Paris is a Bitch by Barry Eisler Page A

spit of rock in a river had been subject to the minds and hands of men, and what it would look like a few thousand years hence, when war or climate change or some deep immune response from the earth itself had cleansed the area of the humans who claimed it now, and nature made it once again her own.
    And now, satisfied that I had a way out if I needed one, I sat in the back of the restaurant on one of the old wooden chairs, enjoying the sounds of French and German and English, all pleasantly scrambled by the close walls and the dark, beamed ceiling; enveloped by the smells of
bœuf à la bourguignonne
and
soupe à l’oignon
and
petites bouchées d’escargots sauce roquefort
; and savoring the sight of the beautiful, deceptively elegant blonde across from me, who, if we could find a way past our professional tensions and make common cause of something better, I thought might actually be the best thing that had ever happened to me.
    Delilah smiled and asked me in French, “What are you thinking?”
    She was wearing a simple, cream-colored silk wrap dress with tasteful but still tantalizing décolletage, and the candle on the table between us was casting distracting shadows. I let my I eyes linger where they wanted to linger, then smiled lasciviously and said, “About what I might want for dessert.”
    She smiled back. “Well, for that, you have to see the menu.”
    “I’ll have to take my time with that. If it all looks good enough, I might even order more than one.”
    She raised an eyebrow. “You think you can handle that much?”
    I looked into her blue eyes. “I don’t know. I’ll have to taste it and see.”
    She gave me a challenging look, the kind that would make weak men wilt and strong men wild. “Then come back to my apartment. We’ll see if your eyes are bigger than your stomach. But…”
    “Yes?”
    “You can’t stay tonight. I have to leave early tomorrow.”
    “Where are you going?” I said, immediately irritated at myself for asking a question to which I already knew the answer. Or rather, the response.
    “John. Why do you ask me that? You know I can’t tell you.”
    “How long will you be gone?”
    “And I can’t tell you that, either. As you know.”
    I felt a stupid petulance taking hold of me and tried, without much success, to shrug it off. I shouldn’t have pressed, but I said, “A day? A month? How long this time?”
    She sighed. “Longer than a day, less than a month. I think.”
    I looked away, nodding. “You think.”
    An American in an expensive blazer and with perfectly groomed three-day facial stubble was blathering into his mobile phone at the table next to us. I hadn’t noticed until just then, having been focused more on whether Delilah and I were speaking quietly enough not to be overheard than with whether anyone else was talking too loudly. I looked over, and his girlfriend touched his arm to let him know his phone monologue was annoying someone. He glanced at me but didn’t change his volume. My irritation with Delilah was looking for an outlet, and I considered snatching the phone out of his hand, breaking it in two, shoving one half down his throat and the other up his ass, and putting the whole thing back together inside his chest. But that would get me noticed, and then some, and with my mostly Asian features, I was already a bit more noticeable in Paris than I liked.
    Delilah said, “I’m sorry.”
    I didn’t respond. Stubble Boy was yammering on, something about structural asset-backed securities and tranches. I tried to tune him out.
    Delilah said, “I know it’s difficult for you. I can imagine what it’s like. And I’m sorry.”
    I looked at her. “Yeah? What do you imagine?”
    There was a pause. She said, “You wonder what the new assignment is, and whether that means I have to go to bed with someone.”
    High-value-target honey trap operations were Delilah’s métier, and if she hadn’t been so effective in the role, the Mossad would have cut