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From its watchful post on the centuries-darkened stone exterior high above the western entrance to the University of Paris, the weathered face of the ancient clock looked down solemnly on Place De La Sorbonne. Its hands stood at 11:47. Already the sidewalk tables of the brasseries, salons de thé, and grillades along the south side of the small square were crowded, though it was still too early for most of the business clientele. Students hunched over their drinks and conversed with great gusto in small groups, four or five around a tiny table made to accommodate two—saying very little about their studies but contending earnestly and at times heatedly about politics and human rights, as though the fate of the world hinged upon their sagacious pronouncements.

One outdoor table at Brasserie L’Escholier, a restaurant that specialized in Carlsberg and Dortmonder beers, had been occupied since midmorning by two men in business attire. Muscular and tanned, they looked more like professional athletes than entrepreneurs. They exchanged little conversation. A certain restlessness and an occasional glance around the square as they thumbed disinterestedly through the morning edition of Le Monde suggested that they were waiting for someone. When the hands of the clock moved past twelve, the two men seemed to grow increasingly alert and glanced more frequently over the tops of their papers toward the door below the ancient timepiece.

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