“Thank you for the clarification. Why is it the only one in existence?”

“Because she has scrupulously avoided ever being photographed.”

“In her entire life?”

“Since she was about twelve, in school.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t want anybody to know what she looks like.”

“All right,” Stone said. “Who is she?”

“She’s a woman who goes around assassinating people,” Carpenter said. “And the luckiest thing in your life is that she doesn’t know you’re responsible for the only photograph ever taken of her.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Dino said, handing Carpenter the Post and tapping an item on Page Six.

Carpenter read aloud. “ ‘Rumor has it that the strange death of Lawrence Fortescue (Mr. Elena Marks), caused by a peeper photographer who fell through a skylight while taking candid snaps of Mr. M. and a certain young lady doing disgusting things to each other, was organized by a fairly sleazy Gotham “lawyer,” with a very “hard” name, who hired the falling photog. Any guesses? We’ll bet he’s supping tonight at Elaine’s.” ’

Carpenter put the paper down. “Oh, shit,” she said.

“Oh, yeah,” Dino agreed.

14

Stone looked at Dino and Carpenter narrowly. “I hope this is some kind of joke.”

“I’m afraid not,” Carpenter said seriously. “My people are very interested in finding her, and they asked me to liaise with the NYPD. That’s why Dino and I were in the same meeting. Since we were already acquainted, I picked him to liaise with.”

“Who is this woman?” Stone asked.

“I’ll tell you all we know about her, and believe me, it won’t take long. She was born Marie-Thérèse du Bois, in Zurich, of a Swiss father and an Egyptian mother, but she doesn’t use that name anymore, because if she did, she might get caught.”

“Tell me all of it.”

“Little Marie-Thérèse grew up in Switzerland and in Egypt, and she was something of a whiz with languages, being exposed to four—the usual Swiss three, plus her mother’s Arabic—while growing up. Even as a girl, her hobby was studying languages. In addition to her native tongues, she picked up Farsi, Urdu, and some Hindi. Her father imported Middle Eastern products to Switzerland—rugs, olive oil, dates, pottery—whatever he could turn a profit on, and he was very prosperous, ended up rich, in fact. She traveled with him often around the Mediterranean basin, picking up Spanish and Greek along the way. She’d sit in hotel rooms, watching local television and conjugating verbs.”

“Good God, how many languages does she speak?”

“Nobody knows, but I’d guess at least a dozen, and with perfect accents in various dialects.”

“So, why does she go around killing people?”