Paris Match

“It’ll be okay this time, I promise. You know, this incident is probably going to help us more than it’ll hurt.”

“How will it do that?”

“By telling Lance that our little operation here is a good idea. Lance likes learning that he was right.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“You’re going to be getting another call this morning.”

“From whom?”

“Mirabelle Chance.”

“The last woman I met in Paris was one of yours. Is Mirabelle one of yours, too?”

“I’m working on that. In fact, you could be a great help to me.”

“You want me to recruit her for you? I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

“She clearly likes you. We know that from her behavior at the di

“I hope you’re right. I certainly like her.”

“She may raise the subject with you. I, and particularly Lance, would be grateful if you could help her move in our direction.”

“What do you want from her?”

“Anything we can get. She’s very well co

“Okay, Rick, if she asks me if she should become a resource for the Agency, I’ll say, sure, why not?”

“Come on, Stone, you can do better than that.”

“I can’t promise that I will.”

“I’ll rely on your good sense. Gotta run. The van will be there at noon.” He hung up.

Stone stared at the breakfast in his lap, congealing before his eyes. Eggs Benedict did not benefit from getting cold. The phone rang. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” Mirabelle said.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle Chance,” he said.

“Are you free for breakfast?”

“I am, if we can do it here.”

“At l’Arrington?”

“In the penthouse suite.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour. Au revoir.” She hung up.

Stone called down to room service to collect the tray and to double the order, then he got out of bed and into a shower and a shave.

6

Stone’s doorbell rang, and he opened it to find standing there Mirabelle Chance, dressed to the gills. Cheeks were kissed.

“Do you always dress so beautifully for breakfast?” he asked, admitting her to the suite.

“Of course,” she replied. “I am my own best advertising. Do you like it?”

“You make that dress look gorgeous,” he said.

“I’m not sure that I understand your language well enough to know if that is a criticism of the dress.”

“Not at all,” Stone replied. “The dress would make any other woman look beautiful.”

“Again, I’m not sure . . .”

“I compliment the beauty of both you and the dress,” he said. “Without reservation.”

She blinked, then smiled. “Have you coffee?” she asked.

The doorbell rang. “I do now.” He admitted the waiter, who set up the table on Stone’s terrace. Shortly, they were seated, and Mirabelle had her coffee.

“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Stone said.

“That is the Luxembourg Palace,” she said, pointing, “and surrounding it are the Luxembourg Gardens. And they are both very beautiful. How well do you know Paris?”

“Not as well as I expect to in a couple of weeks. What I need is a personal guide.”

She leaned forward on her elbows. “Is that all you require?”

“The river of my needs is broad and deep,” he said.

“So, then, it takes more than one woman to meet them?”

“Not necessarily. It just takes more than a personal guide.”

“A multitasker, then?”

“If you want to be technical.”

“Do you?”

“I would prefer not.” The waiter, who had been rearranging the silverware, brought two plates of eggs Benedict from the hotbox below, set them in place, and whisked away the covers.

“Bon appétit,” he said, then vanished.

“Now we are alone,” she said.

“No, we have eggs Benedict.”

“Ah, yes.” She dug in. “Tell me,” she said after a moment’s chewing, “what is your co

“I am a consultant to the Agency,” Stone said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that sometimes they ask for my advice, and I give it. At other times they don’t, and I don’t.”

“Are you paid for this advice?”

“Only on a piecework basis.”

“How much per piece?”

“I bill them by the hour. I am an attorney, after all, and that is our wont.”

“You won’t what?”

“It means our usual practice or desire.”

“You bill the CIA for your desires?”

“No, I bill them for their desires. What is your co

“None,” she said. “They have so many—anagrams?”

“Acronyms.”

“Ah, yes, acronyms. French intelligence has too many, and I would never know with whom I was dealing. I have been asked, sort of, to become associated with American intelligence.”

“In what capacity?”

“As a conveyor of gossip, apparently.”

“I suppose you would hear quite a lot of that from your clients.”

“Constantly, but rarely anything that would amuse the CIA.”

“You never know what might entertain them,” Stone said. “Did you accept their offer?”

“Not yet. What is your advice?”

“Would it amuse you to associate yourself with them?”

“Possibly.”

“Then accept, but negotiate the terms.”

“How do you mean?”

“You are a businesswoman: whatever they offer you, demand more.”

“Will I get it?”

“You will get some of it, that’s what a negotiation is about: you rarely get everything you want.”

“I nearly always get everything I want,” she said emphatically.

“I’m not surprised. Perhaps I should hope that you don’t want me.”

“If I should want you, then God help you.”

“In that circumstance I would prefer to handle the transaction myself.”

She laughed.

“That’s the first time this morning you’ve laughed.”

“I don’t laugh, unless I am really amused.”

“Then I will take your laugh as a compliment—assuming that you are laughing with me, rather than at me.”

“An interesting distinction,” she said. “When I was at school in England I learned, with some difficulty, when Englishmen were being fu

“Anything I can do to help,” Stone said.

“Was that an offer of or a request for sex?”

“Not necessarily.”

“You see! I think maybe that was meant to be fu

“Not in every instance. It’s best to go back a couple of sentences to my offer of help.”

“What sort of help?”

“Almost anything you need.”

“Almost?”

“It’s best to reserve a little wiggle room.”

“Wiggle? Is that like wriggle?”

“The same, only more colloquial.”

She laughed again. “You are fun to talk with.”

“I’m so glad, I would not like to bore you.”

“I will let you know when you are boring me.” She looked at her wristwatch.

“Ah, already,” Stone said.

“No, no, I just have an appointment in twenty minutes, and there is the rush-hour traffic.”

“Then you had better finish your eggs.”

She pushed back from the table. “No, only half my eggs are on my diet. I must continue to be able to wear my own designs.”

“Would you like to have di

“Just the two of us?”

“I prefer conducting business during the daylight hours, reserving the evening for more intimate occasions.”

“When and where?”

“Eight o’clock? At your favorite restaurant.”

“Eight is good. I don’t have a favorite, there are too many in Paris.”

“Your favorite today.”

“All right. Do you know Brasserie Lipp? In Saint-Germain-des-Prés?”

“I do.”

“Eight o’clock then.”

They rose, bussed, and she departed.

Stone sat down and finished his eggs.