The Prisoner's Wife by Gerard Macdonald

“You?” she said to Danielle. “Woman like you? French? You married an Arab?”
    â€œIn fact, he was Persian. Not Arab.”
    Wincing, the concierge stopped scratching. She flexed her finger joints. “Arthritis,” she explained. “ Un cafard. It’s living in this cursed marsh.” Danielle translated. The woman gestured into space. “He’s gone, your man. Arab, Persian, whatever he was.”
    Shawn had understood this. “Ask where he’s gone.”
    Danielle glanced at him. To the concierge she said, “Madame, how exactly did my husband leave?”
    â€œHe was, I am sorry to tell you this, mamselle, your pretty man was criminal. A crook.”
    The man spooning up soup said, “Terroriste, non?”
    â€œCops came,” said the concierge. “The CRS, I think, they have taken him. They hit him, bof”—she struck the side of her own firmly coiffed head—“they put on cuffs”—she showed veined wrists—“a thing in his mouth, they put on him a bag, the head, you understand, then in a car. The back of a car. Pouf. Gone.”
    â€œIn which direction?”
    The concierge pointed east.
    â€œWhat kind of car?”
    The concierge shrugged. “Black.”
    Without looking up from his plate, the man at the table said, “ Suédois. Volvo.”
    â€œDarius was kidnapped,” Danielle told Shawn. “Or someone was. Cuffed, bagged, gagged. Driven away.”
    â€œOkay,” Shawn said. He wondered about the words she used. “If that’s all this witch knows, tell her thank you. We have a lunch date.” He put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. Don’t be like that. We’ll find him.”
    Danielle looked at him, expressionless. She thanked the concierge.
    â€œWho does he say is a witch?”
    â€œYou speak English?”
    â€œElle, un peu,” said the man at the table. “Plus que moi.” He’d finished his soup and was eating a dry baguette while reading a racing page. He marked something with a pencil.
    â€œGood luck with your Arab,” the concierge said. “It’s true, not all are thieves. But most.”
    â€œYou need to feed the dog,” said Danielle.
    She led the way back up to street level. “Could have been anyone,” she told Shawn. “The man kidnapped.”
    In a gutter still full of water, a pigeon struggled to breathe. One wing was torn off, leaving a bloodied stump. The other wing flapped. Shawn bent to wring the bird’s neck.
    Danielle pulled him back. “Don’t.”
    â€œCome on,” he said. “It’s in pain.”
    â€œYou think pain ends with death?” Ignoring the handkerchief he offered, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Leave me alone. It’s okay. I can find him without you.”
    â€œNot if the Agency has him. He could be in any one of a dozen countries. You’d never even find the damn jail. We have them all over—like, seventeen countries.” He pointed his right thumb downward. “No chance, Danielle.”
    It was the first time he’d said her name.
    She took a deep breath, thinking that through. “Who is this lunch date? Who do you know in Paris?”
    He was reading a text on his phone. Wondering, too, when he might share a bed with this girl. How much that might set back his recovery program.
    He said, “Bobby Walters. That’s my buddy. Based at the embassy.” He paused, then said, “We grew up together.”
    â€œIn America?”
    â€œMmm. Alabama. Turkey Forge. Neighbors. Bobby was one of those fat, sad kind of kids. People used to hit him, on principle. He didn’t play sports. First time he’s left off the team, right there on the field, starts crying. After that, no one used his name. He wasn’t Bobby anymore. He was the kid who cried.” Shawn paused, thinking back. “Used to walk him to