He got up and walked slowly toward her, intending to comfort her, to show her he cared and her story was killing him.

"Answer my question, Jack!" she demanded and he stopped dead in his tracks.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm not smart enough to know. I just want you to know I'm going to-- "

"Do what?" she screamed. "Do what? Make my memories go away, make the bastards pay for what they did? You can't do that; no one can do that. Victor failed to commit suicide, to kill himself. And even that wouldn't have done it for me. Even if he was successful. Even that would not be enough!"

She turned toward the table and broke down again, her head on the table; her hands spread open, upward, surrendering, sobbing, her tears staining the wooden tabletop.

Jack stood where he was. He was confused, scared, hopeless, impotent. He knew he could not recognize what had to be done.

She slowly lifted her head from the table, drawing her hands to her temples to support her, her fingers deep into her long blond hair. She turned to Jack, tears in her eyes, tears of unspent rage and terror. "You know what is the worst thing they did to me, Jack? They didn't kill me. Like all men, they couldn't do it right. They didn't have the courtesy to kill me."

"You know what? You know why they didn't kill me? Because that would have led to a big problem for them. Killing their own was fine with the world, but they couldn't kill a diplomat's wife, a white woman. They could rape her, but not kill her."

She turned to Jack. "I think the reason I'm telling you this is because I have no one else to tell. And I have told so many experts, so many professionals that were supposed to help. Jack, you are the end of my rope. There is no place else in the world for me to go but to you. I swear to God that you are the last person who will ever hear this from me. Ever. I will see to that."

Jack could see the dreadful resolve in her eyes.

"I trust you. And I don't know why, but.... I do. I've thought of letting my body be found floating in the Seine but I don't even have the strength to do that." She smiled, wearily. "Probably would mess that up, too, just like Victor," she whispered to herself.

Holding her head in her hands, eyes closed, she continued. "You know what Victor's concern was while I was in the hospital? He wanted to discuss damage control, how to minimize his responsibility, worrying over and over about how the whole thing would affect his career. And the disgusting thing that came out of that was not my new understanding of Victor. No. It was the absolute disgust for myself for being so blind, so naive, and so stupid. So, so blind."

She turned toward Jack and saw him, for the first time as he was at this instant: a man who was scared. But she could feel something that he didn't feel: It was his strength for her and she bet her life on it when she said, "I'm falling, Jack, falling from a great height, from the top of a mountain, from the edge of a cliff so high that eagles dare not--"

She then turned directly to him and said, "I want-- need you to catch me, Jack. That's all. Just.... catch ... me."

She slept in his arms on the big leather sofa that night, barely breathing, so deep in sleep he would put his cheek against her nose from time to time, to feel her breath. He wondered to himself what the hell does this mean? Where the hell is this going? What the hell do I think I am capable of doing for her?

Her eyes opened to the sun flooding the room but she didn't move. She could feel his closeness and the warmth and smell of his body and she stayed still until she felt him move his arm. She smiled broadly as she relieved the pressure of her body on his arm, thinking that the pain a man is willing to suffer in a terribly uncomfortable position like that can be the measure of true gallantry for a woman.

They made small talk through two cups of coffee and she announced, "I've got to go."

Both got up wordlessly and he walked her down to the Paris
street. They waited a few minutes and when a taxi came by, he flagged it for her. He opened the door and she turned to him and then, quickly kissed his cheek and got into the cab and started to close the door. Jack held it open and she looked at him quizzically.

"Where is Victor, now? " he asked her.

She looked up at him and said, "San Francisco, the last time I knew. But that was at least five years ago."

Jack nodded at her and closed the car door. He turned as the cab pulled away and, as he walked back into his building, he knew he had found something to do before he died, to give his death some meaning. He would find Victor Ryce and kill him.