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stepped over Marek’s body, carefully avoiding the blood pooled around the man’s head.
    In the elevator, he wondered why his client had required that ritual. It was too complicated, as far as he was concerned. Strangling was quicker and cleaner. When he was younger, Bashir had been partial to throat slitting. Then one September night in Beirut, when he was executing a contract at a private party, a spurt of blood had stained his Armani suit—a superb three piece he had bought in Rome. A suit that had put him back a thousand euros—ruined. He had used guns and rope ever since.
    Bashir headed to the front entrance, where the guard, hypnotized by a parade of blondes, was watching television. The man died instantly.
    Bashir checked his watch. He had just enough time to get to a hiding place. He removed the video recording from the security camera. This job was almost too easy. He wasn’t even getting his usual adrenaline rush.
    He paused a few seconds and hit the yellow alarm button. A siren ripped through the silence. Police cars would arrive in a matter of minutes, their lights flashing.
    He felt his blood flowing to his brain and heart. Now he was getting that rush. He ran toward his car, where his two bodyguards waited.
    The plan had worked perfectly. The safe house was five minutes away. Bashir felt for the stone in the bag as he watched the street fly by. Another fine night in Jerusalem.

7
    This time, his charm was working. The French movie producer laughed every time Marcas made a joke. Perhaps he’d suggest that they go downtown for a drink and more conversation. Just as Marcas was about to do that, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to find Alexis Jaigu leaning toward his ear. “Come quick. I need you. Now.”
    Marcas shook his head. No, not now. He wasn’t going to miss out on his chance for a little Roman love.
    Before he could protest, his friend pulled him aside and whispered, “It’s urgent, Antoine.”
    “What’s going on?”
    “Come and see for yourself.”
    Marcas turned to the producer and excused himself. “I won’t be long,” he said with a smile.
    The party was in full swing. A DJ had replaced the quartet, and guests were dancing to the latest hits.
    Marcas followed Jaigu, who took the stairs two at a time, nearly in rhythm with the Benny Benassi selection coming out of the speakers. Marcas’s ten-year-old son had introduced him to the group.
    Two men were guarding a large wooden door. They stepped aside for the intelligence officer. Inside, Marcas saw two other gorillas bending over a mass. He walked closer, finally making out the body of a woman in a pool of blood.
    Jaigu squatted next to the body.
    “This can’t get out to the media,” Jaigu said. “It would be a disaster for the embassy’s image. Our relations with the Italian administration are already tense. The press would have a heyday.”
    Marcas glowered. “Alexis, what am I doing here? You know I have no authority. This is a job for the head of security.”
    Jaigu didn’t take his eyes off the lifeless body. “I know, but you’re a homicide detective. And the victim is a personal friend of the head of security. We have to be spot-on with this. Please. As a favor to me. Just take a look. Our chief security officer will be here shortly.”
    Marcas sighed. “We need to lift fingerprints, examine the body, and—”
    Jaigu interrupted him. “I just want your first impressions. Security has orders to cordon off the embassy. We have a witness.”
    Marcas leaned over the body. The metallic odor of the woman’s blood and the sweet smell of beeswax floor polish mingled with her scent. Probably Shalimar, Marcas thought. “What do you know so far?”
    “The victim went upstairs with another woman around forty-five minutes ago. One of the guards saw them. Ten minutes later, the other woman came down and disappeared. The guard figured he should check on this one. He alerted us as soon as he discovered the body.”
    “I