HAW WAS IN PARIS, just having finished an intense day of prep work. He changed into long shorts and a loose-fitting white T-shirt and went for a run along the Seine, passing the Jardin des Tuileries, the Orangerie Museum, and the Grand Palais. His feet pounded along the Avenue de New York before he cut across a bridge, passed over the famous river that bisected Paris, and a few minutes later ran underneath the wide base of the Eiffel Tower. He slowed, jogging through the green space before picking up his pace again. Eventually he ended up in the Saint-Germain section of Paris, on the Left Bank where his small hotel was situated. He normally preferred the adjacent Latin Quarter while in the city, but Frank had made other arrangements.

He showered, changed his clothes, and met Frank for dinner at a restaurant near the Orsay Museum. They sat in the rear corner of the outside eating area, which was cordoned off from the sidewalk by rectangular flower planters set on tall wrought-iron stands. Before leaving Frank gave him a slip of paper.

“What’s this?”

“A phone number.”

“For who?”

“Just call it.”

Frank wedged his hat down on his head and walked off. Shaw could see him pause at the doorway to light one of his favored small cigars before quickly disappearing into the mass of people threading their way along the crowded street.

Shaw walked back to his hotel, trying to lift his spirits by absorbing the magic of one of the most enchanting cities on earth, but the effect was exactly the opposite. It was in a hospital in Paris, where he was fighting for his life after having his arm nearly hacked off by a neo-Nazi, that he’d learned of Anna’s death. It was shortly after he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d said yes. She was a gifted linguist and had actually said yes in multiple languages. Shaw had even gone to the little town in Germany where her parents lived to formally seek her father’s permission for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

And then she was dead.

Shaw’s path took him along the river. He crossed over to the island where Notre Dame Cathedral stood. It had been recently cleaned, centuries of grime scraped off with pressurized water. For some reason Shaw had preferred it dirty. He checked his watch. It was nearly nine and the church shut down at 6:45 on weekdays. Tourists still roamed around taking shots of the famed exterior and themselves in front of it. He was not a particularly religious man and he wasn’t sure why he was even here.

For prayer? Well, he was out of luck. God apparently was closed for the night.

Shaw walked back to his hotel, unlocked the door to his room, and sat at a small desk chair, pulling out the slip of paper. He picked up his cell phone and punched in the number.

“Hello?”

Shaw hadn’t heard that voice in months. Unprepared for it, his finger hit the disconnect button. Damn you, Frank. Shaw had thought the phone number had something to do with the current mission. But it hadn’t.

That was Katie James’s voice.

He lay back on the bed and stared at the pale blue ceiling.

Their last day together had not worked out exactly as Shaw had wanted it to. Well, maybe it had, since at the crack of dawn he’d left the hotel in Zurich where they’d been staying, grabbed a shuttle to the airport, and took the next flight out; he didn’t really care where it was going. She’d woken up, gone down to breakfast to meet him, as they had planned, and probably become frantic when he didn’t show. She’d tried to call him, but he’d never called her back. He’d changed his number. He didn’t really know why he’d done all this. He’d never run from anything or anyone before. But he’d woken up in Switzerland on a chilly morning and just knew that he had to be alone.

So I just ran.

He stared at the slip of paper again. He should at least give her a chance to bitch at him for what he’d done. Yet an hour went by and he didn’t move.

Then he sat up and punched in the number.

“Hello, Shaw,” she said.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You called over an hour ago and then hung up.”

“You couldn’t know that. I’ve got caller block.”

“I still knew it was you.”

“How? You don’t get other calls?”

“Not on this phone. The only person I gave the number to was Frank so he could give it to you.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So why didn’t you try to call back? You just had to hit redial on my number.”

“I figured I’d let you work it out. How have you been?”

“Don’t you want to scream at me?”

“Why, would that be productive?”

That didn’t sound like the Katie James he knew. She was all emotion, wearing her heart on her sleeve and in her news stories. The lady was impulsive, something that Shaw both objected to and admired about her because it was so different from who he was. Or at least who he’d thought he was. As it turned out, around her he could be pretty spontaneous.

Shaw got up and walked over to the window overlooking the cobblestone courtyard of the hotel as night fell solidly over Paris. “I’m okay. How have you been?”

“Back doing freelance. I got some permanent job offers but none of them really interested me.”

“Bunch of rags?”

“New York Times. Der Spiegel in Germany, even Rolling Stone, real bottom dwellers.”

“I thought you wanted to get back in the game.”

“I guess I was wrong. How’s Frank?”

“The same.”

“So you’re back in your game, apparently.”

“I guess so,” he mumbled.

“Where are you?”

“Working.”

“I’m in San Fran for now. So when do you think you’ll get a break from work?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Not sure if you’ll survive the next job, or something else?”

He didn’t answer.

“Well, if you ever want to talk you have my number.”

“Katie?”

“Yes?” Shaw could hear her breaths coming a little more quickly.

“It was good to hear your voice.”

“Take care of yourself. And remember, you don’t have to do everything Frank tells you to.”

She clicked off and Shaw tossed the phone on the bed.