A Dinner in Paris

To London, where I dropped off a piece of analysis for Sir Harry (effective bribery in Yemen, if you must know). Travel now had become a dream, what with Hank Grimsby and his Lear jet at my beck and call, and Sir Harry's granting me diplomatic immunity. (He owes me more than he could ever repay.) Thus no more fussing at airports and obnoxious people waving wands up and down my person, and female officials looking with ill-concealed envy when I removed my Christian Louboutin stilettos.

Now, my assignment completed and Sir Harry pleased, I felt the need for a fine dinner. I was also hungry for something else, and thus got in touch with the Compte de Rienville, whom I knew was confined to Paris until Sarkozy straightened out certain issues related to French pensions. The way this policy change has enraged the left, you'd think that working until age 62 was a complete loss of liberty, fraternity and equality. Suck it up my freres et soeurs. Everyone else does.

The Compte was delighted to learn of my intent.

"I suggest," I said, "The Tour d'Argent tomorrow night. About 7:30 pm. I feel the need for their pressed duck."

"No chance, cherie," he replied. "The Tour makes reservations weeks ahead. Weeks."

"You let me worry about that," I replied. "See you there."

Hank Grimsby readied my plane, and once airborne, I made a certain phone call. That done, I settled back and relaxed with earphones and Debussy. In Paris, after a luxurious bubble bath and some primping at the Georges Cinq, I taxied to the Tour, and was soon ensconced at a table, with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot nearby on ice. I had just had my first sip when the Compte slid in beside me. After a kiss and a hug, he was curiosity itself.

"How on earth did you do it?

"Do what?"

"Get a reservation. It would have been impossible."

"Well," I replied, with just a soupcon of smugness, you know the U.S. Marine saying: 'The impossible we do every day. Miracles take a little longer.'"

"You are not a marine."

"Ah, but I am a woman of mystery. And mystery is a good quality in a relationship, n'est pas? Now let's to the canard."

The Compte knows when he has been stymied, and dropped the subject. At least for now. I could almost see into his brain, filing this little event under the heading, 'Things to be examined later. In depth.'

What I had done, of course, had involved my new friend and resource, the wonderful Rachel. In that I had saved her ass big time, she was delighted to help me out as occasion merited. This was one of those times. Using the program WRAITH, she had taken over the Tour's reservation software, and made a substitution: the Compte de Rienville and Lady Strunsky replaced Martine Aubry and guest, who were flung out somewhere in cyber space. I was OK with this. I mean, what is a socialist doing in the Tour d'Argent in the first place?

Dinner proceeded, with much talk of finance, currency wars, and budget cutbacks. Boring, perhaps, but not if you own a major international sugar beet enterprise. Over dessert, we got round to the American efforts at fiscal restraint, something the Compte said was almost non-existent.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," I said. "Look at the death penalty thing."

"What the hell has that got to do with saving money?"

"A lot. Did you know that a fair number of states are seriously considering dropping the death penalty?"

"Ah," he exclaimed. "Enfin, ethics and reason show themselves."

"Er, not exactly. You see, the bean counters have discovered that it costs a horrendous amount of money to support the death penalty. Appeals can go on for years, expensive appeals. A life sentence, on the other hand, is a far cheaper alternative."

The Compte looked down glumly, then said, "So no flash of humanity?"

"No. But it still is a Good Thing, even given Eliot's lines in Murder in the Cathedral.

"You're getting away from me again. What lines?"

"Eliot wrote, dealing with Thomas Becket's concern that he may be acting out of a desire for martyrdom, 'The last temptation is the greatest treason / To do the right deed for the wrong reason.' Says it all, really.

And it does.