It had a tidy interior courtyard and an elegant staircase covered by a well-worn runner. The flat was on the third floor; from the window of the comfortably furnished sitting room, it might have been possible to see the white dome of Sacré-Coeur had Shamron not been blocking the view. Hearing the sound of the door, he turned round slowly and stared at Gabriel for a long moment, as if debating whether to have him shot or thrown to the wild dogs. He was wearing a gray pin-striped suit and a costly silk necktie the color of polished silver. It made him look like an aging Middle European businessman who made money in shady ways and never lost at baccarat.“We missed you at lunch, Ari.”“I don’t eat lunch.”“Not even when you’re in Paris?”“I loathe Paris. Especially in winter.”He fished a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket and thumbed open the lid.“I thought you’d finally given up smoking.”“And I thought you were in Italy finishing a painting.” Shamron removed a cigarette, tapped the end three times on the lid, and slipped it between his lips.
