I'm slipping through the alleyways of the Pigalle section of Paris. The uneven surface of the walkways are positively hellish on my heels, but this is precisely why I spend hours developing my calves to the sizes of grapefruits. Why would a woman of my class, of my demeanor be lurking around doorways already occupied by the Prostituée kind? My coif is a mess and my legs feel as though they have been clubbed by a burly fly fisherman, as if my gams had been caught steelhead. Walter, my dear, uninformed husband, is preoccupied with the diplomats' ball currently full-on at the Hotel Du Grand Veneur. I was to have been at his side, smiling politely, daintily offering my gloved hand as the dutiful wife, hob-nobbing with generals, prime ministers and presidents of petroleum and gold bullion-rich countries alike. And I'd planned to do just that--hoped to, actually. But a tiny chirp, like that of a goldfinch tucked smartly away in my handbag, roused me from my highbrow delirium. A mission. I'd known it was coming; I'm not completely obtuse, dear reader. That's precisely why Mr. Eisenhower phoned my husband himself, imploring him to attend this facade of a party. It's why I'm here in Paris at all. Someone must die. Someone important, influential. Dangerous. And I'm the dame to do it.