"Very well, you are leaving for Paris, and we should like you to render us some service."

She smiled, couldn't help it. "Oh, I see. We are back to your spy service."

"I am prepared to offer twenty thousand francs. Twenty thousand francs as an initial retainer, more upon the delivery of acceptable material."

She turned to the mantle, to the blank wall. "How did you know that I applied for a passport?"

"It's our business to track such matters. Now please understand that I am not suggesting you do anything improper. It is just that you are a woman with access to certain people that—"

"That also demand privacy. No, I really think all this is out of the question."

He sat down on the arm of the sofa as if to collect his thoughts. "It is a small thing, actually, a matter of keeping one's ear to the ground."

"But the ground, Herr Cramer, could cover a good deal of territory. Besides . . . you never recovered my luggage."

"Luggage?"

"My furs. You were to secure the release of my furs from your government. I really don't know what we have to talk about."

She was, he realized, quite serious. He moved to her side, risked a hand on her shoulder. "Won't you at least consider my proposal ... as one professional to another?"

She hesitated, watching his hand slide from her throat to trace the neckline of her gown. "Very well, Herr Cramer, I shall consider it."

And in a sense she kept her word, later explaining how she spent the night with a bottle of sweet sherry and the useless correspondence from Berlin concerning her furs: "... furs which cost me at least twenty thousand francs, so that I finally decided that it would be fair exchange to get as much money out of those Germans as possible." Also from this night there is a copy of the note she sent Cramer instructing him to bring the money, and an unusually candid letter to her daughter concerning "men who believe they understand woman but in fact understand nothing ... men who will never give anything of value, except what you learn how to take."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

SO she left for Paris with twenty thousand francs and three bottles of secret ink that Cramer had insisted she use when corresponding with him. Once past the harbor, she tossed the bottles into the sea with a flourish, and returned to her still-unfinished copy of The Brothers Karamazov— still using Cramer's old calling card as a bookmark. Although several French and British agents awaited her arrival, at least for the moment she felt quite happy and free . . .