Smokers found it hard to quit not only because of their dependence on nicotine, but also because smoking stimulated the senses of taste and smell, soothing anxiety much like eating did—without the frequent meals.
Severus stood on the balcony, smoking as the Parisian night wind blew against him, still warm from the urban heat island effect. Perhaps the Oriental Grand Hotel had once been respectable and luxurious, but now its view was blocked by all manner of buildings. From the balcony, all one could see were walls, let alone scenery comparable to the tourist-postcard view from Lawrence's home.
On the North American continent in the seventeenth century, Native Americans would help settlers capture runaway slaves after receiving payment from them. Some of those slaves came from Africa, while others belonged to tribes hostile to them. Besides the fur trade, this was another way to acquire guns and whiskey.
There were also many mercenaries in twentieth-century France. Some had failed to join the French Foreign Legion, while others sought employers who could offer higher commissions. Paris was home not only to artists, but also to exiled politicians, warlords, Mafia figures, oligarchs, arms dealers, and more. It was not without reason that Interpol was located in Lyon, France's second-largest city.
"Here."
Lawrence handed Severus a glass of whiskey filled with large chunks of ice.
"How is your wife?" Severus asked as he accepted the drink.
"Same as usual." Lawrence took a sip. "She told me you altered my Memory. You're different from the people who usually come looking to cause us trouble."
"Why did you choose to stay in France?" Severus asked.
"I told you already. I was worried about security." Lawrence took another drink. "There are many confidential files in my office. I wouldn't feel safe even if I hired bodyguards."