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Three Hours in Paris

Author Cara Black
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Paperback
$16.95 US
5.48"W x 8.23"H x 0.94"D   | 12 oz | 28 per carton
On sale Mar 30, 2021 | 360 Pages | 9781641292580
In June of 1940, when Paris fell to the Nazis, Hitler spent a total of three hours in the City of Light—abruptly leaving, never to return. To this day, no one knows why.

Kate Rees, a young American markswoman, has been recruited by British intelligence to drop into Paris with a dangerous assignment: assassinate the Führer. Wrecked by grief after a Luftwaffe bombing killed her husband and infant daughter, she is armed with a rifle, a vendetta, and a fierce resolve. But other than rushed and rudimentary instruction, she has no formal spy training. Thrust into the red-hot center of the war, a country girl from rural Oregon finds herself holding the fate of the world in her hands. When Kate misses her mark and the plan unravels, Kate is on the run for her life—all the time wrestling with the suspicion that the whole operation was a set-up.

New York Times bestselling author Cara Black is at her best as she brings Occupation-era France to vivid life in this masterful, pulse-pounding story about one young woman with the temerity—and drive—to take on Hitler himself.

*Features an illustrated map of 1940s Paris as full color endpapers.
A National Bestseller
A Wall Street Journal Best Mystery of 2020
Washington Post Best Thriller and Mystery Book of 2020
Seattle Times Best Crime Novel of 2020
Finalist for the 2020 Dashiell Hammett Prize for Literary Excellence
An ABA Indie Next Pick for April 2020
An Amazon Best of the Month Pick for April 2020
A Barnes and Noble Monthly Pick for April 2021

Praise for Three Hours in Paris


“Heart-racing . . . Three Hours in Paris isn’t just any old formulaic 'Get out!' tale. It’s mystery master Cara Black’s first standalone novel, a spy story set during World War II in Occupied Paris. The premise is that an American female sharpshooter is parachuted into France to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Of course, she fails. Using wits alone, she must evade the Gestapo and make it back across the English Channel. Chances of success? Slim to none. Chances that you’ll be able to put Black’s thriller down once you’ve picked it up? Also slim to none.”
—Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post

“Beyond Black’s encyclopedic knowledge of Paris, her deft interweaving of WWII history and spycraft with a relatable female protagonist puts Three Hours in Paris on par with other top thrillers about botched missions followed by harrowing escapes—such masterworks as Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal, Jack Higgins’ The Eagle Has Landed and Tom Clancy’s Patriot Games.”
—Paula Woods, The Los Angeles Times 

“Ms. Black (also the author of a long-running series of detective novels featuring Parisian investigator Aimée Leduc) excels at setting vivid scenes, creating lively characters and maintaining pulse-elevating suspense. Three Hours in Paris, with its timetable structure and its hunt for a covert operative, recalls such comparable works as Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal and Ken Follett’s Eye of the Needle.”
—Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal

“Heart-stopping.”
—Adam Woog, The Seattle Times

“As the author of 19 murder mysteries set in Paris, Black knows the city’s hidden squares and winding alleys. The wartime city and its grim undercurrent of fear are evocatively portrayed . . . Three Hours in Paris is reminiscent of Alan Furst at his best.”
—Financial Times

“An evocative depiction of wartime Paris and a lead you can’t help rooting for . . . If you’re seeking old-fashioned escapism, this has it in spades.”
The Times (UK) 

“In Three Hours in Paris, Cara Black brings her masterful knowledge of the city and its people to the Second World War and an imagined failed attempt on the life of Adolf Hitler by a female American sniper that leaves her fate and that of the war effort very much hanging in the balance. The result is a taut, smart, heart-in-throat page-turner worthy of the most discerning reader of John le Carré, Daniel Silva or Alan Furst—brava!”
—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Girls of Paris

“Breathtaking! I found it hard to breathe from the first page. A worthy successor to The Day of the Jackal and Six Days of the Condor, but with the addition of a real and likable heroine. This thriller takes Cara Black to a whole new level.”
—Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of The Tuscan Child, In Farleigh Field and the Royal Spyness series

“I couldn’t stop reading Cara Black’s newest! A young American markswoman named Kate Reese is sent to Paris to assassinate Hitler—what could possibly go wrong? Everything, as it turns out, prompting an intense cat-and-mouse chase through the blacked-out City of Light. Nothing is as it seems, certainly not for Kate, as she tries to escape and make it back to Britain with plans of the secret of the Nazi invasion. Black keeps you guessing—and biting your nails—up to the very last page.”
—Susan Elia MacNeal, author of the New York Times–bestselling Maggie Hope series

“An unbreakable American heroine pitted against a charismatic German detective: pure gold in a wartime thriller. This hair-raising cat-and-mouse race across Nazi-occupied Paris left me breathless.”
—Elizabeth Wein, award–winning author of Code Name Verity

"[Three Hours in Paris] is both a stunning and brilliant work of imagination, and a tour de force of rigorous research . . . Fraught with tension and suspense."
—Bonjour Paris

“A high-octane read that will thrill crime fans from start to finish.”
—My French Country Home Magazine

“This stand-alone, with its resourceful, all-American heroine and breathless pace, allows [Black] to flex a different muscle, aided by her deep knowledge of and affinity for all things French . . . A superior thriller with much to offer fans of World War II spy fiction drawn to intriguing what-if scenarios.”
—Air Mail

“Brilliantly building on the novel’s premise, Black constructs a surprise-filled plot, fueled by breathless pacing, Alan Furst-like atmosphere, and a textured look at Resistance fighters in Paris . . . Black stretches her wings here, soaring to new heights.”
Booklist, Starred Review

“Riveting . . . Fans of The Day of the Jackal won't want to miss this heart-stopping thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Well-written . . . Fast . . . Books like this, fiction or not, are important.”
—Nerd Daily

“A riveting game of cat and mouse . . . From the map of Paris on the endpieces of the book to the very last page, I found myself rooting for Kate Rees.”
—Kittling Books

“There is a serious problem with Cara Black’s new stand-alone novel—you won’t be able to sleep once you start reading it! A beautifully written fast-paced thriller with a depth of knowledge about tough American mamas and WWII Paris. Stunning.”
—Liz Newstat, Chevalier’s Books (Los Angeles, CA)

“Based on nothing more than the title, Three Hours in Paris was not the book I expected! In part, that's because this is a real departure for Cara Black. This is not Aimée Leduc's France. The story is an exquisitely tense cat-and-mouse chase between and American operative and a Nazi officer in the dark days of WWII. Vive la difference! This one is a must-read!”
—Susan Tunis, Bookshop West Portal (San Francisco, CA)

“Few know the streets of Paris as well as Cara Black, and no one is as good at bringing a suspenseful thriller to life in the twists and turns of their back alleys and memorable sites. With smart complex characters, fascinating historical details, and a propulsive story that doesn’t disappoint Three Hours in Paris is a literary thrill ride that shouldn’t be missed.” 
—Luisa Smith, Book Passage (Bay Area, CA)

“I just loved this. It ratchets up very quickly and never lets go—a high stakes cat and mouse tour through the heart of Paris that features constant danger around every turn for the protagonist, from several sources not the least of which is a sadistic Nazi officer. This is the very best kind of thriller whereby using one’s wits is the only way forward. A big thumb’s up!”
—Sheryl Cotleur, Copperfield’s Books (Sebastopol, CA)

“A fresh take on the espionage novel genre. Kate is a dynamic and creative character. Her spontaneity, resourcefulness and creativity reminded me of so many smart women that I know. I enjoyed being in her head and watching her think!”
—Totsie McGonagle, Buttonwood Books (Cohasset, MA)

“WOW, what a page turner! Kate Rees, a sharpshooter raised on an Oregon ranch, accepts a top-secret mission to assassinate Hitler while the Fuhrer is in Paris. Kate accepts this life and death preposterous mission because it is an opportunity for her to avenge the deaths of her British husband and infant daughter. Dropped into the Nazi-occupied city, Kate follows specific instructions given to her by the director of a covert section of British intelligence. When the attempt fails, Kate realizes—too late—that the mission was extremely well planned, with one exception: there is no escape strategy for her. Trapped in Paris, she is pursued by Gunter Hoffman, the German police officer given 36 hours by the Fuhrer to find the sniper. Kate is forced to work independently, and must rely on her wits as a cat-and mouse hunt ensues. Who is to be trusted? Who could be a spy, ready to turn her over to the Nazis? Each chapter ends in a cliff-hanger, as the plot unfolds through the streets of Paris, told from three viewpoints: the Germans, the British, and Kate. I don’t know when a book has so held me captive—I couldn’t put it down until I reached the conclusion on the final page!”
—Mary Fran Buckley, Eight Cousins (Falmouth, MA)

“This is a second world war thriller with a Paris setting. The heroine is Kate Rees, an American markswoman working for British intelligence. She is dropped into France with a mission to assassinate Adolf Hitler. The mission takes many twists and turns, with Rees meeting and overcoming many challenges while working her way out of France after a failed assassination attempt. The book is well written and moves along at a brisk pace. The reader will find the many situations faced by Rees as believable. Cara Black has an obvious 'feel' for Paris, especially during the Nazi occupation. She also shows how capable a woman can be facing adverse circumstances.”
—John McGonagle, Buttonwood Books (Cohasset, MA)

"Highly entertaining . . . Three Hours in Paris is an exciting page-turner that will be particularly enjoyable for readers who appreciate a heroine who defies all odds and expectations."
—Seira Wilson, Amazon Book Review

Praise for Cara Black

“Transcendently, seductively, irresistibly French.”
—Alan Furst

“Wry, complex, sophisticated, intensely Parisian . . . One of the very best heroines in crime fiction today.”
—Lee Child

“So authentic you can practically smell the fresh baguettes and coffee.”
—Val McDermid
 
“The real joy of Murder on the Left Bank is in its familiar cast and its thoughtful, witty, occasionally melancholy evocation of Paris, the city where we keep so many of our most beautiful ideas about what life might mean.” 
USA Today

“Marvelous . . . Murder on the Left Bank boasts all of Black’s trademark charms, including deft plotting, sharp dialog and colorful sights and sounds.”
—Chicago Tribune 
 
“Leduc is a refreshing and entertaining guide to Parisian neighborhoods and cultures, especially those that well-established tourist routes typically pass by. Let’s hope she never runs out of districts to scoot around in.”
—The Seattle Times
 
“[Black] draws the reader into the intricacies of Paris while driving the mystery forward to make it an ultimate page-turner.”
—The San Francisco Chronicle
 
“Black creates rich, plausible characters, giving them individuality and depth.”
San Francisco Gate
Cara Black is the author of seventeen books in the New York Times bestselling Aimée Leduc series. She has received multiple nominations for the Anthony and Macavity Awards, and her books have been translated into German, Norwegian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Italian, and Hebrew. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and son and visits Paris frequently. View titles by Cara Black
Sunday, June 23, 1940
Nine Days into the German Occupation of Paris
Montmartre, Paris | 6:15 a.m. Paris time
 
Sacré-Coeur’s dome faded to a pale pearl in the light of dawn outside the fourth-story window. Kate’s ears attuned to the night birds, the creaking settling of the old building, distant water gushing in the gutters. It was her second day waiting in the deserted apartment, the Lee-Enfield rifle beside her.
     Will this really happen?
     She moved into a crouch on the wood parquet floor in front of the balcony and winced. Her knee throbbed—she had bruised it on that stupid fence as the parachute landed in the barnyard. She smelled the faint garden aroma of Pears soap on her silk blouse, which was dampened by perspiration. The June day was already so warm.
     She dipped her scarf in the water bottle, wiped her face and neck. Took another one of the pink pills and a swig of water. She needed to stay awake.
     As apricot dawn blushed over the rooftop chimneys, she checked the bullets, calibrated and adjusted the telescopic mount, as she had every few hours. The spreading sunrise to her left outlined the few clouds like a bronze pencil, and lit her target area. No breeze; the air lay still, weighted with heat. Perfect
conditions.
     “Concentrate on your target, keep escape in the back of your mind,” her handler, Stepney, had reminded her en route to the airfield outside London Friday night. “You’re prepared. Follow the fallback protocol.” His last-minute instruction, as she’d zipped up the flight suit in the drafty hangar: “Always remember who you’re doing this for, Kate.”
     “As if I would forget?” she’d told him. She pushed away the memory that engulfed her mind, the towering flames, the terrible cries, and looked him straight in the eye. “Plus, I can’t fail or you’ll have egg all over your face, Stepney.”
     As dawn brightened into full morning, Kate laid her arm steady on the gilt chair on which she had propped the rifle. From the fourth floor her shot would angle down to the top step. Reading the telescopic mount, she aligned the middle of the church’s top step and the water-stained stone on the limestone pillar by the door; she’d noted yesterday that the stain was approximately five feet ten inches from the ground. She would have been able to make the shot even without it—three hundred yards was an easy shot from one of the best views of the city. Next, she scoped a backup target, referencing the pillars’ sculptured detail. She’d take a head shot as he emerged from the church’s portico, fire once, move a centimeter to the left and then fire again. Worst-case scenario, she’d hit his neck.
     With a wooden cheek rising-piece and a telescopic sight mount on its beechwood stock, the Lee-Enfield weighed about ten pounds. She’d practiced partially disassembling the rifle every other hour, eyes closed, timing herself. She wouldn’t have time to fully strip it. Speed would buy her precious seconds for her escape before her target’s entourage registered the rifle crack and reacted. Less than a minute, Stepney had cautioned, if her target was surrounded by his usual Führer Escort Detachment.
     Her pulse thudded as she glanced at her French watch, a Maquet. 7:59 a.m. Any moment now the plane might land.
     Kate sipped water, her eye trained on the parishioners mounting Sacré-Coeur’s stairs and disappearing into the church’s open doors: old ladies, working men, families with children in tow. A toddler, a little girl in a yellow dress, broke away from the crowd, wandering along the portico until a woman in a blue hat caught her hand. Kate hadn’t accounted for the people attending Mass. Stupid. Why hadn’t Stepney’s detailed plan addressed that?
     She pushed her worry aside. Her gaze focused through the telescopic sight on the top step, dead center. Her target’s entourage would surround him and keep him isolated from French civilians.
     That’s if he even comes.
     The pealing church bells made her jump, the slow reverberation calling one and all to eight o’clock Mass. Maybe she’d taken too much Dexedrine.
     But she kept her grip steady, her finger coiled around the metal trigger, and her eye focused.
     A few latecomers hurried up the church steps. Kate recognized the concierge of the building she was hiding in. She’d sneaked past the woman yesterday, using her lock-picking training to let herself into one of the vacated apartments. An unaccustomed thrill had filled her as the locked door clicked open—she’d done it, and after only brief training in that drafty old manor, God knew where in the middle of the English countryside.
     After the flurry of the call to Mass, a sleepy Sunday descended over Montmartre. The streets below her were empty except for a man pushing a barrow of melons. He rounded the corner. The morning was so quiet she heard only the twittering of sparrows in the trees, the gurgling water in the building pipes.
     The wood floor was warm under her legs. On the periphery of the rifle’s sight a butterfly’s blue-violet wings fluttered among orange marigolds.
     8:29 a.m. Her heart pounded, her doubts growing. Say her target’s plans had changed—what if his flight landed tonight, tomorrow or next week? She wondered how long she could stay in this apartment before the owners returned, or a neighbor heard her moving around and knocked on the door.
     8:31 a.m. As she was thinking what in God’s name she’d do if she was discovered here, she heard the low thrum of car engines. Down rue Lamarck she saw the black hood of a Mercedes. Several more followed behind it, in the same formation she’d seen in the newsreels Stepney had shown her. She breathed in deep and exhaled, trying to dispel her tension.
     She edged the tip of the Lee-Enfield a centimeter more through the shutter slat. Kept the rifle gripped against her shoulder and watched as the approaching convertibles proceeded at twenty miles an hour. In the passenger seat of the second Mercedes sat a man in a white coat like a housepainter’s; in the rear jump seats, three gray uniforms—the elite Führerbegleitkommando bodyguards. She suppressed the temptation to shoot now—she would have only a one in five chance of hitting him in the car. Besides, that might be a decoy; her target could be riding in any of the cars behind the first Mercedes.
     The second Mercedes passed under the hanging branches of linden trees. A gray-uniformed man with a movie camera on a tripod stood on the back seat of the last Mercedes, capturing the trip on film. She held her breath, waiting. No troop trucks. The cars pulled up on the Place du Parvis du Sacré-Coeur and parked before the wide stairs leading to the church entrance.
     This was it. Payback time.
     The air carried German voices, the tramp of boots. And then, like a sweep of gray vultures, the figures moved up the steps, a tight configuration surrounding the man in the white coat. He wore a charcoal-brimmed military cap, like the others. For a brief moment, he turned and she saw that black smudge of mustache. The Führer was in her sights now, for that flash of a second before his bodyguards ushered him through the church door. As Stepney had described, five feet ten inches and wearing a white coat. In her head she considered his quick movements, rehearsed the shot’s angle to the top step where he’d stand, the timing of the shot she’d take, noting the absence of wind.
     The church door opened. So soon? Kate curled her finger, keeping focus on the church pillar in her trigger hairs. But it was the woman with the blue hat, leading the toddler in the yellow dress by the hand. The little girl was crying.
     Why in the world did the child have to cry right now?
     It all happened in a few seconds. A gray-uniformed bodyguard herded the woman and child to the side and the Führer stepped back out into the sunlight. Hitler, without his cap, stood on the top step by himself. He swiped the hair across his forehead. That signature gesture, so full of himself.
     The wolf was in her sights. Like her father had taught her, she found his eyes above his mustache.
     Never hold your breath. Her father’s words played in her head. Shoot on the exhale. She aimed and squeezed the trigger.
     But Hitler had bent down to the crying toddler. Over the tolling of the church bell, the crack of the rifle reverberated off limestone. A spit of dust puffed from the church pillar. The child’s mother looked up, surprised, finding dust on her shoulder. Any moment the guards would notice.
     Concentrate.
     As calmly as she could and willing her mind still, Kate reloaded within three seconds, aimed at his black hair above his ear as he leaned over, extending his hand to the little girl’s head, ruffling her hair. The guards were laughing now, focused on the Führer, whose fondness for children was well-known.
     Kate pulled the trigger again just as Hitler straightened. Damn. The uniformed man behind him jerked.
     As the shot zipped by him one of the guards looked around. She couldn’t believe her luck that no one else had noticed. She had to hurry.
     Reloading and adjusting once more, she aimed at the point between his eyes. Cocked the trigger. But Hitler had lifted the little girl in his arms, smiling, still unaware that the man behind him had been hit. The toddler’s blonde curls spilled in front of Hitler’s face.
     Her heart convulsed, pain filling her chest. Those blonde curls were so like Lisbeth’s. Why did he have to pick this toddler up just then?
     Killing a child is not part of your mission. This time, the voice in her head was her own, not Stepney’s. Agonized, she felt her focus slipping away.
     Now. She had to fire now. Harden herself and shoot. Ignore the fact the bullet would pass through the little girl’s cheek. That the woman in the blue hat would lose her daughter.
     The hesitation cost her a second.
     The uniform slumped down the church pillar. A dark red spot became a line of blood dripping down his collar.
     Hitler was still holding the child as she heard the shouts. She hadn’t yet taken her shot when all hell broke loose.
     A guard snatched the little girl from his arms. Guards forced Hitler into a crouch and hurried him to the car. In the uniformed crowd now surrounding Hitler a man pointed in Kate’s direction. Through the telescopic sight she saw his steel-gray eyes scanning the building. She could swear those eyes looked right at her.

About

In June of 1940, when Paris fell to the Nazis, Hitler spent a total of three hours in the City of Light—abruptly leaving, never to return. To this day, no one knows why.

Kate Rees, a young American markswoman, has been recruited by British intelligence to drop into Paris with a dangerous assignment: assassinate the Führer. Wrecked by grief after a Luftwaffe bombing killed her husband and infant daughter, she is armed with a rifle, a vendetta, and a fierce resolve. But other than rushed and rudimentary instruction, she has no formal spy training. Thrust into the red-hot center of the war, a country girl from rural Oregon finds herself holding the fate of the world in her hands. When Kate misses her mark and the plan unravels, Kate is on the run for her life—all the time wrestling with the suspicion that the whole operation was a set-up.

New York Times bestselling author Cara Black is at her best as she brings Occupation-era France to vivid life in this masterful, pulse-pounding story about one young woman with the temerity—and drive—to take on Hitler himself.

*Features an illustrated map of 1940s Paris as full color endpapers.

Praise

A National Bestseller
A Wall Street Journal Best Mystery of 2020
Washington Post Best Thriller and Mystery Book of 2020
Seattle Times Best Crime Novel of 2020
Finalist for the 2020 Dashiell Hammett Prize for Literary Excellence
An ABA Indie Next Pick for April 2020
An Amazon Best of the Month Pick for April 2020
A Barnes and Noble Monthly Pick for April 2021

Praise for Three Hours in Paris


“Heart-racing . . . Three Hours in Paris isn’t just any old formulaic 'Get out!' tale. It’s mystery master Cara Black’s first standalone novel, a spy story set during World War II in Occupied Paris. The premise is that an American female sharpshooter is parachuted into France to assassinate Adolf Hitler. Of course, she fails. Using wits alone, she must evade the Gestapo and make it back across the English Channel. Chances of success? Slim to none. Chances that you’ll be able to put Black’s thriller down once you’ve picked it up? Also slim to none.”
—Maureen Corrigan, The Washington Post

“Beyond Black’s encyclopedic knowledge of Paris, her deft interweaving of WWII history and spycraft with a relatable female protagonist puts Three Hours in Paris on par with other top thrillers about botched missions followed by harrowing escapes—such masterworks as Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal, Jack Higgins’ The Eagle Has Landed and Tom Clancy’s Patriot Games.”
—Paula Woods, The Los Angeles Times 

“Ms. Black (also the author of a long-running series of detective novels featuring Parisian investigator Aimée Leduc) excels at setting vivid scenes, creating lively characters and maintaining pulse-elevating suspense. Three Hours in Paris, with its timetable structure and its hunt for a covert operative, recalls such comparable works as Frederick Forsyth’s The Day of the Jackal and Ken Follett’s Eye of the Needle.”
—Tom Nolan, The Wall Street Journal

“Heart-stopping.”
—Adam Woog, The Seattle Times

“As the author of 19 murder mysteries set in Paris, Black knows the city’s hidden squares and winding alleys. The wartime city and its grim undercurrent of fear are evocatively portrayed . . . Three Hours in Paris is reminiscent of Alan Furst at his best.”
—Financial Times

“An evocative depiction of wartime Paris and a lead you can’t help rooting for . . . If you’re seeking old-fashioned escapism, this has it in spades.”
The Times (UK) 

“In Three Hours in Paris, Cara Black brings her masterful knowledge of the city and its people to the Second World War and an imagined failed attempt on the life of Adolf Hitler by a female American sniper that leaves her fate and that of the war effort very much hanging in the balance. The result is a taut, smart, heart-in-throat page-turner worthy of the most discerning reader of John le Carré, Daniel Silva or Alan Furst—brava!”
—Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Girls of Paris

“Breathtaking! I found it hard to breathe from the first page. A worthy successor to The Day of the Jackal and Six Days of the Condor, but with the addition of a real and likable heroine. This thriller takes Cara Black to a whole new level.”
—Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of The Tuscan Child, In Farleigh Field and the Royal Spyness series

“I couldn’t stop reading Cara Black’s newest! A young American markswoman named Kate Reese is sent to Paris to assassinate Hitler—what could possibly go wrong? Everything, as it turns out, prompting an intense cat-and-mouse chase through the blacked-out City of Light. Nothing is as it seems, certainly not for Kate, as she tries to escape and make it back to Britain with plans of the secret of the Nazi invasion. Black keeps you guessing—and biting your nails—up to the very last page.”
—Susan Elia MacNeal, author of the New York Times–bestselling Maggie Hope series

“An unbreakable American heroine pitted against a charismatic German detective: pure gold in a wartime thriller. This hair-raising cat-and-mouse race across Nazi-occupied Paris left me breathless.”
—Elizabeth Wein, award–winning author of Code Name Verity

"[Three Hours in Paris] is both a stunning and brilliant work of imagination, and a tour de force of rigorous research . . . Fraught with tension and suspense."
—Bonjour Paris

“A high-octane read that will thrill crime fans from start to finish.”
—My French Country Home Magazine

“This stand-alone, with its resourceful, all-American heroine and breathless pace, allows [Black] to flex a different muscle, aided by her deep knowledge of and affinity for all things French . . . A superior thriller with much to offer fans of World War II spy fiction drawn to intriguing what-if scenarios.”
—Air Mail

“Brilliantly building on the novel’s premise, Black constructs a surprise-filled plot, fueled by breathless pacing, Alan Furst-like atmosphere, and a textured look at Resistance fighters in Paris . . . Black stretches her wings here, soaring to new heights.”
Booklist, Starred Review

“Riveting . . . Fans of The Day of the Jackal won't want to miss this heart-stopping thriller.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Well-written . . . Fast . . . Books like this, fiction or not, are important.”
—Nerd Daily

“A riveting game of cat and mouse . . . From the map of Paris on the endpieces of the book to the very last page, I found myself rooting for Kate Rees.”
—Kittling Books

“There is a serious problem with Cara Black’s new stand-alone novel—you won’t be able to sleep once you start reading it! A beautifully written fast-paced thriller with a depth of knowledge about tough American mamas and WWII Paris. Stunning.”
—Liz Newstat, Chevalier’s Books (Los Angeles, CA)

“Based on nothing more than the title, Three Hours in Paris was not the book I expected! In part, that's because this is a real departure for Cara Black. This is not Aimée Leduc's France. The story is an exquisitely tense cat-and-mouse chase between and American operative and a Nazi officer in the dark days of WWII. Vive la difference! This one is a must-read!”
—Susan Tunis, Bookshop West Portal (San Francisco, CA)

“Few know the streets of Paris as well as Cara Black, and no one is as good at bringing a suspenseful thriller to life in the twists and turns of their back alleys and memorable sites. With smart complex characters, fascinating historical details, and a propulsive story that doesn’t disappoint Three Hours in Paris is a literary thrill ride that shouldn’t be missed.” 
—Luisa Smith, Book Passage (Bay Area, CA)

“I just loved this. It ratchets up very quickly and never lets go—a high stakes cat and mouse tour through the heart of Paris that features constant danger around every turn for the protagonist, from several sources not the least of which is a sadistic Nazi officer. This is the very best kind of thriller whereby using one’s wits is the only way forward. A big thumb’s up!”
—Sheryl Cotleur, Copperfield’s Books (Sebastopol, CA)

“A fresh take on the espionage novel genre. Kate is a dynamic and creative character. Her spontaneity, resourcefulness and creativity reminded me of so many smart women that I know. I enjoyed being in her head and watching her think!”
—Totsie McGonagle, Buttonwood Books (Cohasset, MA)

“WOW, what a page turner! Kate Rees, a sharpshooter raised on an Oregon ranch, accepts a top-secret mission to assassinate Hitler while the Fuhrer is in Paris. Kate accepts this life and death preposterous mission because it is an opportunity for her to avenge the deaths of her British husband and infant daughter. Dropped into the Nazi-occupied city, Kate follows specific instructions given to her by the director of a covert section of British intelligence. When the attempt fails, Kate realizes—too late—that the mission was extremely well planned, with one exception: there is no escape strategy for her. Trapped in Paris, she is pursued by Gunter Hoffman, the German police officer given 36 hours by the Fuhrer to find the sniper. Kate is forced to work independently, and must rely on her wits as a cat-and mouse hunt ensues. Who is to be trusted? Who could be a spy, ready to turn her over to the Nazis? Each chapter ends in a cliff-hanger, as the plot unfolds through the streets of Paris, told from three viewpoints: the Germans, the British, and Kate. I don’t know when a book has so held me captive—I couldn’t put it down until I reached the conclusion on the final page!”
—Mary Fran Buckley, Eight Cousins (Falmouth, MA)

“This is a second world war thriller with a Paris setting. The heroine is Kate Rees, an American markswoman working for British intelligence. She is dropped into France with a mission to assassinate Adolf Hitler. The mission takes many twists and turns, with Rees meeting and overcoming many challenges while working her way out of France after a failed assassination attempt. The book is well written and moves along at a brisk pace. The reader will find the many situations faced by Rees as believable. Cara Black has an obvious 'feel' for Paris, especially during the Nazi occupation. She also shows how capable a woman can be facing adverse circumstances.”
—John McGonagle, Buttonwood Books (Cohasset, MA)

"Highly entertaining . . . Three Hours in Paris is an exciting page-turner that will be particularly enjoyable for readers who appreciate a heroine who defies all odds and expectations."
—Seira Wilson, Amazon Book Review

Praise for Cara Black

“Transcendently, seductively, irresistibly French.”
—Alan Furst

“Wry, complex, sophisticated, intensely Parisian . . . One of the very best heroines in crime fiction today.”
—Lee Child

“So authentic you can practically smell the fresh baguettes and coffee.”
—Val McDermid
 
“The real joy of Murder on the Left Bank is in its familiar cast and its thoughtful, witty, occasionally melancholy evocation of Paris, the city where we keep so many of our most beautiful ideas about what life might mean.” 
USA Today

“Marvelous . . . Murder on the Left Bank boasts all of Black’s trademark charms, including deft plotting, sharp dialog and colorful sights and sounds.”
—Chicago Tribune 
 
“Leduc is a refreshing and entertaining guide to Parisian neighborhoods and cultures, especially those that well-established tourist routes typically pass by. Let’s hope she never runs out of districts to scoot around in.”
—The Seattle Times
 
“[Black] draws the reader into the intricacies of Paris while driving the mystery forward to make it an ultimate page-turner.”
—The San Francisco Chronicle
 
“Black creates rich, plausible characters, giving them individuality and depth.”
San Francisco Gate

Author

Cara Black is the author of seventeen books in the New York Times bestselling Aimée Leduc series. She has received multiple nominations for the Anthony and Macavity Awards, and her books have been translated into German, Norwegian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Italian, and Hebrew. She lives in San Francisco with her husband and son and visits Paris frequently. View titles by Cara Black

Excerpt

Sunday, June 23, 1940
Nine Days into the German Occupation of Paris
Montmartre, Paris | 6:15 a.m. Paris time
 
Sacré-Coeur’s dome faded to a pale pearl in the light of dawn outside the fourth-story window. Kate’s ears attuned to the night birds, the creaking settling of the old building, distant water gushing in the gutters. It was her second day waiting in the deserted apartment, the Lee-Enfield rifle beside her.
     Will this really happen?
     She moved into a crouch on the wood parquet floor in front of the balcony and winced. Her knee throbbed—she had bruised it on that stupid fence as the parachute landed in the barnyard. She smelled the faint garden aroma of Pears soap on her silk blouse, which was dampened by perspiration. The June day was already so warm.
     She dipped her scarf in the water bottle, wiped her face and neck. Took another one of the pink pills and a swig of water. She needed to stay awake.
     As apricot dawn blushed over the rooftop chimneys, she checked the bullets, calibrated and adjusted the telescopic mount, as she had every few hours. The spreading sunrise to her left outlined the few clouds like a bronze pencil, and lit her target area. No breeze; the air lay still, weighted with heat. Perfect
conditions.
     “Concentrate on your target, keep escape in the back of your mind,” her handler, Stepney, had reminded her en route to the airfield outside London Friday night. “You’re prepared. Follow the fallback protocol.” His last-minute instruction, as she’d zipped up the flight suit in the drafty hangar: “Always remember who you’re doing this for, Kate.”
     “As if I would forget?” she’d told him. She pushed away the memory that engulfed her mind, the towering flames, the terrible cries, and looked him straight in the eye. “Plus, I can’t fail or you’ll have egg all over your face, Stepney.”
     As dawn brightened into full morning, Kate laid her arm steady on the gilt chair on which she had propped the rifle. From the fourth floor her shot would angle down to the top step. Reading the telescopic mount, she aligned the middle of the church’s top step and the water-stained stone on the limestone pillar by the door; she’d noted yesterday that the stain was approximately five feet ten inches from the ground. She would have been able to make the shot even without it—three hundred yards was an easy shot from one of the best views of the city. Next, she scoped a backup target, referencing the pillars’ sculptured detail. She’d take a head shot as he emerged from the church’s portico, fire once, move a centimeter to the left and then fire again. Worst-case scenario, she’d hit his neck.
     With a wooden cheek rising-piece and a telescopic sight mount on its beechwood stock, the Lee-Enfield weighed about ten pounds. She’d practiced partially disassembling the rifle every other hour, eyes closed, timing herself. She wouldn’t have time to fully strip it. Speed would buy her precious seconds for her escape before her target’s entourage registered the rifle crack and reacted. Less than a minute, Stepney had cautioned, if her target was surrounded by his usual Führer Escort Detachment.
     Her pulse thudded as she glanced at her French watch, a Maquet. 7:59 a.m. Any moment now the plane might land.
     Kate sipped water, her eye trained on the parishioners mounting Sacré-Coeur’s stairs and disappearing into the church’s open doors: old ladies, working men, families with children in tow. A toddler, a little girl in a yellow dress, broke away from the crowd, wandering along the portico until a woman in a blue hat caught her hand. Kate hadn’t accounted for the people attending Mass. Stupid. Why hadn’t Stepney’s detailed plan addressed that?
     She pushed her worry aside. Her gaze focused through the telescopic sight on the top step, dead center. Her target’s entourage would surround him and keep him isolated from French civilians.
     That’s if he even comes.
     The pealing church bells made her jump, the slow reverberation calling one and all to eight o’clock Mass. Maybe she’d taken too much Dexedrine.
     But she kept her grip steady, her finger coiled around the metal trigger, and her eye focused.
     A few latecomers hurried up the church steps. Kate recognized the concierge of the building she was hiding in. She’d sneaked past the woman yesterday, using her lock-picking training to let herself into one of the vacated apartments. An unaccustomed thrill had filled her as the locked door clicked open—she’d done it, and after only brief training in that drafty old manor, God knew where in the middle of the English countryside.
     After the flurry of the call to Mass, a sleepy Sunday descended over Montmartre. The streets below her were empty except for a man pushing a barrow of melons. He rounded the corner. The morning was so quiet she heard only the twittering of sparrows in the trees, the gurgling water in the building pipes.
     The wood floor was warm under her legs. On the periphery of the rifle’s sight a butterfly’s blue-violet wings fluttered among orange marigolds.
     8:29 a.m. Her heart pounded, her doubts growing. Say her target’s plans had changed—what if his flight landed tonight, tomorrow or next week? She wondered how long she could stay in this apartment before the owners returned, or a neighbor heard her moving around and knocked on the door.
     8:31 a.m. As she was thinking what in God’s name she’d do if she was discovered here, she heard the low thrum of car engines. Down rue Lamarck she saw the black hood of a Mercedes. Several more followed behind it, in the same formation she’d seen in the newsreels Stepney had shown her. She breathed in deep and exhaled, trying to dispel her tension.
     She edged the tip of the Lee-Enfield a centimeter more through the shutter slat. Kept the rifle gripped against her shoulder and watched as the approaching convertibles proceeded at twenty miles an hour. In the passenger seat of the second Mercedes sat a man in a white coat like a housepainter’s; in the rear jump seats, three gray uniforms—the elite Führerbegleitkommando bodyguards. She suppressed the temptation to shoot now—she would have only a one in five chance of hitting him in the car. Besides, that might be a decoy; her target could be riding in any of the cars behind the first Mercedes.
     The second Mercedes passed under the hanging branches of linden trees. A gray-uniformed man with a movie camera on a tripod stood on the back seat of the last Mercedes, capturing the trip on film. She held her breath, waiting. No troop trucks. The cars pulled up on the Place du Parvis du Sacré-Coeur and parked before the wide stairs leading to the church entrance.
     This was it. Payback time.
     The air carried German voices, the tramp of boots. And then, like a sweep of gray vultures, the figures moved up the steps, a tight configuration surrounding the man in the white coat. He wore a charcoal-brimmed military cap, like the others. For a brief moment, he turned and she saw that black smudge of mustache. The Führer was in her sights now, for that flash of a second before his bodyguards ushered him through the church door. As Stepney had described, five feet ten inches and wearing a white coat. In her head she considered his quick movements, rehearsed the shot’s angle to the top step where he’d stand, the timing of the shot she’d take, noting the absence of wind.
     The church door opened. So soon? Kate curled her finger, keeping focus on the church pillar in her trigger hairs. But it was the woman with the blue hat, leading the toddler in the yellow dress by the hand. The little girl was crying.
     Why in the world did the child have to cry right now?
     It all happened in a few seconds. A gray-uniformed bodyguard herded the woman and child to the side and the Führer stepped back out into the sunlight. Hitler, without his cap, stood on the top step by himself. He swiped the hair across his forehead. That signature gesture, so full of himself.
     The wolf was in her sights. Like her father had taught her, she found his eyes above his mustache.
     Never hold your breath. Her father’s words played in her head. Shoot on the exhale. She aimed and squeezed the trigger.
     But Hitler had bent down to the crying toddler. Over the tolling of the church bell, the crack of the rifle reverberated off limestone. A spit of dust puffed from the church pillar. The child’s mother looked up, surprised, finding dust on her shoulder. Any moment the guards would notice.
     Concentrate.
     As calmly as she could and willing her mind still, Kate reloaded within three seconds, aimed at his black hair above his ear as he leaned over, extending his hand to the little girl’s head, ruffling her hair. The guards were laughing now, focused on the Führer, whose fondness for children was well-known.
     Kate pulled the trigger again just as Hitler straightened. Damn. The uniformed man behind him jerked.
     As the shot zipped by him one of the guards looked around. She couldn’t believe her luck that no one else had noticed. She had to hurry.
     Reloading and adjusting once more, she aimed at the point between his eyes. Cocked the trigger. But Hitler had lifted the little girl in his arms, smiling, still unaware that the man behind him had been hit. The toddler’s blonde curls spilled in front of Hitler’s face.
     Her heart convulsed, pain filling her chest. Those blonde curls were so like Lisbeth’s. Why did he have to pick this toddler up just then?
     Killing a child is not part of your mission. This time, the voice in her head was her own, not Stepney’s. Agonized, she felt her focus slipping away.
     Now. She had to fire now. Harden herself and shoot. Ignore the fact the bullet would pass through the little girl’s cheek. That the woman in the blue hat would lose her daughter.
     The hesitation cost her a second.
     The uniform slumped down the church pillar. A dark red spot became a line of blood dripping down his collar.
     Hitler was still holding the child as she heard the shouts. She hadn’t yet taken her shot when all hell broke loose.
     A guard snatched the little girl from his arms. Guards forced Hitler into a crouch and hurried him to the car. In the uniformed crowd now surrounding Hitler a man pointed in Kate’s direction. Through the telescopic sight she saw his steel-gray eyes scanning the building. She could swear those eyes looked right at her.