The exit curve from A31 to Av. Joffre had Prometheus crossing the Moselle for the fourth time that minute, finally landing him on the eastern bank where the historical district lay. A half round on the fountain capped circle turned Joffre to Foch, and he was ready to head north toward the centre of the city. As he eased along Rue Maurice Barres, he tried not to think about the irony of passing a penitentiary on his way to commit a crime. He still remembered the stab of guilt he felt the first time he had used this station to broadcast Torche Tombante as he stopped in one of the one-hour parking spaces along Rue Lasalle across from Église Saint-Martin de Metz.

Leaning across the console, he pulled his balaclava and goggles out of the glove compartment, slid them into the unbuttoned top of his long black double-breasted Mackintosh and pulled the belt tight to keep them from slipping out the bottom. Flipping up the coat’s lapels and donning the broad-brimmed black fedora that sat as his passenger, he slid out of his little coupe and strode purposefully across the empty street. Its doors auto-locked behind him with a soft…