The Kill Artist

it.
    "Really? I've never seen you carry it before."
    "Trust me, Emily. It's mine. Are you hungry?"
    And you're changing the subject again. She said, "I'm famished, actually. I've been walking around in the cold all afternoon."
    "Have you really? Whatever for?"
    "Just doing some thinking. Nothing serious."
    He removed the backpack from the chair and placed it on the floor at his feet. "What have you been thinking about?"
    "Really, René-it was nothing important."
    "You used to tell me all your secrets."
    "Yes, but you've never really told me yours."
    "Are you still upset about this bag?"
    "I'm not upset about it. Just curious, that's all."
    "All right, if you must know, it's a surprise."
    "For who?"
    "For you!" He smiled. "I was going to give it to you later."
    "You bought me a backpack? How very thoughtful, René. How romantic."
    "The surprise is inside the backpack."
    "I don't like surprises."
    "Why not?"
    "Because it's been my experience that the surprise itself never quite lives up to the anticipation of the surprise. I've been let down too many times. I don't want to be let down again."
    "Emily, I'll never let you down. I love you too much."
    "Oh, René, I wish you hadn't said that."
    "It happens to be the truth. Let's eat something, shall we? Then we'll take a walk."
    Ambassador Zev Eliyahu stood in the grand center hall of the Musée d'Orsay, using every diplomatic skill he possessed to hide the fact that he was bored to tears. Trim, athletic, deeply tanned in spite of the dreary Parisian fall, he crackled with a brash energy. Gatherings like this annoyed him. Eliyahu had nothing against art; he simply didn't have time for it. He still had the work ethic of a kibbutznik, and between ambassadorial postings he had made millions in investment banking.
    He had been talked into attending the reception tonight for one reason: it would give him an opportunity to have an unofficial moment or two with the French foreign minister. Relations between France and Israel were icy at the moment. The French were angry because a pair of Israeli intelligence officers had been caught trying to recruit an official from the Defense Ministry. The Israelis were angry because the French had recently agreed to sell jet fighters and nuclear reactor technology to one of Israel's Arab enemies. But when Eliyahu approached the French foreign minister for a word, the minister virtually ignored him, then pointedly engaged the Egyptian ambassador in a lively conversation about the Middle East peace process.
    Eliyahu was angry-angry and bored silly. He was leaving for Israel the following night. Ostensibly, it was for a meeting at the Foreign Ministry, but he also planned to spend a few days in Eilat on the Red Sea. He was looking forward to the trip. He missed Israel, the cacophony of it, the hustle, the scent of pine and dust on the road to Jerusalem, the winter rains over the Galilee.
    A waiter in a white tunic offered him champagne. Eliyahu shook his head. "Bring me some coffee, please." He looked over the heads of the shimmering crowd for his wife, Hannah, and spotted her standing next to the chargé d'affaires from the embassy, Moshe Savir. Savir was a professional diplomat: supercilious, arrogant, the perfect temperament for the posting in Paris.
    The waiter returned, bearing a silver tray with a single cup of black coffee on it.
    "Never mind," Eliyahu said, and he sliced his way through the crowd.
    Savir asked, "How did it go with the foreign minister?"
    "He turned his back on me."
    "Bastard."
    The ambassador reached out his hand for his wife. "Let's go. I've had enough of this nonsense."
    "Don't forget tomorrow morning," Savir said. "Breakfast with the editorial staff of Le Monde at eight o'clock."
    "I'd rather have a tooth pulled."
    "It's important, Zev."
    "Don't worry. I'll be my usual charming self."
    Savir shook his head. "See you then."
    The Pont Alexandre III was Emily's favorite spot in Paris. She loved to stand in the center of the graceful span at night and gaze down the Seine toward Notre-Dame, with the gilded église du Dôme to her right, floating above Les Invalides, and the Grand Palais on her left.
    René took Emily to the bridge after dinner for her surprise. They walked along the parapet, past the ornate lamps and the cherubs and nymphs, until they reached the center of the span. René removed a small rectangular, gift-wrapped box from the backpack and handed it to her.
    "For me?"
    "Of course it's for you!"
    Emily tore