Raymond glanced again from the binoculars to the sheets of printout scattered over the table before him. Once more to the binoculars, though that wasn't really necessary: he was certain now. He set down the binoculars and reached for the phone. She answered on the first ring, as she always did.
"Ils sont arrivés à Paris, Madame."
"Tu es sur?"
"Sans doute. J'ai vérifié les photos trois, quatre fois. . . ."
"Comme toujours. Et qui as-tu vu? Ils sont tous là?"
"Seulement quatre hommes, deux femmes. Mais il n'y en a plus à Paris, je pense. C'est tout."
"Bien. Merci, Raymond."
"Et maintenant?"
"Regarde-les jusqu'à ce que je vienne."
"Je pourrais les contacter, Madame. . . ."
"Non. Attends-moi. Il faut que je les voir."
"Oui. J'attends."
Replacing the phone in its cradle, he took up the binoculars again, admiring as he always did their very foreignness. Then he looked once more out the window. Two of them were standing there now, looking out; the binoculars magnified the view to such an extent that there was certainly no doubt but that they were two of those in the printouts. They were not speaking now, only standing and looking out--looking directly at him, if they only knew it. And they would have been able to see him, too, even without the fancy binoculars, across the tiny Parisian street that separated the two apartment buildings--but that Raymond's apartment was shrouded in darkness, with only the faintest of light by which he could study the printouts, while theirs was brightly illumined. He smiled with satisfaction and settled back in his chair to wait.