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French, and, wrapping his arms around her, kissed her on both cheeks. Her body language revealed all—to Gabriel. The chemist seemed oblivious to the discomfort she showed in his embrace.
    “Jean, I’d like you to meet my friend from America, Gabriel Hunt,” she said after sliding out of his grip with a facility that would have made her late father proud. “Gabriel, this is Jean.”
    The chemist’s smile vanished when he shook Gabriel’s hand. “I am pleased to meet you,” Jean said, sounding the farthest thing from pleased.
    “Likewise,” Gabriel replied. “Thank you for seeing us so late.”
    The man sniffed. “For my Samantha, anything. Come this way.”
    They followed him through the shop and into the back, turning down a corridor and passing through it into a windowless room that held Jean’s lab and workspace. It was filled with mortars and pestles, measuring instruments, test tubes, beakers, and other instruments of his trade. Through the open doorway to an adjoining supply room Gabriel could see metal shelves piled high with containers of prescription drugs. An older woman in a caftan and headscarf stood by a deep metal sink in the corner of the room, rinsing out glassware and setting each piece mouth-down on a rack to dry.
    “Kasha,” Jean said. He had to repeat it before the woman looked up. “You can finish that later. Later. Thank you.” The woman turned off the water, dried her hands, and stepped out.
    “So, what can I do for you this evening, my dear?” Jean asked.
    Sammi pulled out the plastic bag and handed it to him. “We need to know what was in this syringe.”
    “ ‘We,’ ” Jean said, frowning. Or perhaps he had only said “
Oui
,” Gabriel wasn’t sure.
    The chemist opened the bag and carefully removed the broken hypodermic, then slid his glasses onto his nose. He muttered something that Gabriel didn’t catch.
    “Excuse me?”
    Jean looked down his nose at the American. “I said if there is still residue in it then it shouldn’t be a problem. However, there is none visible to the naked eye. Give me a moment. Why don’t you have a seat in my office, Mister Hunt?” He pointed to another door across the hall, next to a flight of stairs that led to the second floor. “Kasha can make you some tea.”
    “Thank you, Jean,” Sammi said, “that’ll be lovely. Come.” And she took Gabriel’s arm before Jean could protest that he hadn’t mean for
both
of them to go.
    His office was a small room dominated by a large metal desk and a ceiling fixture set up to direct its light at the framed diploma on the wall. Gabriel glanced at it briefly, then sat in one of the two guest chairs. “So,” he said. “How well do you and Jean know each other?”
    “Not as well as he would like,” Sammi said.
    “That much is clear.”
    “He’s not a bad guy,” Sammi said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “he just doesn’t understand that I’m not interested in—” She stopped when Kasha appeared in the door with a tray in her hands. There were two bone china cups and a steaming teapot. “Thank you, Kasha, that smells wonderful.”
    “It is
touareg
,” Kasha said softly. “I recall how you liked it last time.”
    It did smell good, the steam thick and minty, with an undertone of wormwood. It reminded Gabriel of the tea he’d had in Morocco while hiding out from two rather aggressive members of the Royal Gendarmerie. As he’d been unable to leave his host’s cellar for nine days, he’d had plenty of time for drinking tea. It had been the only good part of that whole incident.
    Gabriel stood to take the tray from Kasha, but his jacket pocket began buzzing before he could. “Excuse me,” he said, and fished out his phone. Sammi took the tray from her instead. “It’s Michael,” Gabriel said. “My brother. I sent him a picture of the writing on the print, the Arabic characters. I figured he’d be able to read them.”
    “Was he?” Sammi poured them each a cup of tea,