“Neither have we,” Stone said. “I was at the press conference when Kate announced it, and the reaction of the media was pretty much nuclear in nature.”

“Do you think it will help or hurt her chances of election?”

“The first poll taken after her announcement elicited mostly favorable responses from women and neutral ones from men. I think American men, like Frenchmen, don’t want to argue the point with their wives. Their reactions in a bar with male friends might be very different, though.”

“So, will it help or hurt?”

“I think it will help to the extent that it turns out the women’s vote. If they respond, that could mean the election. The immediate effect is for the press to ignore her opponent and concentrate on Kate, which must drive the Carson campaign crazy.”

“Well,” Mirabelle said, “if it drives the other campaign crazy, it must be good for her.”

They continued their dinner, but slowly, since they were talking so much. As Stone asked for the check, he saw the two men at the other table doing exactly the same.

“I’m going to pay in cash,” Stone said, “and then I think we should run for it while the opposition is dealing with credit cards.”

“I’m on my mark,” she said.

10

Stone glanced at the check, threw some euros on the table, got up, grabbed Mirabelle’s hand, and hurried toward the door. He glanced at the two bald men and saw one of them signing a credit card chit and the other rising and heading toward them. Stone hit the door running, passed the tables outside, and stopped on the sidewalk. No van. Then he remembered the panic button.

“Come on,” he yelled, and started running through Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He groped in a pocket, then another but couldn’t find it.

“Don’t go down this street,” Mirabelle shouted. “Too few people!”

Stone turned and ran back into the open plaza and into traffic. A huge black shape appeared in the corner of his eye, and there was a screeching of brakes and a chorus of horns.

“Get in here!” a man shouted.

Stone turned and saw the van, the rear door open. He pushed Mirabelle inside and heard the door slam behind him. Through the window he could see the two bald Russians running toward them, looking annoyed.

“What happened?” the guard yelled.

“Two Russians,” he panted.

“Why didn’t you use the panic button? We had two men in the restaurant.”

“Couldn’t find it. Two Russians were there.”

There was a banging on the front door of the van, and the guard’s window slid down. He exchanged some words with someone outside, then closed the window. “Were the Russians two bald guys?”

“Yes,”

“Those were our people. You scared them to death.”

“Your people?”

“Of course. What did you think?”

“I thought they were the Russians.”

“You’re getting paranoid, Mr. Barrington.”

“I wonder why? I’m locked in an armored van with two armed men, two others are watching me in a restaurant. Why would I be paranoid?”

The man ignored the question. “Where to?” he asked.

“The Arrington?” Stone said to Mirabelle.

“I think we’ll be safe there,” she said sardonically. She picked up her phone. “I have to call my car.” She spoke in French for a moment, then put the phone away. “They’ll follow,” she said.

The ride home was much like the earlier ride—fast and down side streets. They were at the hotel sooner than Stone had anticipated.

—

STONE CLOSED the suite door behind him.

“That was quite funny,” Mirabelle said.

“I’m glad you were amused.”

“The sight of an American spy running from his own bodyguards must have amused any Russians present.”

“Champagne?”

“Perfect.”

Stone found a bottle of Marcel’s favorite Krug in the bar fridge, opened it, and filled two flutes. He sat down next to Mirabelle on the sofa; she didn’t move over.

“Listen carefully,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“I am not a spy.”

“So you say.”

“I am an attorney. I am a partner in a New York law firm. As such, I sometimes consult for the Agency.”

“You said that before, but it doesn’t make any sense. Why would the CIA consult with anybody?”

“Sometimes they need an opinion or information from outside the Langley bubble. At least, that’s my view: I’ve never asked them why they wanted me under contract.”

“So you’re a contractor?”

“Not in the sense of someone who does black bag jobs and shoots people in the head. I’m an attorney under contract.”

“That’s your cover story, isn’t it?”

“There’s the phone,” he said, pointing. He gave her the Woodman & Weld phone number. “Call it and ask for me.”

“Well, of course they would back up your story. It wouldn’t be much of a cover if they didn’t.”

“What else can I do to convince you?” he asked.

She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think you can,” she said at length.

Stone refilled their glasses. “Google me,” he said. “You won’t find a word about the CIA in the results.”

“Oh, please.”

Stone made a strangled noise.

“Tell me,” she said, “what does it take to get an American spy into bed?”

Stone took her face in his hands and kissed her. “A kind word,” he said, “that doesn’t refer to the CIA.”

“Please?”

“That will do nicely.” He took their glasses in one hand and her in the other and headed for the bedroom.

11

A shaft of sunlight struck Stone’s face as he slept. He threw up an arm, as if to protect himself from the paparazzi, but a check revealed the light to be coming across the neighboring rooftops. The bed next to him was empty; Mirabelle had snuck out early.

Stone staggered toward the bathroom, blinking to recover his full vision. The sound of the shower struck his ears. He walked into the bathroom and saw the lovely form of Mirabelle through the mist on the shower glass.

“Good morning!” she shouted over the roar of the water. “Please join me!”

Stone did so, and the rush swept away his sleepiness. Mirabelle had him in her hand, squeezing gently. “Is it awake?” she asked, biting him on a nipple.

He started. “It is now!”

“Ah, yes, I can feel it returning to consciousness.” She bit him on the other nipple. “It’s awake!” She put both arms around his neck and hoisted herself to him.

Stone cupped his hands under her cheeks to support her weight, freeing her hand to guide him inside her. “There,” she said, nibbling on an earlobe. “There is where it belongs.”

Stone pressed her against the tiles, then pressed home their union. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Good, good,” she was saying rhythmically. “All the way in. Yes!”

They came together noisily, and Stone’s knees weakened. They sank to the shower floor, still entwined, and let the warm water run over them. A moment later they were toweling each other.

“I’m starving,” she said. “When is breakfast?”

“I’ll order.” Stone picked up the bathroom phone and ordered, then hung up. “Twenty-five minutes,” he said.

“Good,” she said, taking him by the penis and leading him into the bed. “Time for one more.”

They used the time well.

—

WHEN THEY had breakfasted and Mirabelle had dressed, he walked her to the door. “Goodbye, my spy,” she said, kissing him. “You did not disappoint.”

“I’m so glad,” Stone said wryly.

“How about dinner in the country tonight? There are fewer bald Russians to frighten us there.”

“I’m game.”

“That you are. I’ll meet you here at seven, and we’ll take your tank to protect us from the automatic weapons fire.”

“You make it sound so cozy,” Stone said.

She kissed him and slipped out the door.