EGGIE BENT LOW to snap a picture of a bee on a stalk of lavender. She rose, slipped the camera in the back pocket of her white jeans, and walked toward the Abbaye de Sénanque. Founded by Cistercian monks in the twelfth century, it was located about thirty kilometers from Gordes along a winding drive through the mountains on roads that were ostensibly two lanes but practically only had room for one car.

She walked toward the ancient building where for centuries men had come to learn the intricacies of their faith. Now it housed a chapel, a bookstore and gift shop, and other event space. Monks still lived there and produced a variety of items for sale, including honey and liqueurs. The grounds were covered in the lavender fields for which Provence was known, although Reggie had passed equally impressive swaths of sunflowers on her way here. However, she had not come for the horticultural aspects of the abbey. She was here for a meeting. She’d chosen this rendezvous spot chiefly because it would have been impossible for anyone to follow her here. One-lane death traps did that for you.

She strolled along with a tour group, breaking off toward the gift shop when they veered into the chapel. The room was warm and a single fan puttered overhead, managing only to move pockets of warm, stale air from one place to another. A machine in the small foyer sold both Cokes and cappuccino. She headed to the section of the shop housing large picture books on Provence, many of which of course had lavender fields on the cover.

As she stood browsing a book on the abbey’s history, her cell phone buzzed. She checked the text message. It read, “six o’clock.” She put the book down, picked up another, and turned casually around.

Whit was standing behind her checking out a small wooden carving of the abbey building you could purchase for fifteen euros. He wore a baseball cap, shades, raggedy jeans, a week’s worth of beard, and had his iPod earbuds in. He put the book back and strolled outside. She waited a minute and then followed after buying the book she’d been looking at.

She saw him standing over by a low stone wall that stretched in front of the building. He was holding his camera and looking through the lens. He glanced up and saw her.

“Would you mind taking my picture in front of the abbey?” he asked.

She smiled. “Only if you’ll do the same for me.”

They alternated taking shots of the other and then strolled along together.

“Any results on my friend Bill?” she said in a low voice.

“Negative. No hits on prints. And we scored a zero on his picture too. He must be a good little boy. His full name, by the way, is William A. Young.”

“What does the A stand for?”

“We could never find that out.”

“Do you think he’ll realize you two went through his room?”

“We were very thorough in putting everything back exactly. His passport is American, the address checked out. There are lots of lobbyists named William Young registered in America. We can’t crank through them all in the time we have. Probably a waste anyway. I don’t see any dirt there.”

“Or his back cover could be as good as mine.”

“Or the bloke could be who he says he is, Reg.”

“He scaled a wall and then disarmed me. A lobbyist?”

Whit looked troubled by this. “Well, he is a big guy. But I guess I see your point. So what do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure. What does the professor think?”

“The brilliant one has deferred to your expertise in the field.”

“Great. So what do you think?”

“I reckon we have to nail Kuchin and changing plans willy-nilly now based on flimsy intelligence could screw everything up. So we go with the original plan and if something solid does come up, we work around it.”

“How’s Dom?”

“Fired up and ready to go. So what’re your first impressions of old Fedir?”

“The same as my original ones. He fills up every bit of space he’s in and then some.”

He glanced at her skeptically. “Not getting swept off your feet, are you?”

“With the monster? Hardly.”

“Actually I’m not talking about Kuchin.”

She gave him a hard stare.

Whit grinned maliciously. “Tall, mysterious, and the scaler of walls?”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” she answered coldly.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do—”

“Then don’t, Whit.”

“Just watch yourself.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Did you really paint a swastika on a target’s forehead using his blood after shooting him in the balls?”

“What can I say? I’m an artiste.”

“Right. I’m heading back.”

“So dinner with our Ukrainian friend tonight?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if Tall and Mysterious will be hovering.”

“It’s a small village.”

“Well, just don’t get yourself in the middle of a ménage à trois. They can be messy. And before you ask, yes, I speak from experience.”

“Whit, I don’t know how I tolerate you some days.”

“It’s bound to be my charm.”

“How do you know you even have any?”

He looked offended by the question. “Jesus, woman, I’m Irish. It’s in our DNA.”