Yet now she is in the wrong train station in Paris. It’s been ten months since she left Cherbourg—what’s another day or two? She’s taking a cue from Judith, the strong-willed teenager who rode trains all over France, fueled by her own determination. Sharon now knows that the woman whose facial features so resemble hers also bequeathed her daughter her courage and resourcefulness.

This new sense of identity overrides Sharon’s resolve to abandon the mystery of Danny’s tattoo. The chutzpah required to piece that puzzle together takes Judith’s kind of doggedness.

Sharon deposits her suitcase in a keyed locker, keeping only her satchel, stuffed with the basic necessities for one or two nights. Her passport and money are zipped into her coat’s inside pocket. She purchases a ticket to Châtillon-sur-Indre via Tours.

Next, she places a collect call to the Cherbourg office.

A man’s voice accepts the charges and tells her that Commander Yarden is out. “It’s Sharon. Please tell him that I’m delayed in Paris on a personal matter.”

“You’d better call again. Try him tonight at his apartment.” He gives her an unfamiliar phone number. Is Danny back with Dominique, and have they set up house together? Sharon suppresses the pang of jealousy.

“To whom am I speaking?” she asks.

“Yaniv.”

He’s still in Cherbourg? Heat rushes to her face. “Sorry. I’ll try to finish in twenty-four hours.”

“That’s three weeks too long.”

“I told Danny that I was tied up with my grandmother’s estate.”

“I’ll give him your message. Shalom.” Yaniv hangs up.

What is going on at the mission that requires her presence so urgently? Sharon looks at the giant clock. Her train to Tours leaves in ten minutes. Yaniv’s unpleasant attitude is not new, but he made it clear that she should abandon her senseless pursuit and rush to catch the last train to Cherbourg. A military urgency trumps any personal whim.

But then again, she’s a civilian and an insignificant cog in the team’s machine, whatever crisis they’re facing up there. Chutzpah. This is her only chance to follow the leads she abandoned last December. It’s probably a futile chase. If she gets nowhere, it will force her to drop her obsession, her worst yenta streak.

But if she learns something, it will be a life-affirming gift for Danny, as her conversation with Uzi was for her.

It’s near dusk when she gets off the train at the Châtillon-sur-Indre station. She stands in the weather shelter, stunned that there is nothing around. There is not even a ticket-office shack. A sign directs arrivals to a distant line of houses Sharon can barely detect in the mist.

She begins to walk. At a nearby farm, a dog barks. In response, chickens set up a confused clattering before they settle down again. The air is cold. She is slipping on her gloves when a van with pictures of cakes, baguettes, and croissants on its side pulls up next to her.

A woman in her thirties rolls down her window. “Need a ride?”

“I’m looking for a hotel in Châtillon-sur-Indre.”

“There’s only a rooming house. Hop in. Three francs for the lift.”

On the short drive, the woman explains that whenever she delivers baked goods, she swings by the station for stray passengers.

“Do you know Florian Robillard?” Sharon asks.

“No one by that name here.”

Sharon will check the church records first thing in the morning.

The village is clustered around the ruins of a tall, narrow, windowless tower missing its top that looks like a giant headless scarecrow. Green moss sprouts on its crumbling façade.

The baker drops Sharon off at a corner of a triangular plaza next to a charming cottage built of half-hewn lumber. A lit sign reads chambres.

“Come in the morning for a chocolate croissant,” the baker calls after her. “You won’t find a better one in all of Paris.”

Sharon rings the bell twice before a woman her age opens the door. She wears her honey-colored hair in an old-fashioned style of braids wrapped around her head.

“Yes, there is a room available.” The young woman’s body blocks the way. She examines Sharon from head to toe before she steps aside to let her in. “I’m Anne-Marie Niquet. May I ask what is the purpose of your visit here?”

Irritated, Sharon says, “Why do you need to know?”

“We rarely get late arrivals, not in the offseason.” Anne-Marie eyes Sharon. “And certainly not foreigners. May I see your passport?”

A passport is required by law at every hotel, so Sharon hands it to her. “What’s the price of a room? Are you the owner?”

“My mother, Madame Niquet, is the owner. My father is a policeman. They are upstairs,” the girl adds as if informing this stranger that she’s not alone here.

After Anne-Marie copies down the details of Sharon’s passport, she leads her to the second floor. Of the two available rooms, Sharon selects the one nearer the bathroom at the end of the corridor. “Will it be possible to get something to eat? I didn’t see any restaurant open.”

Seemingly no longer suspicious, Anne-Marie says that she’ll serve her downstairs.

The browned cheese topping the rich onion soup is broiled to a tasty crust. When Sharon finishes, she asks to use the phone to make a call within France.

Anne-Marie gives the number to the operator. Minutes later, Danny is on the line.

“I’m glad you caught me,” he says. “What’s this business of staying in Paris? Never mind, it works out well, because tomorrow you need to meet six clowns at Orly.”

“What?” Sharon’s mind reels. She is hundreds of miles away from the airport. “Six? It’s always been three or four.”

“Still the same drill. One guy is a doctor, and he already informed someone that he plans to take a shopping vacation in Paris.”

Why would a doctor be pulled from his duties in Israel, where the health system, as Sharon knows well from Savta’s illness, is stretched beyond capacity? Doctors usually serve their yearly reserve duty in local IDF installations. What is going on in Cherbourg that requires flying in a doctor for a month or two? And why, after all the precautions, are they bringing in a large, potentially visible group?

“Hello? Are you there?” Danny asks.

“What time does the flight land?”

“Fifteen hundred hours. Air France, flight three-fifty-nine from Rome.”

“All right.” Sharon sighs. So much for her trip here. This is a sign that she should abort this investigation. She is tired. She woke at dawn to catch the flight from Tel Aviv, and now it looks like tomorrow will be another long day. Anne-Marie turned on the radiator in her room, and all Sharon wants now is a shower and a warm, comfortable bed.

There’s a minute pause before Danny says, “Can’t wait to see you.”

Sharon loves the warmth in his voice and must remind herself that it does not mean what she would like it to. He’s merely glad to have his trusty assistant back.

After she hangs up, she asks Anne-Marie, “When is the first train to Tours?”

“Five after seven.”