The driver did as instructed, and the trip was short. The three cars drove to Park Avenue, turned, then turned again into Fifty-second Street and stopped at an awning protruding from the lower level of the Seagram Building. Four men emerged from the first and third vehicles, had a good look around, then, at a signal from one of them, the rear doors of the middle SUV opened, and three men and a woman got out and went inside. The three SUVs drove off, no doubt to find a convenient parking spot.

Marie-Thérèse, whose car was waiting on Park Avenue, spoke. “Drop me at the awning, then drive around the block and park where you can see the doors. If the police hassle you, show them your diplomatic passport, but don’t move from the spot until I appear.”

The car stopped before the awning, and Marie-Thérèse got out, smoothing her little black dress and pulling on a pair of short, black kid gloves. Her hair was long and dark for the occasion. She went inside and started up the broad staircase. Her quarry was only yards ahead, and as she emerged on the second floor, his group, along with two bodyguards, were disappearing down a hallway toward the pool room of the Four Seasons.

This was not good. There was no way in or out of that room except by a hallway, perhaps ten feet in width, except maybe a kitchen door that she didn’t have access to. She took a seat at the corner of the large, square bar, facing east, with the hallway on her left. One of the bodyguards returned after a couple of minutes, presumably having completed his scan of the large dining room, while his companion had stationed himself there. The man took up a station across the bar from Marie-Thérèse, facing west, so that he could watch the hallway from his seat. He ordered a mineral water and sipped it slowly.

He was not British, she thought. His suit was wrong, and his hair cut too short. He looked like a very boring young businessman.

Marie-Thérèse put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and glanced at her watch. “I’m early,” she said to the bartender. “A very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the bartender replied, then went to work.

How long would this take? Her man was in his mid-sixties, so probably not all that long. Before the main course was served, was her guess.

The young man sitting across the bar from her picked up his drink, walked around the bar, and sat down next to her, facing south. Now his back was to the hallway he was supposed to be watching. “Good evening,” he said. Yes, American.

“Good evening,” Marie-Thérèse replied coolly.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” the man said, “but I find you very attractive. May I buy you a drink?”