Porsche took a table near the pair, sat with her back to them and ordered a house Bordeaux. Her corner was at an oblique angle, but it had one desirable prop -- a cracked antique smoky mirror that framed the amorous couple in its reflection.

Porsche could see their choices of meals -- Filet Mignon for him, Duck à l'Orange for her. After a while, the dessert rolled out, flan and espresso. Porsche spied them laughing, getting more intimate after two bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, the chill between them quickly warming. She recognized where this will lead. It's Friday night. Sadly, I can't remember my own last romp. Hell, at least she'd get to listen to the panting and gasping of others. Doesn't matter. With a fistful of carats in a week, who's laughing then?

Finding the rabbit had been child's play. In twenty-four hours, Porsche had Moreau's cell signal decrypted and tracked, the tap was such a cinch that any hacker with a proximity snooper could do it. Moreau had made several calls, mostly work-related about scientific mumbo jumbo and schedules she couldn't hope to decipher or wanted to. She was keen on deviations, perhaps a cryptic call elsewhere, to a rival fief Uncle would pay bucks for. One call he made intrigued her. His tone had changed in an instant from confidence imbued with expertise to docility and desperation. Voice analysis had quickly identified the woman on the other end as Undersecretary Hunt.

Lisbeth Hunt had been resistant, played hard to get, even with the two dozens of roses delivered to her Watergate apartment. Moreau begged for a chance to redeem himself. He said he had a surprise to tell her, a solution to their problem. She relented and agreed to dinner. He knew of a cozy cafe where they could talk. And French cuisine to boot.

Seeing the couple giving each other knowing smiles, Porsche drained her remaining house wine, wiped her fingerprints from the utensils and glass stem with her napkin, a habit she relied on.

And when Moreau paid his check, Porsche did likewise with a swipe of the waiter's debit scanner. She included a generous tip from an account belonging to one of her many legends.

She was about to exit the restaurant before the pair when angry words caught her attention.

Porsche glanced at the mirror. The mood had changed at that moment. Something had smothered their amorous flames.

The woman pulled out her chair, her face in a twisted mix of anger and horror. Hunt put out her hands, a warning for Moreau to keep a distance, grabbed her belongings and rushed out of the restaurant, leaving the flabbergasted man by himself. Curious, he didn't chase after her.

What could have been so corrosive that it not only killed the mood but drove the woman away with terror? Hunt bristled like a spooked cat, its fur standing on end, racing out of the alley. Moreau slumped in his seat, dejected, his face full of regrets. She was waiting for the perfect opportunity to make her move on Moreau -- when he was most vulnerable. Tonight seemed to fit the bill just right.

Porsche decided to wait outside for him.

Ten minutes thereafter, her mark appeared on the sidewalk. Now for an innocuous occasion, a chance meeting.

Antiquated gas lamps lit the cobble streets in Old Town Alexandria. Modernity remained outside this colonial enclave of brick shops and quaint cafes, ensuring that its charm endured. A horse-drawn carriage clopped past her.

Across the street opposite him, she moved among pedestrians, careful not to look over his way. She walked in spurts until she paced him.

Standing at the curb, Moreau called an auto-cab. She saw the moment to make her move.

Porsche unzipped her sweater down to her cleavage and splayed the neck for ample display. She approached and stood next to Moreau, pretending to look up the street for her ride.

"I've been waiting for ten minutes," she said. "Tracker said it'd be here in two."

"Mine is on its way, one minute out," he said, looking at his hand terminal. "We could share -- if you like."

"If it's not an inconvenience." She smiled.

"It's my pleasure," he stuttered.

"You're so sweet." She touched his arm and stood close to him, their breaths co-mingled in the cold air.

Porsche read the rabbit. Not so distraught after all, are you? Bait nibbled. This was going to be child's play.

The auto-cab arrived during their small talk about nothing. He opened the door for her and climbed in thereafter.

She gave the autonav her bogus address. He remarked it was near his place. Is that a proposition? And so soon, she laughed inside.

"What a coincidence," Porsche breathed and tossed her hair. She could feel his hopeful excitement. Men, ruled by the small head most of their lives, were transparent. And he had forgotten all about Lisbeth Hunt. Her exit was a windfall, one Porsche was happy to capitalize on. By tomorrow, Porsche figured, Moreau would be ripe for suggestions. Then she'll spread her honey for him, per Uncle's request. No, not for Uncle -- but for herself. But she mustn't rush it tonight. Their encounter was supposed to be arranged by providence.

The auto-cab arrived at her destination first, and as he insisted, her fare was added to his account. She thanked him for the lift and moved to kiss him on the cheek, a deliberate and slow lip press, letting him smell her scent. She gave him a suggestive smile and backed out of the cabin, rear first, her bosom enlarging his pupils.

As expected, he reached after her hand, not letting go, too anxious. How often did something this enticing fall on his lap? "Wait," he pleaded.

She stopped her retreat, a corner of her mouth curled, eyebrows cocked up one side. Gotcha!

"I'd like to see you again," he said awkwardly. "Can I get your digits?"

"How cliche," she chuckled and mocked him with a resounding, "No." Moreau's hope and face deflated, his torso slackened. Just as he was about to say goodnight, she said, "Give me yours."

Porsche hopped out with his number entered in her contact list. She'll have fun with this fish, at least for a couple of days before releasing him. She sighed as the auto-cab rolled away. For now, it was back to grunt work as she zipped up her sweater.

The day before, she had cased out the location and had found a place suitable for her needs. It was high enough to have a generous vista of his condo, ideal for the Penetrator which she'd stashed on the roof. An eight-foot retainer wall that ringed the high-rise posed no trouble for her to scale. And in the back, she'd discovered a fixed ladder, fastened to the wall leading to the roof. The ladder had a little corrosion and she'd judged, was strong enough to hold her weight and the equipment.

One hand on a rung, she pulled herself up and started to climb back to the roof.

Fourteen stories up, she hopped over a small lip that hemmed in the air conditioning units, exhaust fans, and generators, and headed for the spot she had chosen. It had the perfect vantage into Moreau's windows. From this height, the view took in the forest of apartment towers abutting the north-south maglev Interstate 395 while flashing aerodynes filled the night sky like passing fireflies.

The Penetrator remained where she'd stashed it. Porsche unzipped the gear bag, assembled the equipment one part at a time. She activated the laser and aimed it at Moreau's darkened apartment. Audio feedback primed.

She opened the IR aperture and looked through it. The optical maser bore a virtual hole through solid walls, giving her an impression of him alone in his living room. He had a bottle tilted to his mouth. Aw, the poor fool. She could see him rummaging through his drawers. The man was leaving in a hurry.

Just then, the door to his apartment chimed.

Moreau stiffened at first, pulled out a gun from a drawer and rushed to the door. He spied through the peephole. Using the Penetrator, Porsche could see a large silhouette on the other side of the door. And it was man-size. Yet Moreau tucked the pistol behind his back and opened the door anyway. The knocker was no stranger, she surmised.

Porsche heard: "Chief Marlboro. What are you doing here?"