It was a cold, gray mornin' at Number 10 Downin', and Tony Blair was screamin' at me.

Where the hell do you get your nerve?" he shouted, right in my face, "How dare you waltz in here and blame us for sabotaging your bloody coalition. Just who the hell do you think you are!"
 
I felt I was on pretty solid ground there: "Bush...George Bush," I said firmly.
 
Just so's he'd know, I took out my Salvatore Ferragamo wallet (black leather with Gancini hardware) to show him my ID. But it didn't seem to help, 'cause he slapped it outta my hand, grabbed the lapels a' my Ermenegildo Zegna suit (two-piece cashmere), and went right on screamin' on me.
 
"I've done every bloody thing I could to help you put over this four-star cock-up your bloodthirsty cretins call a war," he said, wavin' his arms 'round all excited and all. "I've talked myself bleeding blue in the face advising your tragically mis-informed subalterns - to say nothing of having to spin your own breath-taking misapprehension of the situation - to say nothing of having to weasel up a rationale for the demise of Lord only knows how many hundreds of hapless souls you've blasted to flinders - to say nothing of downplaying your idiotic hand-over of Kabul and Kandahar to those Northern Miscreants. The only thing I haven't done so far is run your bloody presidency for you!"
 
This made me seriously disturbed. "I ain't askin' you to run my presidency, Tony, I -"
 
"Well," he shouted, "Don't you think it's time someone did?".
 
From here on the conversation kinda deteriorated into personalities. But the upshot was Tony convinced me nobody on his side was responsible. Which was puzzlin', 'cause I was positive there was nobody responsible on our side.
 
I hadda come up with somethin', and I mean quick. My professional reputation was on the line.
 
You see, lotta people don't know this, but in addition to bein' the chief Honcho a' Nation Number One, I am also a top-flight espionager. I'm classified "000," or "Triple Zip" for short. My ratin' gives me a license to be Extremely Firm and I don't hesitate to use it unmercilessly. Now all that was put in Double Jeopardy by a unknown political sabotager.
 
"Well, gee, Tony," I said, "somebody sure has underminded us. My beautiful coalition's comin' apart faster than a Tallahassee election return. I gotta get to the bottom a' this, and fast...", I had a sudden thought, "Hey, why don't I just call John Ashcroft , and -"
 
Tony looked like he'd smelled somethin' bad. "Oh, please," he said, throwin' up his hands again, "Not chuffing Ashcroft. That blithering idiot couldn't find his arse if you set it afire and gave him a map." Then he thought a' somethin'. "No, no, my boy," he said, pickin' up the phone, "MI6 are the buckos for this job."
 
* * * * * *
 
An hour later we was joined by two grimly healthy-lookin' fellas from the British Secret Intelligence Service. Tony did the intros: "'W'? This is 'M'. 'M'? 'W'. 'W'? 'Q'. 'Q'? 'W'. 'W'? 'M' and 'Q', from MI6. 'M' and 'Q'? 'W', from the USA."
 
It was kinda like floatin' in tomato soup.
 
After Tony 'd filled 'em in, M said he'd got a tip from French intelligence that mentioned a shadowy guy known only as "Monsieur Inconnu." Seems this fella was supposed to be a master a' messin' stuff up. His present wheres wasn't known, but M's people had turned up some leads in Monaco.
 
M said he'd get some operatives on it right away, but I stopped him right there. I am, after all, a Triple-zero and I firmly believe in the ol' maximum that says "If you want a job done yourself, then you should have someone...that is, you'd be better off if you did it...or...well, hell, you know what the ol' maximum is.
 
So I took over the investigatin'. Q give me some nifty spy gadgets (which I unfortunately forgot to take with me). And M give me a contact in Monaco - the owner of the Monte Carlo Casino, a certain Madame "R.G."
 
"Argy?" I asked. "R. G.," he said. "Right," I said, "Argy."
 
He wrote it down for me.
 
I looked at my Cartier watch (Stainless Steel, "Tank Francaise"). It was gettin' late. Our business now conclusive, I left Number 10. My trusty ol' vintage Jaguar XK150 ('61 Drop Head Coupe, walnut interior, with optional Rust Guard
undercoatin') was waitin' outside. I took the parkin' ticket off the windshield and drove back to the hotel.
 
* * * * * *
 
Like always, I'd used the standard Triple-Naught tricks a' the trade, leavin' behind a few tell-tale indicators to let me know if anybody'd been in the room while I was gone. As usual, I just stuck a few hairs in the door jamb and sprinkled a little talcum powder (Helene Curtis, Premium) 'round the room. Accidentally, I spilled the powder all over the floor. Fortunately the maid vacuumed it up while I was gone. Unfortunately her cleanin' also removed all a' my tell-tales, so I didn't know whether nobody 'd got in there or not.
 
I shoulda remembered that little problem from the last three or ten times it's happened to me.
 
But I didn't much care, 'cause I was bone-weary, what with Tony screamin' at me all day. I slept like a log, and only had a few of the dreams about bein' shot, knifed, poisoned, electrocuted, strangled, beaten, tortured, hung or tossed out a window - a better night than most.
 
I awoke refreshed and optimismal. I was ready for danger. Was danger ready for me? It usually was.
 
* * * * *
 
It was a cool night in Monte Carlo. The casino was hummin' and people was crowded together thicker 'n flies on a horse's heinie. First thing I seen is a bunch a' men standin' in a circle in the center a' the main room. After a time I could see they was gathered 'round a shapely woman whose face was turned away from me. I figured this must be "Madame R.G."
 
She was wearin' a sparklin' red sequin dress, and somethin' about her - maybe the way the dress and its contents moved 'round like Jell-O on a trampoline - minded me a' someone I couldn't quite recall. Then she turned, and I was sudden gut-struck.
 
"Madame R.G." was nobody else but Roulette Gemeinshaft. Roulette, the Bomb de Paree, the toast a' ever' casino and gamblin' hall from Antwerp to Zanzibar. Roulette, who knew ever'thin' about ever'body ever'where - a regular gold mind a' information.
 
Roulette and me 'd had what you might call a "history." Once we'd painted the town red. Now we was gonna go back and add white and blue to it.
 
She come over to me, cool as French ice.
 
Up close, I could see what she was wearin' wasn't so much a dress as it was more like she'd been painted with glue and had somebody toss sequins at her 'til she'd hollered "stop."
 
And like maybe she'd hollered a minute too soon.
 
"Georjie!" she grinned, "Zo, you haff cahm bahk to drahv me krahzy wanz morr, heh?"
 
In all the time I known Roulette, I don't reckon I ever understood more'n ten words she'd said.
 
But we didn't need words, her and me. With one arm I pulled her to me roughly, her dark eyes flashin' like a short circuit, her lips shinin' like a wet cherry Life-Saver, her fine bosom huffin' like a racehorse. I looked deep into her eyes. "Bush. George Bush," I said, and then I give her a big smooch right on her forehead.
 
Because I am a devil with the women.
 
Oh, she put on like she didn't like it, pushin' me away, poundin' her fists on me, tryin' a' knee me in the non-publics. But she didn't fool me. She wanted me. She wanted me bad. And if experience was any guide, that was how she was gonna have me.
 
When we was once again discomposed - and she was through kickin' me - I told her about the coalition saboteur. She agreed to help, and said we'd talk about it over dinner.
 
* * * * *
 
The Casino's dinin' room was quite impressant: soft lights and low music, waiters glidin' 'round like they was on wheels, and all that. But the room wasn't all high-toned and sophistry. Right off I could see the place was a din a' espionage. 'Round the room I recognized professional spies from just about ever' nation you could name. I took some quick mental notes a' the scene - like all good Triple-Zilches, I don't need no paper or pen to remember stuff; I can go mental anytime.
 
The waiter sat us at a special table on account a' Roulette was his boss. Ever'thin' was agreeably special. I'm not a fussy man, but I do like for my surroundin's to be high-toned. I appreciated how the Lenox glassware (goblet-style, platinum-trim) gleamed in the candlelight. I admired how the Royal Worcester plates (gold-accented, Regency Stripe, #749424) was set off on the deep-blue Le Jacquard tablecloth (100% Egyptian cotton damask, 300 thread-count).
 
The Gorham silverware ("Buttercup" design, Sterling, Macy's third floor - in the rear) was polished perfect. And the table... I couldn't be sure about the table, so I took out my pocket flashlight and crawled underneath it to get a better look. Just as I thought, it was a Alden custom-built ("Alden, the choice of fine restaurants everywhere"), and it looked like it had the old oak veneer they - but I don't wanna bore ya with too much detail.
 
I lit Roulette's Gauloise with my Ronson ('84 model, black anodized case). "So, Georjie," she said, (and here I'm kinda translatin' her) "Tell me more about this man who is sabotage your little coalition."
 
"I don't know much about him," I said, "Just that his name is - excuse me," I said, "There's a coupla guys over there I gotta talk to."
 
These was two fellas from the Mossad - Israel's crack intelligence service. I told 'em what I was up to about the saboteur, but all they could talk about was how it was probably the Palestinians' fault. On my way back to my table, a busboy dropped a tray full a' dishes, and in a flash them Mossad boys had pulled their table over and was down behind it, guns drawn, lookin' ever'where at once.
 
When I got back to Roulette, I continued, "Alls I know is that the guy's called "Monsieur Inconnu."
 
She looked disappointed. "That is not much help, my Georjie. 'Inconnu' is French for the meaning 'unknown'. I will need to know more than that." She pronounced it like "Ann-con-yew." French.
 
"Well," I said, "He's 'sposed to be a master a' messin' stuff up, and - 'scuse me 'nother minute, willya, babe?" I went over to a coupla guys from Force 17, Palestinian intelligence. They told me they was sure the Israelis was to blame. While we was talkin', somebody's cell phone went off somewhere, and damned if them boys wasn't down behind their table with their guns out before I could blink a eye.
 
I don't know why them two peoples don't get along. Y' ask me, they is a awful lot alike.
 
When I got back to Roulette, the waiter was ready for the wine orders. "I'll have the 1969 Vichyssoise, please," I told him, lettin' Roulette know I heard that was a pretty good brand.
 
"Thank you, Monsieur," said the waiter, "And would Monsieur like salt and pepper with his glass of potato soup?"
 
I hate French waiters. I purely do.
 
"All right, Mr. smarty pantalons," I said, brissin', "Why don't you suggest somethin' you think I'd like?'
 
"I regret, Monsieur," he said, "But we have no 'Wild Turkey'"
 
I mean, really hates 'em.
 
And I could see Roulette didn't much like him neither, 'cause she was rollin' her eyes the way y' do when somebody's bein' real stupid. I'm always amazed by people can't do their jobs right.
 
I hadda excuse myself again when I spotted some Saudi agents. They told me they didn't have no idea who the guy was either, but they was currently detainin' and torturin' a coupla thousand or so suspects for other crimes, and they'd be glad, as they put it, "to throw a few more on the grill" for me. I told 'em "no thanks" and went back to my conversation.
 
"See," I said, "What's so bad about this 'Mr. Unknown' is he's got us by the soft n' tenders. Whoever he is - 'scuse me again, would ya?"
 
I went over to talk to some guys from the Pakistani ISI. They assured me they would do ever'thin' they could to find out who the guy was. I'd a' felt more assured, though, if they hadn't been wearing ties with bin Laden's picture on 'em.
 
While we was talkin', Pervez Musharraf, the Pakistani President, come over, lookin' all concerned. "George," he said, "Any word on when the bombing will stop?"
 
"Sorry, Mushie," I said, "Nobody's told me nothin' yet."
 
He looked depressed, " Okay, but you'll be sure to let me know...."
 
"The minute they decide - as soon as they tell me about it." I reassured him.
 
When I got back, Roulette said she'd had a coupla thoughts. "It seems to me," she said, "that there is very little agreement as to who is and who is not what you are call the terrorist, no?"
 
"No," I said, " - I mean 'yes'. Some says it's anybody uses guns stead a' politics, others say we gotta make an exception for 'freedom fighters', but nobody can tell me the difference. Plus, practically ever' one a' the coalition has been involved in some kinda terrorism, one way or 'nother."
 
Just talkin' about it was bringin' me down again.
 
"The worst part," I said, "Is that nobody's in it for the same reason. The Saudis is scared a' the Taliban; the Russian's don't care about the Taliban, but the Chechens is drivin' 'em buggy. The French got terrorism comin' out their butts; and the Italians - 'specially that nut job Berlesconi - just wanna go back and finish the Crusades."
 
"It is true, this is not good," she understated, "And then too your chief ally, the British, are not good at telling the difference either. All of their 'terrorists' seem always to turn out to be heroes - especially the time they had their biggest defeat by terrorists."
 
"Oh yeah? I said, "When was that?"
 
"In 1776," she said. Sounded familiar, but this was no time for history.
 
"I think I can be of a little perhaps help," she said. "I think I see now how this M'sieu Inconnu functions. Like M'sieu bin Laden, he delegates a great deal of power to his subordinates, but his genius is that, unlike M'sieu bin Laden, M'sieu Inconnu provides little or no overall policy direction, and reveals his true self to no one. Thus everything that happens can only be the result of a struggle between competing factions. It is impossible to discern the true goals of such an organization, and under such conditions the definition of "terrorist" becomes very - how you would say - 'portable' and completely defeats any attempt to achieve the consensus."
 
"Well, that's terrible!" I said, "If that's true, we'll never get this guy!"
 
She lit another Gauloise, and looked thoughtful. "Well, of course, it is also true that what cannot be identified cannot be defeated - except of course, from within"
 
Then she smiled and said, "But in any case, the good news is that you may be much closer to finding M'sieu Inconnu than you think. In fact I believe him to be in this very casino!." She pointed to a hallway on the other side of the dining room. "If I do not make the mistake, I think you will find him in the room at the end of that hall."
 
I was up like a shot, a man unsprung. I hightailed it to the entrance of the hallway, and dis-holstered my Beretta 92FS Elite (with the heavy but slightly shortened slide). Then as a way a' limberin' up - and showin' anybody who might be watchin' that I was a real Zero-three-times-over, I tossed the gun back and forth lightnin' quick between my hands, just the way I seen Alan Ladd do it.
 
Then I picked it up and went into the hallway.
 
I was pretty cool, considerin' the danger I was facin'. By the time I'd got halfway down the hall, I'd only shot out two lights and winged one waiter - a lot less collaterals than usual.
 
Turned out the room at the end a' the hall was the Gent's bathroom. I stood outside, gathered my breathin', then burst through the door, holdin' my gun out in front a' me in tripod position. Just like Alec Baldwin.
 
At first I thought the room was empty, but then I saw him.
 
He had his gun out too.
 
And then I understood.
 
The traitor is always the one you least suspect. The one you're certain you can count on. And sometimes you can't be sure, even when you've caught him. But there was no mistakin' who it was this time. I finally had the man who was sabotagin' our every move - the greatest flaw in our ointment.
 
And of course it was the one man I most hated and feared.
 
I curled my lip in a sneer. "Bush," I said, "George Bush."
 
Then I shot the mirror.