"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" she said, wrinkling her smooth brow.
"I said, empty your pockets."
"Je ne comprends pas, " she said.
"Damn. Another frog. Parlez-vous anglais?" he asked, flattening the lilt of the vowels and utterly demolishing the sweet consonants by actually pronouncing them.
"Non," she told him.
"Just keep going, Lewis-lover," the security guard said impatiently. "We don't want your kind here."
"Anglophone," Dominique muttered under her breath.
And so the greatest military secret since the hydrogen bomb sauntered past United States authorities and boarded an Air France jet bound for Paris, France, safely nestled between DGSE agent Dominique Parillaud's shapely legs.
When she crossed her legs, she winced. But the pain was exceedingly reassuring. It meant the Legion of Honor medal was hers.
Then she settled down to await the stewardess and the Air France meal that, although airplane food, true, was also French. And thus was exquisite even if the mussels simmered in white wine had cooled by the time the dish reached her.
The in-flight movie was a double feature, Terry Chez les Cinques and Doctor Jerry et Monsieur Love.
It was wonderful to see him in the original French.
Upon reaching de Gaulle Airport, Dominique had the taximan stop at a grocer while she purchased a warm, reassuring baguette of bread.
As the cab pulled away from the curb, she began tearing great chunks off with her bare teeth.
"U.S.A.?" The cab driver clucked sympathetically.
"Oui, " Dominique said through a mouthful of cooked dough.
"I have seen strong men weep at the sight of a wheel of cheese hanging in a shop after spending a week in that awful land. But enough. You are home now. Where do you wish to go?"
"The DGSE. But not until I have finished this luscious bread."
"The Americans, they do not understand good bread."
"They do not understand good bread, fine wine or even cheese."
"Not to understand cheese. Unpardonable."
"But most of all, they do not understand French. Or speak it well."
"How can they? They are so gauche as to put junk into their mouths-how can anything but junk come out again?"
"Garbage in, garbage out," Dominique said, smiling as the taxi entered the gray city where a raging mob was sacking a Haagen-Dazs shop, tarring and feathering its manager with his own faux-European product.
It was delightful to be back in civilization again.
WHEN SHE WAS ANNOUNCED, the director of the DGSE flung open his office door and regarded Dominique with stark eyes.
"You live?"
"I have conquered. The secret of l'affaire Beasley is mine."
"Enter, enter, Agent Arlequin."
When the door shut behind her, Dominique Parillaud said "Pardonnez-moi, " and lifted her skirt to reveal hex lack of underwear.
"This is the device that has unmanned our citizens," she said.
"I have always thought thus," said the DGSE director, looking away, not out of modesty but because a white string hung in plain view. He was squeamish about such womanly things.
To his consternation, he heard the squishy sound of a tampon being extracted and tossed onto his desk. It landed with a distinct click.
"Please . . . " he said.
"No, I mean what is inside that."
"Will you not do the honors?" he asked delicately. Frowning, Dominique Parillaud picked the tube apart with her nails, exposing an object slightly larger than a child's marble from the cotton packing.
Gingerly the DGSE director picked it up. He saw that it was of machined steel.
"I do not understand ...."
"Turn it around."
The DGSE director did and, when the other side looked at him with a frosty gray glare, he all but dropped it.
"An eye?"
"An electronic eye. I think it is-how do you say cybernetique."
"Hush! That is now a forbidden word."
"Sorry," said Dominique. "I took this from the skull of a man the world has believed dead for many years. "
"Oui?"
"A man made of machine parts. A man of evil. The mastermind behind the wicked terror of the Blot."
"Who is this evil one?"
"He is Uncle Sam Beasley himself."
The director of the DGSE blinked rapidly.