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supported the Algerians’ desire for independence, giving their time, money, and brains to the cause. That was how he had met Ali, the brilliant, driven military man with a personal mission that intrigued Jean-Claude. It was a violent plan, and it paid well.
    Jean-Claude pulled out the slip of paper and stared at it. So Ali was searching for crosses now. In his four years of working with this madman, Jean-Claude had never had such an easy assignment. He knew all about the Huguenot cross. He remembered seeing one sparkling around Anne-Marie’s neck every night when she had lain close to him. And he could recall her words. It was my father’s. He was a Protestant, a descendant of the Huguenots. He told me how their pastors were tortured and killed and the women imprisoned in a tower in Aigues-Mortes.…
    If something was happening in Aigues-Mortes today, Jean-Claude knew just where to look. He walked confidently into the bustling early-morning marché. At last, another assignment to keep him busy on this side of the Mediterranean until he could cross the sea and celebrate Algeria’s victory with his friends.

    “You see, Gabby, it’s not a long drive at all,” David remarked as his deux chevaux rumbled down the road past a small marker that read A IGUES- M ORTES 5 KM .
    “This is real swampland around here,” she mused, observing the white gulls flying en masse toward the open sea far in the distance.
    “Yes, well, we’ve followed the Mediterranean since we left Montpellier twenty minutes ago. You know what Aigues-Mortes means, don’t you?”
    “Dead waters?”
    “Exactly. It’s totally surrounded by lagoons. Saint Louis, France’s crusading king, built it in the thirteenth century, making this a port and hoping to attract trade. After his death, his son Philippe the Bold built the walls—you’ll see them in a minute. The Tower of Constance is nearly a hundred feet high and has walls twenty feet thick.”
    Gabriella gasped as the perfect walled city with the massive tower he had just described came into view, rising like a mirage on the flat horizon. “It’s like something out of a storybook!”
    David agreed. “It’s one of the most handsome and well-preserved monuments from the Middle Ages. The tower is where the Huguenot women were imprisoned. Let’s park the car and have a look around.”
    David found a parking spot just outside the city walls. They got out of the car and walked past the vendors selling their wares.
    “Saturday morning is always busy. But the city is nothing of what it was back in the Middle Ages. Fifteen thousand inhabitants then, and a mere four thousand now. Marseille, of course, became France’s great port, and the silt from the Rhône River eventually cut off access to Aigues-Mortes.”
    David took Gabriella’s arm and guided her through the heavy wooden doors into the cobblestone streets. “We enter here by the Porte de la Gardette.” He looked at his watch. “It’s eleven now. You’ll have plenty of time to visit the tower and walk on the ramparts before lunch.” He grinned. “But be careful. The ramparts aren’t protected. Don’t slip off into some squire’s home.”
    “You aren’t coming with me?”
    “After a while, even the most fascinating history loses its luster. I’ve been here five times and been through the tower and ramparts every time. You run on and enjoy. I’ll meet you at the main gate in an hour. No, let’s make it twelve thirty. Ah, but we should get the bread first. The boulangeries all close at noon. Here—” He put ten francs in her hand. “Get a baguette and a ficelle . Do you mind? There’s a good little store with a green-and-white awning on the next road. I’ll slip out to the marché and get us some fruit and cheese. What will you have?”
    “A pear, please,” she said, “and some Morbier. I’ll see you back here in a sec.”
    Gabriella turned down the side street David had indicated and easily found the shop with its awning