When he hung up, he coughed violently. He blinked tears because of the pain in his chest and had to grip both sides of the telephone counter to steady himself. He wiped spittle on his raincoat’s sleeve, too weak to care about the crudeness, when he heard a young woman ask if he needed help. He looked up into the darkly luminous eyes of a teenager as she placed a caring hand on his arm. Should I call the police over? she wanted to know.
Call the police, with that false passport on me? he thought. They might examine it too closely, he feared. And then their questions. Why had he, a retiree, booked a flight on a businessman’s shuttle? Why had he scheduled to leave Paris? Why Milan? Why a flight on the thirtieth? He might have to explain and explain, and he wondered how long he could keep his
