarah Bancroft as he was approaching St. Pancras. Her voice, when at last she answered the phone, was heavy with sleep.

“Do you know what day this is?”

“I believe it’s Saturday. Hold on, let me check.”

“Asshole,” she whispered, and rang off.

Gabriel redialed.