“I’m off in a couple of hours,” he said. “Want to meet somewhere?”

Marie-Thérèse looked around. The coat-check girl had momentarily disappeared. “Are you carrying a gun, Burt?”

Burt grinned and opened his jacket, revealing a 9mm semiautomatic.

“Oh, good,” she said, sticking her silenced pistol into his ribs and backing him against the wall. “I’ll have that, Burt.” She pulled his pistol from its holster. “Now, let’s go to the men’s room.” She shoved him with her gun barrel.

“Hey, lady, what’s going on?” Burt asked, as if she were joking. But he went through the door into a little vestibule.

Marie-Thérèse hit him, hard, in the back of the head with his own pistol, then tossed it onto his crumpled form. “Sorry about that, Burt.” She pushed open the door to find Sir Edward standing at a sink, washing his hands. An attendant stood by with a towel. She shot the attendant first, to get Sir Edward’s attention.

Sir Edward stood up straight, holding his wet hands out before him. “No, no,” he said. “I paid the money, really I did.”

“A liar to the end,” she said, and shot him once in the chest. He fell to the floor, then she walked over and put a round into his head.

She dropped the pistol into her bag, left the men’s room, stepping over Burt’s inert form in the vestibule. He began to stir. She thought about it, then picked up his pistol and hit him with it again. “This is your lucky day, Burt.” Then she peeked out the door. The entrance hall was empty. She walked casually from the men’s room and out the front doors, looking for her car. Spotting it near the corner, she beckoned, then waited, and the driver drove quickly up and stopped.

“Slow down, for Christ’s sake,” she said as she got into the car. “Just drive away in a leisurely fashion.” She looked back at the three SUVs parked at the curb. They remained where they were.

“That went very well,” she said, removing her gloves. “Drop me at Madison and Seventy-second Street.”

She got out of the car and began window-shopping her way back toward the Carlyle.

49

Carpenter sat in the pool dining room of the Four Seasons with the director of the FBI and his deputy. Their main course arrived, and Sir Edward had not returned from the men’s room.

“I’d better go and check on him,” she said to the director.

“Keep your seat,” he replied, and waved over his bodyguard. “Find the men’s room and check on Sir Edward,” he said to the man. “He may be ill.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Carpenter said. “He probably ran into someone he knew. I think we should start without him.” She picked up her knife and fork and cut into the venison on the plate before her.