Page 3 of Shadow of Doubt

Beyond a few cars and a person or two with an umbrella, no one passed. No one stopped. No one came into Robert et Louise. It was simply a rainy Sunday night in Paris. Nothing more.

When he got to the bottom of his snifter, the barman asked him if he wanted a refill. Jadot politely waved him off. If he had a second, he’d probably have a third. That wouldn’t be good. He needed to be sharp and fully focused tomorrow.

Laying a bill on thecomptoir,he thanked the barman and told him to keep the change.

As he put on his coat, a waiter offered him a Styrofoam to-go box of food—roast potatoes and meats they would only be throwing out when they closed in twenty minutes.

Jadot didn’t have much of an appetite, but he was a good man, a good neighbor, and so he graciously accepted.

Stepping outside, back into the rain, he paused briefly on the sidewalk to scan up and down the street. Still nothing.

He tucked the to-go container under his arm and fished for his keys as he crossed to his front door.

Inside, he ignored his mailbox. There was nothing in it that couldn’t wait another day.

He ignored the elevator as well.

Stairs helped keep him in shape. He had spent most of his life as a rugged outdoorsman, a committed alpinist. Nothing crazy. No Kangchenjunga, no Nanga Parbat. And definitely no K2 and no Everest. Jadot was a sub-25,000 man.

Summits such as Baintha Brakk in Pakistan, Cerro Torre in Argentina, and the Eiger in Switzerland were much more his style. An intelligent, technical athlete’s climbs—with far fewer fame-seeking Instagram assholes to contend with. He had yet to see any dead bodies on his summits.

To that end, he had nothing but disdain for those who chased the biggest mountains only for the bragging rights. Climbing, in his book, waslike making love. You didn’t become an expert overnight. It was something you got better at with practice.

When he reached his apartment, he kicked off his boots and hung his coat on a peg in the vestibule to drip-dry. His was the sole unit at the top of the five-story building.

Inside, the centuries-old dwelling was complete with hand-hewn wooden beams, three antique fireplaces, and original tiles. Theportes-fenêtresin the living room gave onto the Rue Vieille-du-Temple, while the smaller windows in the back looked out over a hidden courtyard and a slice of the expansive National Archives complex.

The walls were covered with framed photographs from his adventures abroad—both his climbing trips as well as the far-flung locations where he had carried out assignments on behalf of the DGSE. There was no evidence to indicate the presence of a spouse or any sort of romantic partner in Jadot’s life. By all appearances, the man was unattached.

Entering the kitchen, he dropped his keys on the counter, placed the to-go container in the fridge, then pulled out his cell phone and plugged it in to charge.

As he did, he heard a noise. It sounded like it had come from the master bedroom. Jadot froze. He wasn’t alone.Someone was in the apartment.

Being careful not to make a sound, he opened the cupboard beneath the sink and retrieved the old Manurhin double-action revolver he had taped inside.

His first instinct was that maybe he was being robbed. Over the last six months, multiple apartments across the Marais had been hit. But none of them, to his recollection, were late on a Sunday night. The thieves had preferred to strike during the day—while people were at work. That could only mean one thing: someone had come for him, specifically.

Quietly cocking the pistol, he brought the weapon to the ready position and crept toward his bedroom.

He placed his steps carefully, avoiding the handful of floorboards that were guaranteed to groan and give his approach away.

At the door, he took a deep breath, applied pressure to his trigger, and then peeked around the frame.The room was empty.

Not only was it empty, but he believed he might have discovered the source of the sound he’d heard.

Lying on the floor next to his book-strewn nightstand was a large tome on European history.Could it have fallen by itself?

Anything was possible, but just to make sure, Jadot checked under the bed, and inside his closet and the master bath. They were all clear. Picking up the book, he returned it to the nightstand. Then he heard something that stopped him dead in his tracks. Out in the hall, one of the floorboardscreaked.

For a fraction of a second, he was tempted to fire right through the wall. But not knowing who was on the other side made such an act incredibly reckless.

If it did turn out to be some poor kid forced to steal or some junkie just trying to support a habit, those weren’t the kinds of deaths he was prepared to have on his conscience. And if it wasn’t a thief but someone sent to attack him, he needed that person alive. Dead men were somewhat difficult to interrogate.

Taking another deep breath, he steadied his pistol and prepared to peek into the hall.

He counted down from three and then leaned out only far enough to steal the quickest of glimpses before pulling back. He didn’t see anything.There was no one there.His hands slick with sweat, he gripped the pistol tighter.

Stepping into the hall, he swung his gun toward the kitchen, but it appeared just as he had left it—empty—and he headed toward the living room, carefully clearing each of the rooms he passed.

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