She grabbed her bag, rounded the corner of the hotel, and ran into the traffic on the street. Drivers slammed on the brakes and honked horns. Bullets whizzed past her, dotting the pavement in her wake. By the time she was on the other side of Rue Froissart, the men were in hot pursuit down the fire escape.
Diana ducked into the Metro entrance at the corner, practically flew down the steps, and reached the platform as the train pulled in to the station. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. She climbed aboard the train, pushed her way through the crowd of passengers, found a seat, and collapsed into it. The doors closed and she was away. Opening her bag, she found the Prada heels and put them on. Now she was just another ordinary classy Parisienne commuting through the busy city. She was confident that the Agency would not be able to trace her movements once she got to her destination. The route was secure and airtight. Perhaps fate really was on her side.
She took a deep breath and then felt a pang of regret. She hadn’t meant to abandon 47, but she’d had no choice.
Sorry, old friend, she thought. I hope you’ll understand one day. Send positive thoughts my way, if you’re capable of doing such a thing.
Goodbye—and good luck.
ONE
TWELVE MONTHS LATER
It was always a variation of the same dream.
This time I was, what, thirteen years old? Yes. Thirteen. I recognized the asylum’s corridors and I passed a framed portrait of my father—one of them, anyway—Dr. Ort-Meyer. I saw my reflection in the glass, and it was how I remembered myself at that age.
But where was everyone? The asylum was empty. My footsteps echoed as if I were in a cavern.
I thought to myself that I should run. He was coming, but I hadn’t perceived him yet. Usually I felt him coming. It was a sensation I was unable to describe, but I knew he was there. Just around the corner. Coming for me.
So I ran.
And then he was behind me, appearing out of nowhere. I could practically smell him. I could feel the coldness. It was always cold when he was nearby.
I dared to look over my shoulder as I ran. The dark figure was faceless, as usual. Almost as if he were only a shadow, but I knew better.
He was Death.
No question about it. Death had been coming for me in my dreams for a long time now.
I ran faster. I was fairly certain I could stay ahead of him, but the temperature around me grew colder. He was closer. How did he come to move so fast? He was getting better at the chase. He was learning.
But I was learning too. Wasn’t I?
I turned a corner and faced an interminable hallway. It disappeared into nothingness, a long way away. Could I make it to the end before he caught me?
I pushed forward and felt my legs working to put distance between the shadow and me. Did I hear him calling me? How could he call me? I don’t have a name. Or did I? I don’t remember.
Things were always crazy in a dream.
Suddenly my legs struggled to move. As if I were waist deep in invisible quicksand. No matter how hard I tried, I could only step forward at the pace of a snail. The muscles in my thighs and calves hurt from the exertion.
The ice-cold breath was now on my neck. He was directly behind me, perhaps close enough to reach out and touch me.
No! I had to get away! I couldn’t let Death touch me.
I sensed his hand, outstretched and ready to clasp my shoulder. The only thing I could do was fall forward, as if I’d just toppled like a stack of building blocks. But I didn’t fall fast enough; it was more like I was floating! Then I felt the icy, stinging pressure of his fingers.
I screamed as I landed on the hallway’s tiled floor …
… and I woke up.
The disorientation lasted for a few seconds, as always.
That unpleasant ball of bees in my chest felt as if it might explode. Some might call it anxiety. I don’t know what it was for me. Whatever I chose to call it, I didn’t like it.
I immediately sat up in bed. The hotel room was dark. No, it was light outside. I had the curtains closed. The digital clock on the nightstand read 5:43. I’d meant to wake from