CHAPTER 30Shortly after three on Friday afternoon I boarded a jet flying south to the Cote d’Azur. There wasn’t much about that April in Paris that I would remember with joy. I wanted to put it behind me as quickly as possible, in distance as well as in time.
As we flew over the Alps I remembered the last I’d seen of Jean-Louis Lemaire. Sitting on the ground by his son’s bullet-torn body, tears streaming down his face as he sobbed brokenly. Gabrielle Lemaire had stood near, watching him cry, her own face like stone.
I remembered, too, the faces of Maureen and Harry Byrne as I helped them get through the red tape necessary to have their daughter’s ashes flown home to California. The fact that they never, by word or glance, indicated that they put any blame on me for what happened didn’t m
