Joan keyed herself into the cheap extended-stay suite that would be their base in Paris, pulling her bag along behind her. She had been informed that her partner for this mission had already arrived and given the jetlag, would probably be sound asleep. The room was entirely dark except for the kitchenette, where she saw her partner seated. Grim but handsome, she thought, not displeased. It was her first time in Paris and she wouldn't mind being in the company of a handsome partner in the least. At the moment he was aiming a gun in her direction. "Hi, I'm Joan," she said lightly, not breaking stride. "Think you were expecting me?"

"Americans think they can walk in anywhere without knocking?"

"Sorry. Thought you'd be asleep. They told me you'd flown in from New Zealand?" He didn't acknowledge the information, but did set down the gun. She saw it was a companion to another one lying in pieces in front of him.

"I'm Eyal Levin. Your room is to the right," he said, gesturing with his head. He had unusual ears, she noted, and black brows that went well with his dark expression; he was well-built and broad-shouldered. Perhaps sensing her inspection, he turned his attention back to assembling the other gun; as she passed him, she noticed that his eyes were closed as he expertly slapped the pieces together.

He could be a problem. Or a challenge. Joan smiled to herself.

In the morning Joan got up and went to the kitchen for coffee, which she could smell from her room. Point to him for the morning beverage prep, though if he had not, that might have been reason to bounce down to the street and find a genuine French café for her café.

He was on the floor in the living room doing push-ups. It would have been more entertaining for Joan if he hadn't been fully dressed down to his shoes and socks while he was doing them. He was counting himself softly, and she didn't think he had bumped the numbers for her benefit. "85 – 86 …" She went on into the kitchenette to pour her coffee, and that time took him to his hundred. Then it was on to one-armed leg lifts. He scarcely seemed to be noting her, which also could be a bad sign. He didn't know her well enough to ignore her – if his "focus" was keeping him from quickly and accurately assessing his environment, it could be deadly in the field. She'd been told that he came out of the hard side of Mossad – not that they had much of a soft side – and so far had mainly accomplished assassinations and kidnappings, tightly directed, black-and-white situations. Why he had been assigned with her to what should be a slightly fluffier corporate-intrigue job where neither was likely was unknown. She decided to go shower. And then come back for some more coffee.

She came back through the living room area wearing two towels – one on her head, one scarcely covering her body. Good god, he was back at the kitchen table assembling and disassembling his guns. She sat down opposite him. He glanced at her but again, scarcely acknowledged her, turning his eyes back down the disassembled gun as if he had smelled something bad.

"What's the problem?"

"Your attire is hardly suitable. If you're trying to ... to vamp me, give it up."

She couldn't believe he'd used the word "vamp". What old movie did he get that from? Had it even been a talkie?

"Apparently I've been misinformed. I'd heard you were Mossad, not Taliban."

The gun pieces clattered to a stop. "I am here to do a job," and for a moment, his Israeli accent was much more obvious. "And I do not appreciate distractions. Put some clothes on."

"And I'll tell you what I don't appreciate – a so-called partner who's so tightly wound that his intuition will be useless and when he should be thinking and analyzing a situation is likely to be too busy giving himself points for being a good boy and assembling his gun again so fast. We're supposed to navigate our way through a delicate situation here." She took off the towel covering her hair and shook it out a bit. "You're not making it through coffee," she said, standing up. He watched her move off. Just before the door, she let the other towel drop and turned back to him with a smile before closing the door behind her.

He plunged through the door after her, snatched up the towel and threw it in her general direction, not very accurately since he wasn't looking directly at her. "This is intolerable! This is – this is sexual harassment! I will report you to headquarters! I cannot work with you like this!"

She obligingly repositioned the towel. She'd left her cell phone on a table in the short hallway to the bathroom, and picked it up. "That's a very serious allegation," she said, dialing. "The CIA takes these things very seriously."

"What are you doing?"

"Calling my boss. Have to give a heads-up that they'll be hearing from your supervisor at Mossad and we'll need to abort the mission …" Keeping the towel in place with her elbows and dialing the phone was difficult; oops, the darn towel fell. She gave him a moment to pick it up and throw it at her again if he wanted to, but he was staying well out of reach, a look of utter consternation on his face, which, so far, was the most pleasant expression she'd seen from him. She did turn her back to him out of kindness, and the fact that she knew she looked equally lovely from the back, in case her forward charms were ineffective on him, and bent to retrieve the towel herself, letting it dangle from her other hand and sort of cover her. "Hi, David. Yes, Joan. Yes, in Paris. Look, David, I've got…." She let Eyal grab the phone from her, fumble with it for a moment so vigorously she thought he'd break it, and shut it off. "What did you do that for? I'll only have to call him back."

"Perhaps I will not make a report to Mossad. At least, not yet."

"At least, not ever," she said, reaching for her phone. He kept it out of her reach a fraction of a second longer than she could tolerate, and she felt the rush of adrenalin. It's on, then. She feinted, kicked his shin, and then they were into it in earnest. On his side, he was big and strong, but the tightness in him worked against him in this, too, he was lacking fluidity, and telegraphing some of his moves well before they could connect. The narrowness of the hallway was an advantage for her smaller size, as was his being clothed, more to grab onto, and she easily managed to trip him back into the wall. The small table was sacrificed as he came down on it, and he was a complete idiot at leaving his groin open, the natural spot for a woman to attack; she was confident enough to avoid that spot for the time being, because his masculine ego was in for enough of a fall – she was very, very good at hand-to-hand combat in close quarters. The phone fell free; Joan rolled to it, snatched it up, and propelled herself into the bathroom as he lunged at her; she twirled to let her foot fly up and gave him no more than a tickle in his most sensitive spot, just to show that she could, and slammed the door shut.

Ten minutes later, she was not surprised by the knock on the bathroom door, which was barely audible over the hair dryer. She clicked it off and opened the door, now dressed in her bra and panties, both of them, she knew, rather nice, though she'd promised herself to take the time to further enhance her lingerie wardrobe while in the City of Lights. This time, he at least looked through her general direction as he held out his hand, palm up. She deposited the gun piece she had earlier palmed without him noticing, then shut the door.

She didn't know if he had rotated through another round of training exercises or not, but when she emerged fully dressed and ready for the day, she could still hear the clatter of gun pieces being rapidly reassembled; it sounded as if he had even picked up some speed. She passed him silently and sat down on the couch, reading a copy of Vanity Fair she'd picked up at the newsstand at Reagan International before boarding her flight. She thought he might challenge her on it, and she was right.

"Do you do nothing? No training at all?"

"Hm? Sorry. I was reading."

"If you can call that reading. What about reading over your cover file instead?"

"Are you always this much fun, or is this a special occasion? As for my cover file, I have that down pat. Unlike you."

He rattled off all the facts on his cover, rapidly, without pausing, and proceeded to detail hers in the same way. "Very impressive," Joan said. "And completely useless, because no one is going to believe you as a CEO if you walk in that tensely. Anyone with eyes will spot you as the odd man out – and that's probably why you're on this fluffy little mission. Don't play well with your peers? Is that why you've been sent down?"

"I have not been sent down," he said, with ominous quietness.

"So you've been given leadership positions on the expected schedule? Your successes have led you to promotions, or perhaps you requested this and they consider it time off for good behavior? A nice little break to keep your nerves from cracking?"

He did not answer, turning his attention back to the gun pieces. But he didn't start slapping them back together. Instead, he slid a few around the table. For a moment she was reminded of a little boy playing with metal cars, and half expected him to make a "vroom, vroom" sound with his lips. His mouth did not look mean, she thought, but very sensual and warm, even though he was literally biting his lip now, possibly to hold back from saying something in reply. Though her concern was for her mission and its success –and how he might not be promoting that – she couldn't help but feel some compassion for whatever had brought him to this constant state of high alert. To be too serious for the dirty jobs division of Mossad was not an easy feat to accomplish.

When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet, tense way and Joan wasn't sure where it was leading them. "I find your constant probing highly irritating. Your sexually suggestive … hijinks earlier are still intolerable to me. You think, like most Americans and especially American women, that you know everything about everything and you are unafraid to express it, traits I find exasperating. " She looked at him, striving to be neutral in expression. Possibly she shifted slightly to better elevate her breasts in his direction. He slammed the gun pieces back together, seemingly faster than ever, and briefly aimed the completed weapon in her direction. "But you may – may! – have in this one area, a point. " He set down the gun on the table. "I will consider it."

Their first event was a corporate cocktail party, a welcoming event for the convention; he was taking the role of the CEO of a Baltic-region office goods manufacturing company built on paper clips that was hinting it was also capable of providing certain unique aluminum tubes useful in nuclear reactors, and their target was suspected of being a middleman for purchasing such, she was his Vice President of Sales and Marketing. She had already noticed that Eyal's suit was appalling – it was cheap fabric, out of style, badly cut and looked as if it had never been altered to fit him. While that might have been perfect for a former Soviet-bloc executive a few years ago, it was unforgiveable now. His breadth of chest was considerable, and so his dress shirt was stretched tight across his pecs and in danger of popping a button. He looked nothing like a desk-bound office-products CEO, but had a vaguely sleazy, gangsterish air not helped by the fact that his beard apparently grew at about the rate of a mile an hour, giving him a constant five o'clock shadow. Joan sighed. Looking a little suspicious and capable of underhanded dealings might prove useful in this situation, she supposed. And he had managed, perhaps in response to her earlier comments, a false salesman-broad smile on his face which did not reach his eyes. She thought a drink might help and led them to the open bar. He did not take charge of the ordering and actually seemed reluctant to order anything at all, so she finally ordered a martini for herself and heard him pipe up "Soda water" when the barman asked him what he wanted to drink.

"You don't drink?" This was worrying, because it didn't indicate sobriety to her, but more likely a problem drinker trying to stay sober, and thus ready to fall off the wagon at any time, and usually at the worst possible operational moment. It also made him stand out like a vegetarian in Greece; you drink in France, at cocktail parties. Those who didn't were instantly more conspicuous, to the barman, to your hosts, to the people around you. You didn't want your mark to take notice of you, and getting your mark drunk beside you was one of the quickest ways to information, or to the many other things also lubricated by liquor that could force a willingness to give that information. They picked up their drinks and began to circle the room.

"Not any longer, no." The answer didn't reassure her as to him being a reformed alcoholic or not.

"Is that a choice or a problem?"

"It's my choice and not your problem."

"I'm sorry but if you're an alcoholic, I'd like to know that before I'm depending on you in the field. And that is my problem."

For a moment he looked at her as if planning an attack or an escape, but there was no option. He realized she was not letting him off. "Two years, six months, and twelve days ago my sister was killed in a terrorist attack in the Golan Heights. I swore I would bring her killer to justice, or, better, kill him myself. On that day, I left medical school, I gave up drink, smoking, my fiancé … everything. Until I exact revenge for her death."

So she was paired with a nut job. Great. Medical school, a surgeon wannabe, no doubt. His big hands and natural arrogance were made for it. The medicos were already detached somewhat from the humanity of the body, and could make good assassins – perfect at those so-called "surgical strikes".

"Did you expect it to take this long?"

"Maybe the smile that started and then was dimssed was a genuine one. He shrugged slightly. "Maybe not."

"Is this what your sister would have wanted?"

"Revenge? Yes. Absolutely. "

"And chastity and temperance? "

"Probably no." She was surprised at this admission; as with his unexpected consideration that she "might have a point" earlier, she realized he must be fundamentally honest, not necessarily a good trait in a spy. They found themselves back at the bar again. Joan glanced around the room. Their targets were still not present, so they had time. "Just the opposite of her," he admitted, wearily.

"So to offset your sister's supposed sins you gave up everything, when no one was asking you to, least of all her." The statement was a risk if he were truly unstable and took it as an insult; she saw him tense, and swallow, before answering. "Sleep well at night?"

"Hardly at all. Did they send you here to do this to me? Dissect my soul? Are you some kind of agency-licensed psychologist?"

Joan laughed. "No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I think they should have given me a psych brief on you ahead of time for my own sanity. But they didn't. This is strictly me acting in an amateur capacity."

"I'm starting to think you aren't much of an amateur at anything." She raised her eyebrows but didn't comment. That might actually be his idea of a compliment. She set down her empty glass on the bar and shimmied onto a seat.

"I'm ordering another drink. Join me. "

"I'm not sure it's that easy."

"Let's see if it is. What did you like to drink?"

"In medical school I had a taste for a Sazerac."

"A Sazerac? What's that? I've never heard of it."

"Absinthe, cognac or whiskey, bitters - If it's done right, it's a show for the bartender. "

" I like that. A drink with a little intrigue to it. From the female perspective, it makes you more interesting, as if there are unplumbed depths beyond that handsome façade."

"Handsome façade? Sure it's not a bombed-out building?" There was a wry smile on his lips, which still left his eyes utterly untouched.

"And can be a little clever with words, too. Yeah, I'm getting more and more sure of that, actually. Bartender? Two Saz – what's?" She flubbed the word and looked at him helplessly to let him buy in. It was a classic ploy and she wondered if he'd forget she wasn't an amateur. He hesitated but then spoke up.

"Sazeracs. " The bartender agreed but didn't look pleased; he was looking for quick pours to keep the crowd happy but he began pulling together the ingredients and chilling the glasses with ice water. Eyal narrated. "First the sugar cubes, and bitters – supposed to be Peychaud's, out of your American town of New Orleans. It originated there. I will concede America is better at bitters. He is chilling the final glasses while he muddles the sugar and bitters, adds ice, then the cognac, here. Then he coats the glasses with the absinthe, or whatever he is using instead – here it is called absinthe though the real thing is still illegal in France – then he transfers over the drink. Then the lemon curl – he is doing them nicely…"

"Two Sazeracs." The bartender announced, setting them down. The event was a free bar but Eyal put down a generous tip, probably to avoid touching the drink for a few instants longer. He looked at the glass in front of him like it was a small swimming pool full of sin.

"L'chaim," Joan said, and raised her glass, bumping him out of his reverie with her elbow. Like an unmet handshake, she wondered how long he would leave her dangling with her glass stuck up in the air. Finally, some sense of chivalry prevailed and he picked up his glass and did the same.

"L'chaim," he repeated, then translated. " To life," taking the first sip.

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