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ignored the hot pounding pain in his side and chased after the thief. He could hear footsteps. In a flash he realized that the recorder he borrowed from his father was still on. He was able to follow his backpack thief by paying attention to the volume of the footsteps. The quieter they were, the farther away the culprit. “Thanks, Dad!” he whispered, winding through the halls and rooms until he caught up with his attacker.
    â€œHey!” he yelled at the man just ahead. “Drop that pack!” Yelling made his side hurt all over again, but he had no choice. They had come to a wall, with halls going both right and left. Within moments his attacker turned. Joe recognized him as the Victoire man he’d watched earlier.
    The man started to the left, then suddenly ran to the right. But Joe was on to the plan. He cut off the thief and tackled him to the floor. They wrestled for a few minutes, each trying to get the advantage. At first Joe felt like he was in a fight for his life. Then the man seemed to weaken, and Joe was able to pin him.
    â€œWho are you?” Joe demanded. But there was no answer.
    â€œComment vous appellez-vous?” Joe asked. “What’s your name?”
    The man struggled a little, but soon gave up completely. And he remained silent. Joe could tell he wasn’t going to get the man to talk, but he also knew the stranger had no power left in him to fight. He decided to release his hold and stood up. The man dashed off, leaving Joe’s unopened backpack crumpled against the wall.
    Joe checked the bag. The man apparently hadn’t had time during the chase even to open it. All the items were safe just where Joe had placed them. And the recorder was undamaged.
    With a sigh of relief and a moan of pain, Joe walked toward the spiral staircase leading up out of the dungeon.
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    While Joe was in the Conciergerie, Frank and Jacques mingled in the Victoire demonstration. Frank nudged closer and closer to the front of therally. At one point in her speech, Isabelle Genet looked right at him, and her mouth twisted into a thin-lipped crooked smile.
    â€œDo you think she recognizes me somehow?” Frank murmured to Jacques. “She looks like she knows who I am.” Frank kept watching Isabelle, who was no longer looking at him. “Jacques,” Frank said in a low voice. “Jacques?”
    Frank looked around, but Jacques wasn’t there. He peered over the heads of some of the others at the rally. He could see Jacques at the fringe of the crowd, but decided not to join him. He wanted to keep his eyes on Isabelle. He had an idea for getting her to talk to him and maybe reveal more of her plans.
    When the rally ended, Frank closed in on Isabelle. “I remember you,” she said to him as he approached. She had a deeper voice when she talked in conversation. It wasn’t as shrill as the voice she used when she was marshaling her Victoire troops for battle against progress. Up close she looked a little younger than forty, the age Frank had guessed for her the day before. But she also looked tougher.
    â€œYou were at Le Stade yesterday,” she continued, “with your friend, tomato-face.” She gave him that crooked smile again.
    â€œMy brother,” Frank corrected her. “And you might be sorry you did that when you hear what I have to say.”
    â€œI’m listening,” Isabelle said, plopping down onto a bench near the quai.
    Frank sat next to her and began his story. “My brother and I believe in what you stand for,” he said. “In fact we’d like to organize a group like yours in America. Why don’t we go get some coffee and you could give me some tips on how to get started.” He pointed to a small café on the bank of the Seine near a bridge.
    She looked at him closely, studying him. Then her eyes narrowed, and he had the sudden feeling she could read his mind. Finally her