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casino entrance where a man in livery opened the door for him. He had to show his passport, because locals were forbidden to enter. Crossing to the cashier’s position, he arranged for a credit of one hundred thousand euros, and once it was established, he took five thousand in cash and made his way to one of the bars, where he got a Campari and soda.
    The salon with slot machines was filled, many of the people dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and even flip-flops, with ball caps backward on their heads. And they weren’t just Americans; some were Italians, Germans, even French.
    Twenty years ago, such a thing would have been unthinkable.
    Mac put on the dark-rimmed glasses that Otto had made especially for him and headed toward the baccarat salon.

11
    Kurshin, dressed in an impeccably tailored Armani tuxedo, with Martine, who was dressed in a simple off-the-shoulder white silk evening dress and a platinum choker with a six-carat diamond around her long neck, entered the casino, showing their passports—hers from Paris— a few minutes before eleven in the evening.
    Her hair was up in the back, and the dress was cut low enough that her practically bare breasts attracted the attention of every male in the place, including the doorman’s.
    â€œGood evening, sir, madam,” he said.
    â€œMademoiselle,” Martine corrected.
    They arranged for a credit of 250,000 euros and then went into the nearly full lounge, where they found seats at the bar. He ordered a vodka martini for himself and a glass of champagne for her.
    She took a cigarette from her cocktail purse, and he lit it for her. “I feel almost as if we were in an early James Bond movie,” she said teasingly.
    They had gotten out of bed very late and had a light breakfast on the terrace before going down to a small private marina. She had a fifty-foot crewed Pacific Seacraft cutter and a twenty-foot Chris-Craft ski boat. They took the ski boat, her at the wheel, and headed out into the bay to a narrow cove with a small sand beach.
    â€œI’m still a little jet lagged,” she said. They lay on beach towels.
    â€œThe sun will help.”
    Marie had fixed them a light lunch with champagne, but they weren’t hungry at that moment.
    â€œAre you going to tell me about your dark quest?” she asked.
    â€œWhat, are you a spy?”
    â€œYes, especially when it comes to my new lovers.”
    â€œDo you have many?”
    â€œYou’re intriguing enough for the moment. Are you rich?”
    â€œIf you mean am I a gigolo after your money, I’m not, though I’m sure that your ex left you better off than I could have.”
    She’d looked away through the cut in the low cliffs toward the open sea. The morning was perfect. “You’re English, but you weren’t born there, I think.”
    â€œActually, my father worked as a journalist in the Czech Republic, where he met my mum. I was seven by the time we got back to London.”
    â€œEastern Europe, I thought so. Are you still close with your mother and father?”
    â€œI was until they were killed in a rocket attack outside Tel Aviv.”
    She thought about it for a moment or two. “Are you after revenge? A lot of well-to-do Arabs come here to play baccarat, but their wagers are sometimes ridiculously obscene.”
    â€œI wouldn’t try to keep up with them.”
    â€œSo it’s not an Arab you’re after.”
    Again, he got an odd between-the-shoulders feeling about her. It was almost as if a sniper was lining up to take a shot at the back of his head from a long ways off. The pickup in Washington had been too easy, some of her expressions had been slightly off, and the mild interrogation seemed a bit more than curiosity about a new lover.
    â€œMaybe it’s an overly aggressive Frenchwoman,” he said.
    They were about to make love when two other small boats showed up, and the picnickers set up on the beach with their