going around, pausing at each player-curious bystanders trying to decide whether or not to enter the gambling fray. Actually, they will carry in their palms metallic scanners which will pick up the solid steel of even the smallest-caliber weapon."
"You are thorough," conceded Giselle.
"We are, I promised you that," agreed Moreau.
"Please remember, I'll settle for just one Blitzkrieger who tries to assault you. My goal is to take him alive. If it does not happen here, with all the publicity we've issued, you're free to fly out and join your husband's parents."
"On that mythical island?"
"No, monsieur, it's quite real. They're enjoying a lovely vacation on an estate in Corsica."
"In a way, then," said Jean-Pierre, "I hope the hell it does happen here. I never appreciated how lovely it was to be free."
It did happen, but not in any way Claude Moreau had anticipated.
he music from the salon floated in diminishing strains the farther one walked from the marble enTrance of the Casino de Paris into the interior of the majestic gaming establishment. It was so easy to imagine the glorious early decades of the century, when magnificently adorned horse-drawn carriages, and then enormous motorcars, drew up to the glistening steps and disgorged royalty and the wealthy of Europe in all their finery. The times had changed, the clientele hardly as rarefied now, but the core of opulence remained, defined by the restored elegance of bygone eras.
Jean-Pierre and Giselle walked between the myriad tables toward the exclusive Baccarat Room, the entrance to which required an initial deposit of fifty thousand francs, said fee instantly waived for the celebrated actor and his wife. As they made their way, heads turned, audible gasps were heard, and not a few cries of "C'est lui!" overrode the general hum as various guests recognized Villier. The actor smiled and continuously nodded his head in appreciation, but with a distant modesty that conveyed a desire for privacy. While he did so, his entourage of finely dressed couples flanked Jean-Pierre and his wife, permitting only glimpses of the couple. Moreau's theory that no assassin would dare fire a weapon at such an elusive target was being borne out.
Once in the large, restricted room replete with silver stanchions connected by thick red velvet cords around the tables, champagne was ordered. The entourage was filled with ebullient laughter as Jean-Pierre and Giselle sat down, two large stacks of expensive chips placed in front of each, a cont rOle unobtrusively slipping a receipt for the actor to sign. The game proceeded, far better for Giselle than for Jean-Pierre, who mocked tragedy with every turn of the boot. Their accompanying "friends" subtly, slowly, silently moved around the table, each with one hand out of sight, in shadow. Moreau again;
palm-held metal scanners were at work detecting weapons.
Obviously, there were none and the game continued until the actor cried in great good humor.
"C'est finis pour moil Un autre table, s'il vous plait!"
They moved to another table, champagne glasses refilled for everyone, including the Villiers' gambling companions at the previous table, everything put on the actor's account. They settled in for another series of rounds and boots, now tilting to Jean Pierre favor. As the laughter grew, fueled by the chilled Cristal Brut, several members of the entourage sat in the seats of discontinued players. The actor pulled a double neuf, and, consistent with his excitable, theatrical reactions, he roared with approval.
Suddenly, at the table they had left, there was a prolonged scream, a hysterical cry of pain. All heads turned; the room erupted with consternation as the men at Jean Pierre table rose as one, their attention on the man who was collapsing off his chair, breaking down the velvet cord as he plunged to the floor.
Then there came another sound, more than a scream, far louder than a cry. It was the roar of alarm, shouted by a female voice, as a fashionably dressed woman lunged across the table at another woman sitting beside the actor, a killer with an ice pick she was about to plunge into the dark side of Jean-Pierre's left ribcage, only inches away. The tip drew blood, a complete thrust would have penetrated Villier's heart, but Moreau's agent gripped the assassin's wrist, twisting it counterclockwise. Paralyzing her at the throat, she slammed the would-be killer to the floor.
"Are you all right, monsieur?" yelled the [email protected] agent, looking up at the actor as she lay across the immobile assailant.
"A small puncture, mademoiselle-how can I thank you?"
"Jean-Pierre-"
"Easy, my dearest, I'm all