‘But this one-hundred-and-ten-kilometre radius circle is a good area to start with,’ said Ian, choosing to ignore Melanie’s logic. ‘I’ve marked that on this map.’

  Melanie looked at the map of Paris on the screen in front of her. There was a big red circle that pretty much encompassed the whole thing.

  ‘She’s somewhere there,’ said Ian. ‘We need to find her before the police do. It seems like a large area. But if we split up and start with the main train stations, that’s probably the best way to proceed.’

  ‘No,’ said Melanie.

  ‘You can’t go back to sleep,’ said Ian.

  ‘No, I mean – no, I’m not going to spend the day searching half of a square one hundred kilometres,’ explained Melanie.

  ‘It’s not square kilometres. The radius is one hundred kilometres of a circle. The total area would be pi times one hundred squared. Thirty-one thousand, four hundred square kilometres. Which admittedly is a lot.’

  ‘We don’t have to do all that,’ said Melanie, rubbing her eyes and swinging her legs out of bed. ‘We just need to think like Friday.’

  ‘No-one can think like Friday,’ said Ian.

  ‘No,’ agreed Melanie. ‘That’s true when it comes to problem solving. Her mind is like a supercomputer then. But with basic emotional things, she’s more simple than an amoeba.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Ian.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Melanie. ‘When they tried to arrest Friday yesterday, she was frightened. Really really frightened.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ian.

  ‘No, you don’t get it,’ said Melanie. ‘What frightens Friday most in the world?’

  Ian thought about it for a moment before answering. ‘Blood. The sight of blood always makes her faint.’

  Melanie shook her head. ‘That’s nothing. That’s just a primal response. The thing that frightens her most is being locked up.’

  ‘Well, no-one likes that,’ said Ian. ‘That’s the reason they do it. As a punishment.’

  ‘No, it’s more than that,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s visceral. It’s in her bones. Being locked up in juvenile detention when she was falsely accused – it traumatised her. Now every time Friday is in a confined space or someone stops her for a moment at airport security or a security guard wants to look in her bag – she has a full-blown panic attack.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Ian.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself. She’s a basket case so much of the time it’s hard to pick it,’ said Melanie. ‘But you weren’t there when she first came out of prison. She was damaged. She’s not fully recovered yet. Being put in handcuffs yesterday, that was literally the stuff of her nightmares. She would have reverted to pure primal fight-or-flight mode.’

  ‘What does that mean for us?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Think about it,’ said Melanie. ‘Friday would want to be somewhere safe. Somewhere comforting. Somewhere she belongs.’

  ‘But she doesn’t have a home,’ said Ian. ‘Her parents sold their house. Do you mean school? Do you think she’s trying to get back to Highcrest Academy?’

  Melanie shook her head. ‘She hasn’t been there for over a year. It’s not the place that makes it feel safe. It’s what’s in the place.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Ian. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Books,’ said Melanie. ‘Books are her security blanket. Her nanna. Her binky. She finds everything about books calming. The smell, the information, the Dewey decimal system itself – it’s all comforting to her.’

  ‘Like a mother’s womb,’ said Ian.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s her mother’s womb. Because her actual mother was never terribly interested in her.’

  ‘So, she’s at a bookshop?’ said Ian.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Melanie. ‘They’re not terribly big. And they’re not open late. But libraries are.’

  ‘The library, of course,’ said Ian, reaching for the laptop. ‘I’ll look up the nearest one.’

  ‘No,’ said Melanie, slapping the screen shut. ‘The police can shadow our computers, remember?’

  ‘But we need to find the nearest library,’ said Ian.

  ‘Ian, we’ve been living in Paris for two weeks,’ said Melanie. ‘Didn’t you notice that the Nationale Bibliothèque is two blocks from here?’

  ‘It is?’ said Ian.

  ‘It’s a huge building,’ said Melanie. ‘I spent fifty per cent of every twenty-four hours asleep, and even I noticed it. What have you been looking at?’

  ‘Paris is very beautiful,’ said Ian.

  ‘You can’t take your eyes off Friday, can you?’ said Melanie.

  Ian blushed. ‘We have been solving crime as well.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Do you really think she’s there?’ said Ian.

  ‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Melanie. She lay back down and snuggled under her doona.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Ian. ‘Shouldn’t we be hurrying to the library?’

  ‘It doesn’t open until nine,’ said Melanie. ‘The best thing I can do to help Friday is to be well rested when we find her.’

  Ian would have argued, but Melanie had already started snoring.

  Getting to the library was not quite as easy as they’d expected. When Ian checked the street, there was a police car sitting out the front of the art institute. When he checked the back exit, there was a young police officer standing in the alley chain-smoking cigarettes.

  ‘Tsk,’ said Melanie. ‘So bad for his health. And he’ll get premature wrinkles.’

  ‘I’ll go grey if we don’t get out of here,’ said Ian. ‘Let’s try the roof.’

  Luckily, the French police had underestimated Ian and Melanie’s desire to escape, so they hadn’t posted any officers up there. It wasn’t hard to get up onto the roof. Ian gave the access hatch one good shove with his shoulder and the rusty lock gave way. He turned to see if Melanie needed help climbing through the hatch and was surprised to see her emerge holding a pillow.

  ‘What’s that for?’ asked Ian. ‘You’re not planning to take another nap, are you?’

  ‘Oh no, at least not yet,’ said Melanie. ‘But I’ve had quite a bit of experience clambering on rooftops with Friday. Trust me. This will be useful.’

  And it was. To get from one rooftop to the next, Ian and Melanie had to negotiate all sorts of obstacles. There was barbed wire, broken glass cemented into the top of brickwork, rusty guttering, exposed nails and epic amounts of pigeon poop.

  ‘For such a beautiful city,’ said Ian, wiping poop off his hands, ‘Paris has really gross and dangerous rooftops. Who would purposefully cement broken glass onto a building?’

  ‘Someone who didn’t want teenagers on their roof,’ suggested Melanie.

  Melanie navigated every challenge with ease. She simply laid her pillow across the top of the broken glass or barbed wire or disgusting mess and rolled over each obstacle. By the time they made it to their third rooftop, Ian had scraped, cut and impaled himself many times. He gave up and waited for Melanie to go first, then pass back the pillow so he could follow her example.

  When they finally arrived at the last building on the block (a bakery with a chimney that smelled like croissants) they were relieved to sneak down the fire escape onto the street. Then they were away, scurrying up the street, heading north towards the National Library.

  La Bibliothèque Nationale de France a Richelieu was underwhelming from the outside. The street approaching it was narrow and the building itself was covered in scaffolding. The scaffolding was covered in tarpaulins and boards showing photographs of what the library looked like on the inside. It took a while for Ian and Melanie to figure out how to get through the scaffolding and find the entrance, but once they stepped through the front doors they knew they were somewhere special. The interior was spectacular.

  The French like to show off when it comes to their public buildings. And when this library was under construction, they were at the height of their showing-off powers. Napoleon III was President, and he was knocking down and rebuilding as much of Paris as he could, to carry out the vision his more famous uncle had imagined. This was the period when so many of the famous monuments of Paris had been built – the grand boulevards, the Gare du Nord, the Paris Opera and the Luxembourg Gardens.

  The French had developed a taste for ostentation, and in this library they did not hold back. The lobby was elegant and peaceful, but when Ian and Melanie stepped through into the Oval Room, even a cynical jaded teen like Ian was stunned by the architecture.

  ‘Wow!’ said Ian.

  There were no better words to describe the room. You don’t really think of libraries as being beautiful. Most suburban libraries are focused on the functional – metal bookshelves, industrial carpet, vinyl furniture. Things that are easy to clean. The Richelieu was nothing like that. It was a temple built to honour literature. The room was oval shaped with four tiers of bookshelves wrapping around the circumference. Then another tier of stonework arches. Then a tier of huge circular windows. Then on top of that – six storeys above the floor – there was a domed glass ceiling so you could look straight up and see the blue sky above Paris.

  In the middle of the room, things did look a bit more library-like. There was an array of polished-timber reading desks, a circulation desk with a bank of computers and a few brightly coloured sofas. But the magical touch was the light – the oversized porthole-style windows and the massive glass ceiling allowed natural light to flood every cranny of the room, creating perfect reading conditions. It was a book-lovers’ paradise.

  Considering the size of the reading room and the number of people in it – it was very quiet. The leather-bound books seemed to deaden the sound. Dozens of patrons hunched over reference books, poring over manuscripts and some typing away at laptops – but they did so for the most part in silence. They were physically in the reading room, but their minds were wherever their reading matter had taken them.

  On the far side of the room, there was a section for periodicals that included a selection of that day’s newspapers from all over Europe. The newspapers were attached to large timber poles, presumably to prevent anyone from stealing them or separating the paper into sections. But it did look like the newspapers had been threaded through Kendo sticks and could be used as weapons at a moment’s notice. It was here, at a desk, with a large broadsheet spread out in front of her, that they spotted Friday’s distinctive green pork-pie hat.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ sighed Ian.

  ‘If you want to run to her and kiss her passionately, I can walk slowly,’ said Melanie.

  Ian gave her a look.

  ‘What? It’s Paris,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m sure that kind of thing happens in their libraries all the time. No-one will even blink an eye.’

  Ian grabbed Melanie by the hand and dragged her across the room with him. Friday did not notice them approaching, she was so absorbed by her newspaper. Ian slid into the seat next to her before she looked up.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said Friday. She kissed Ian on the cheek, then went back to reading her newspaper. ‘I’m reading such an interesting article.’

  ‘Friday, where have you been?’ said Ian. ‘We’ve been so worried about you.’

  ‘Ian couldn’t sleep a wink,’ said Melanie.

  Friday glanced at her. ‘I bet you could.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m more level-headed and rational,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m not haunted by the image of you seeing another gorgeous blond behind my back.’

  ‘We thought you’d be hiding,’ said Ian.

  ‘I am,’ said Friday.

  ‘In plain view of everyone in Paris’ largest library,’ said Ian.

  ‘I spend a lot of time in libraries,’ said Friday. ‘I’ve never met a police officer in one. I figured it was safer here than out on the streets. A library is actually an excellent place to hide out. There are clean bathrooms, food-vending machines and the Richelieu even has a pneumatic messaging system.’

  ‘Very steam-punk,’ said Melanie, glancing around to see the tubes.

  ‘Plus, libraries always have plenty of quiet nooks and crannies,’ continued Friday. ‘And no-one notices you because they’re all too busy reading themselves.’

  ‘But where did you sleep last night?’ asked Ian. Even to his own ears he sounded like a fussing mother. ‘It must have been freezing on the street.’

  ‘No, the thermostat in here is set to a constant twenty-one degrees Centigrade,’ said Friday. ‘They can’t have temperature fluctuations. It would affect the books and manuscripts.’

  ‘You were in here?! But it’s not a twenty-four-hour library,’ said Ian.

  ‘True, but it’s staffed by librarians not prison wardens,’ said Friday. ‘Their main priority is taking care of the books, not checking the storage rooms to see if someone is waiting for all the staff to leave. Once the library was empty, it was a lovely place to spend the night. There are several very comfortable couches.’

  ‘Really? Where?’ asked Melanie hopefully.

  ‘We should get out of here,’ said Ian.

  ‘Why?’ asked Friday. ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ian. ‘But we should try to get out of the country.’

  ‘I’m being accused of terrorism,’ said Friday. ‘There is no place for me to go. All the countries of Europe share a security zone. If I’m wanted in one European country, then I’m wanted in all of them.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave Europe,’ said Ian. ‘Africa is only thirteen kilometres from Spain across the Mediterranean.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Melanie. ‘You’ve seen her swim.’

  ‘But there are ferries,’ said Ian.

  ‘If I’m on a terrorism watchlist,’ said Friday, ‘there are no countries anywhere in the world that won’t stop me at the border.’

  ‘So you’re going to stay here?’ said Ian. ‘You’re going to hide in this library for the rest of your life?’

  Friday looked about at the beautiful room. ‘That would actually be really nice. But no. I’d get tired of vending-machine food eventually. My plan is to clear my name instead.’

  ‘How?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Well, I came here to figure out what exactly I was being accused of,’ said Friday. ‘The police didn’t say, and I doubt they would have explained even if I’d gone with them to the station. I came here to figure it out.’

  ‘From the newspapers?’ asked Melanie.

  Friday shrugged. ‘I reasoned that if someone in my family had been arrested, there would have to be reporting about it in a newspaper. The Richelieu has all the major European journals including those from Switzerland.’

  Friday indicated the racks holding dozens of different-language newspapers.

  Melanie looked at what Friday was reading. It was a copy of the Neue Zürcher Zeitung, the New Zurich Journal. ‘And what have you found? Please say it’s not a bombing.’

  ‘No, thank goodness,’ said Friday. ‘But here on page twenty-eight I found this article.’

  Friday pointed to a tiny article near the bottom of the page, taking up less than five centimetres of column space.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Melanie. She could speak French very well, but she had no German at all.

  ‘It says that a senior physics professor was taken into custody on Wednesday under suspicion of leaking top-secret information about the Large Hadron Collider at CERN.’

  ‘I know I’m going to regret asking this,’ said Melanie. ‘But what is CERN exactly?’

  ‘The word CERN stands for Conseil Européen pour la Recherche Nucléaire,’ explained Friday.

  ‘The Council for European Nuclear Research?’ translated Melanie. ‘So they are making bombs?!’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Friday. ‘It’s a large hadron collider.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea what that is,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I don’t really understand either,’ admitted Ian. ‘I just know it’s a huge circular tunnel underground.’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Friday. ‘The tunnel goes in a really big circle – twenty-seven kilometres in circumference. It’s so big that it starts in Switzerland, goes out under France and comes back into Switzerland.’

  ‘And the French didn’t mind them doing that?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Friday. ‘All the European universities are involved. Physicists love it because it’s such an amazing experiment. They fire hadrons, which are tiny particles, around the tunnel until they reach incredibly high speeds. Imagine it – half of them flying around clockwise and the other half flying around anti-clockwise, and they’re all getting faster and faster. When they finally reach five times the speed of light, the scientists open a door between the paths and let the hadrons smash into each other.’

  ‘And nothing explodes?’ said Melanie.

  ‘No,’ said Friday. ‘Not normally.’

  Melanie raised her eyebrows.

  ‘There was one explosion in 2008,’ said Friday. ‘But that was because of a magnet failure. Not an atomic explosion.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Melanie.

  ‘And you think it’s someone from your family who’s involved in this top-secret leak?’ asked Ian.

  ‘There are six of my relatives in Switzerland and three of them – Mum, Halley and Quantum – are working at CERN,’ said Friday. ‘They’re all physics professors. It could be any one of them.’

  ‘Or all of them,’ said Melanie. ‘Perhaps your whole family is one big terrorist cell.’

  ‘That would explain a lot about my upbringing,’ said Friday.

  ‘Do you think they are all in custody?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘That almost makes me feel sorry for the Swiss police,’ said Friday. ‘I’m sure they’d much rather arrest drug dealers and armed robbers. My family can be so exhausting. But my bet is it’s Mum.’

  ‘But she’s a Nobel Laureate,’ said Ian.

  ‘Exactly, and the article says it’s a senior physics professor,’ said Friday. ‘They don’t get more senior than her. Plus, she doesn’t really have a sense of morality. She’s so consumed with explaining the fundamental building blocks of the universe, she regards everything else as trivial.’