The Confessor

a Browning nine-millimeter pistol. She squeezed off two quick shots, just as Lange had taught her. In the confines of the bedroom, the explosions sounded like cannon fire. Lange fell to the floor. The rounds sailed overhead, shattering the mirror in Katrine's stunning two-hundred-year-old armoire.
    "Don't shoot, Katrine," Lange said, laughing helplessly. "It's me."
    "Stand up! Let me see you!"
    Lange slowly got to his feet, hands in plain sight. Katrine switched on the bedside lamp and gave him a long, fiery look. Then she drew back her arm and threw the gun at his head. Lange ducked and the gun fell harmlessly onto the pile of glass shards.
    "You fucking bastard! You're lucky I didn't blow your head off."
    "I wouldn't have been the first."
    "I loved that mirror!"
    "It was old."
    "It was an antique, you asshole!"
    "I'll buy you a new one."
    "I don't want a new one. I want that one!"
    "So we'll get it fixed."
    "And how will I explain the bullet holes?"
    Lange put his hand on his chin and made a show of thought. "Actually, that might be a problem."
    "Of course it's a problem. Asshole!" She pulled the duvet over her breasts, as if aware of her nudity for the first time, and her anger at him began to soften.
    "What are you doing here, anyway?"
    "I was in the neighborhood."
    She gazed at his face for a moment. "You've killed again. I can see it in your eyes."
    Lange picked up the Browning, set the safety, and dropped the Sun on the end of the bed. "I was working nearby," he said. "I need a day or two of rest."
    What makes you think you can drop in here whenever you Please? I might have had another man here."
    You might have, but the odds were in my favor. You see, I
    am aware that, with few exceptions, most men bore you to tears---intellectually and in that grand bed of yours. I am also aware that any man you bring here isn't likely to last long. Therefore, I felt it was well worth the gamble."
    Katrine was trying desperately not to smile. "Why should I let you stay here?"
    "Because I'll cook for you."
    "Well, in that case, we should work up an appetite. Come to bed. It's too early to get up."
    KATRINE Boussard was quite possibly the most dangerous woman in France. After earning degrees in literature and philosophy from the Sorbonne, she had joined the French left-wing extremist group Action Directe. While the political aims of the group may have fluctuated wildly, its tactics remained consistent. Throughout the eighties, it carried out a blood-soaked rampage of assassinations, kidnappings, and bombings that left scores dead and a nation terrorized. Thanks to the instruction she received from Eric Lange, Katrine Boussard was one of the group's most accomplished killers. Lange had worked with her on two occasions: the 1985 assassination of a senior official in the French Ministry of Defense, and the 1986 assassination of a French auto executive. In each case, it was Katrine Boussard who applied the coup de grace to the victims.
    Lange usually worked alone, but in the case of Katrine, he made an exception. She was a skilled operative, cold and pitiless in the field, and highly disciplined. She and Lange suffered from a similar affliction. Operational stress increased their desire for sex, and they had used each other's bodies to great effect. They were not lovers--they had both seen too much to believe in something as pedestrian as love. They were more like skilled craftsmen in pursuit of perfection.
    Katrine had been blessed with a body that provided her inordinate pleasure in any number of places. As always, she responded readily to Lange's touch. Only when she was completely satiated did she turn her considerable skills upon Lange. She was a torturous lover, so in tune with Lange's body that each time he was about to lose control, she released him and left him to suffer without absolution. When he could stand no more, Lange took matters into his own hands, grasping Katrine by the hips and thrusting himself inside her from behind. It was closer to conquest than he would have preferred, but it was exactly how Katrine had planned it. As Lange reached his climax, his head rolled back and he shouted like a madman at the ceiling. Katrine was looking over her shoulder at him, watching him with a look of deep satisfaction, for she had beaten him once again.
    When it was over, she lay with her head on his chest and her hair strewn across his stomach. Lange looked out the French doors at the trees on the edge of the forest. A