The front door opened and a man walked in: not too tall, Mediterranean-looking.

Dino walked toward table number four, where Sidney Zion, a journalist and writer, was sitting. “Hey, Sid,” Dino said, pumping his hand. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sit down, Dino,” Zion replied.

Dino took a seat with a good view of a woman at the bar he thought was probably Marie-Thérèse.

The man was a cop, she could feel it. “Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked the bartender.

“Back that way, take a right, second door on the left.”

Marie-Thérèse left her coat on the bar stool, picked up her bag, and began walking toward the rear of the restaurant. Straight ahead, all the way to the back, was a door, but two large men were sitting at a table squarely in front of it. She turned right, toward the ladies’ room, first looking into the kitchen: no visible way out. She went into the ladies’ room; no one there. She tried the window. It was small, but she could fit through it. She got it open, but it was covered with burglar bars.

She opened her handbag and began removing things. She took the top off the toilet tank, wiped the CIA pistol and the ice pick with a towel, dropped them into the tank, and replaced the cover. She ripped up her false passport, dropped it into the toilet, and flushed. Then she got out her cell phone and started dialing.

Dino’s cell phone vibrated. “Bacchetti.”

“Lieutenant, everybody’s in place.”

“Tell them to sit tight. We’re going to wait until she’s ready to leave. I’ll follow her out the front door, then everybody converge.”

“Got it.”

Dino put the cell phone away and looked around. Still in the ladies’ room.

“Hello?”

“Ali?”

“Yes. Is this my appointment from this afternoon?”

“Yes. I think I’m about to be arrested, and I’m going to need a lawyer.”

“Where are you?”

“At a restaurant called Elaine’s, on Second Avenue, between Eighty-eighth and Eighty-ninth streets.”

“You’re quite near the Nineteenth Precinct. They’ll take you there, unless they’re federal.”

“My guess is local police.”

“Your lawyer’s name is Sol Kaminsky. I’ll call him, and he’ll be there in half an hour. Say nothing to the police.”

“I’m going to talk to them, play it innocent,” she said.

“That’s your judgment to make. Are you dirty?”

“I’ve just cleaned up. I have a good passport.”

“Good. I’ll tell Kaminsky. Call his number from the police station and leave a message on his answering machine. Memorize the number.” He recited it to her.

“You’re sending me a Jewish lawyer?”

“We retain him. He’s good. What will your name be?”

“Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Your real name?”

“Trust me.”

“What will you give for an address?”

“I don’t know.”