Paris, October 2014Jean-Pierre exited the foyer of the Paris-Hospitality in Boulevard Garibaldi, in the city’s seventh arrondissement. He lifted the collar of his coat and buttoned it all the way to the top. The temperature was close to zero and he swore under his breath: - Foutus, - shoving his hands in his pockets and walking quickly to the ZigZag Cafe. He had an important meeting to get to and he swore again as he looked at the sky: the last thing he needed was for it to start snowing.
His once piercing blue eyes had darkened since his wife’s death a year earlier. They’d fought a long, difficult battle against her disease but in the end even he, one of the world’s most renowned doctors, had had to admit defeat. After his wife passed away, he’d coped by throwing himself into the Médecin
