He rose to his feet and was about to head for the telephone when he spotted his waiter, Mario, waving at him. The young man quickly wove his way past the crowded tables.

“Monsieur Tavistock, there is a telephone message for you. From madame.”

Bernard gave a sigh of relief. “Where is she?”

“She says she cannot come for lunch. She wishes you to meet her.”

“Where?”

“This address.” The waiter handed him a scrap of paper, smudged with what looked like tomato soup. The address was scrawled in pencil: 66, Rue Myrha, #5.

Bernard frowned. “Isn’t this in Pigalle? What on earth is she doing in that neighborhood?”

Mario shrugged, a peculiarly Gallic version with tipped head, raised eyebrow. “I do not know. She tells me the address, I write it down.”

“Well, thank you.” Bernard reached for his wallet and handed the fellow enough francs to pay for his two café au laits, as well as a generous tip.

“Merci,” said the waiter, beaming. “You will return for supper, Monsieur Tavistock?”

“If I can track down my wife,” muttered Bernard, striding away to his Mercedes.

He drove to Place Pigalle, grumbling all the way. What on earth had possessed her to go there? It was not the safest part of Paris for a woman-or a man, either, for that matter. He took comfort in the knowledge that his beloved Madeline could take care of herself quite well, thank you very much. She was a far better marksman than he was, and that automatic she carried in her purse was always kept fully loaded-a precaution he insisted upon ever since that near-disaster in Berlin. Distressing how one couldn’t trust one’s own people these days. Incompetents everywhere, in MI6, in NATO, in French Intelligence. And there had been Madeline, trapped in that building with the East Germans, and no one to back her up. If I hadn’t arrived in time…

No, he wouldn’t relive that horror again.

She’d learned her lesson. And a loaded pistol was now a permanent accessory to her wardrobe.