GIRL.

Shamron’s gaze returned to the television. An attractive young Englishwoman called Beatrice was recounting the attack for a BBC correspondent. She described a traffic accident involving a van and a car that brought traffic on the bridge to a standstill, trapping the ambassador’s car. She described how the killer walked away from his girlfriend and drew a weapon from his bag. How he then tossed the bag beneath the undercarriage of the limousine and waited for it to detonate before calmly walking forward and killing everyone inside.

Then Beatrice described how the killer walked slowly toward the girl-the girl who seconds before he had been passionately kissing-and fired several bullets into her chest.

Shamron licked the tip of his pencil and below the word GIRL he wrote a name:

TARIQ.

Shamron picked up his secure telephone and dialed Uzi Navot, the head of his Paris station. “They had someone inside that reception. Someone who alerted the team outside that the ambassador was leaving. They knew his route. They staged an accident to tie up traffic and leave the driver with no way to escape.”

Navot agreed. Navot made it a habit to agree with Shamron.

“There’s a great deal of very valuable artwork inside that building,” Shamron continued. “I would suspect there’s a rather sophisticated video surveillance system, wouldn’t you, Uzi?”

“Of course, boss.”

“Tell our friends in the French service that we’d like to dispatch a team to Paris immediately to monitor the investigation and provide any support they require. And then get your hands on those videotapes and send them to me in the pouch.”

“Done.”

“What about the bridge? Are there police surveillance cameras covering that bridge? With any luck we may have a recording of the entire attack-and their preparation.”

“I’ll look into it.”

“Anything left of the limousine?”