Eliyahu was angry-angry and bored silly. He was leaving for Israel the following night. Ostensibly, it was for a meeting at the Foreign Ministry, but he also planned to spend a few days in Eilat on the Red Sea. He was looking forward to the trip. He missed Israel, the cacophony of it, the hustle, the scent of pine and dust on the road to Jerusalem, the winter rains over the Galilee.

A waiter in a white tunic offered him champagne. Eliyahu shook his head. “Bring me some coffee, please.” He looked over the heads of the shimmering crowd for his wife, Hannah, and spotted her standing next to the chargé d’affaires from the embassy, Moshe Savir. Savir was a professional diplomat: supercilious, arrogant, the perfect temperament for the posting in Paris.

The waiter returned, bearing a silver tray with a single cup of black coffee on it.

“Never mind,” Eliyahu said, and he sliced his way through the crowd.

Savir asked, “How did it go with the foreign minister?”

“He turned his back on me.”

“Bastard.”

The ambassador reached out his hand for his wife. “Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

“Don’t forget tomorrow morning,” Savir said. “Breakfast with the editorial staff of Le Monde at eight o’clock.”

“I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”

“It’s important, Zev.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be my usual charming self.”

Savir shook his head. “See you then.”

The Pont Alexandre III was Emily’s favorite spot in Paris. She loved to stand in the center of the graceful span at night and gaze down the Seine toward Notre-Dame, with the gilded église du Dôme to her right, floating above Les Invalides, and the Grand Palais on her left.