The Grand Excelsior was well-known for its reputation. The luxury hotel surpassed its peers in two things: taste and discretion. For decades, diplomatic elites and top-tier lawmakers would often rendezvous there with their mistresses and their security details in tow.

And not only did the business of pleasure go on under its auspices with tasteful discretion. Spying, too. It wouldn't be out of place to see a Nehru-wearing Pakistani trade delegate meeting with a Sino cultural attaché in a quiet corner sipping sparkling Mimosas and chatting about the weather. The Grand Excelsior was holy ground, all parties understood and abided by its rules. And the five-star hotel did its part to keep the peace, sweeping their dining halls and rooms of listening devices daily, ensuring that no client had an advantage over the other. Outside this unusual mediation, the Grand Excelsior boasted an exquisite brunch menu for the discerning and affluent.

Porsche had come here to meet a discreet gentleman. For this occasion, she arrived wearing a full-length red Obscura cloak over a black mini sweater dress and knee-high boots. The sharp outfit blended well among the flock of beautiful gazelles roaming here. Many observers would mistake her for a high-priced flesh peddler. And they would be half-right. She was a pro, not in the oldest profession but just as old. The cloaked kind.

Porsche walked past the long elegant lobby to the fine dining restaurant farther back. She faced the door steward who held a silver plate out to her.

"Good afternoon," the youth said and looked her up and down. "Would you deposit all telephones and gadgets here?"

She did as told, removing her aural bud and hand terminal.

"May I see inside the cloak? We have a strict hotel policy -- no recording devices in the main dining hall."

Though the enclosure was ringed with metal detectors to snoop out hidden com devices or weapons, the young man also scanned for metallurgical pings through his implanted ocular. An EM dampening field also ensured no signals ever got out from the dining enclave. Outside this corner, however, communication was unhindered -- the back bar, the grand marbled lobby. Just not inside the haute cuisine establishment. Porsche obliged to his demands by removing her hooded coat and pirouetted playfully.

"Anything more," she toyed with him, smiling, "and I will have to charge you."

She sensed his probing eyes and blew him a puckered kiss. The young man found nothing, even missed the weapon she carried, her signature weapon, not without a deliberate search. You'd lose more than a finger if you're not careful . . . she exuded a warning. He would keep a professional distance.

The young man spoke into the body mike on his lapel.

A gruff reply came back she couldn't discern. He waved her in.

"Thank you, handsome," she purred as he stepped aside, his eyes trailing her.

The hotel restaurant had enough space for twenty fine dining tables. They faced an open kitchen with chefs and staff manning a sizzling fire. Steam rose from the grills against the back walls--smoked lambs, oyster bisque, and Filet Mignon sauteed over port wine, she could pick out the ingredients from the aroma, her stomach yanking on her.

She spotted her contact sitting against the wall facing the entrance.

"Would you mind switching seats?" Porsche said.

"Of course."

"Sorry, it's an old habit."

"I understand," Harry said. "You can't be too careful these days."

Harry and she swapped positions, Porsche getting the view she wanted of the front entrance.

Her old mentor had aged since she last saw him, yet his appearance was still a guess, somewhere between early fifties and mid-sixties, unremarkable except for his aquiline Gallic nose and dark beady eyes. To her, Harry DeWitt remained an enigma from the day she met him. He had been an old warrior in the intelligence community with decades of experience spanning from one crisis to another and had been instrumental in solving many impasses unknown to the world. You're never more than three feet from a spider, the saying went; DeWitt would pop up when least expected and always well informed with a solution. One thing hadn't changed -- Harry DeWitt was omniscient. He knew she'd returned stateside. Outside the Agency pukes, no one else did. The old crow was still in the game, obviously. Too dumb to retire, yet too wise to think he was still an operator. But he wanted something.

"Champagne?" Harry asked. "For a reunion."

"Double espresso, please. Clears the cobwebs."

Harry made a show of two fingers to the man in the kitchen, and ordered in Italian, "Due doppie."

A white-jacketed waiter brought forth a tray of two demitasses. He passed one to Porsche. Harry stirred in brown coarse sugar. Porsche left hers alone, still eyeing the room.

Harry sipped the steamy beverage and closed his eyes. He spoke after placing his cup on the saucer, "Welcome home, kid."

"Black sheep aren't welcomed. I'm penned into a new corral, a gray four-by-four cubicle pushing buttons."

"Well then, how can I cheer you up, Napoleon pastry, fruit tart?"

"I'm no little girl and anger has a way of suppressing appetite," she lied.

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"Don't be like that. The best things in life are the simplest, my dear. Enjoy them, you might be dead tomorrow."

"Uh-huh."

"You know what I left behind along with the Agency? The past. The future, too. All doubts, all questions, all beliefs. It's so simple, really." He sighed. "Once you see the truth -- nothing is holy -- one minute 'thank you for serving' and the next you get a boot in the ass."

"You've been in the game for too long." She looked away, her gaze distant. "You're jaded . . . So am I."

"When you get to my age, imagine how you'd be?"

"Thin, Harry, like strung-out gum. I don't remember why I signed up anymore."

"Happens to the best of us, my dear." He brought the demitasse to his lips.

She didn't answer.

"You and I have no room for sentimentality. You need sex, rent it, a friend, pet a dog. But never buy the cow. Never fall in love with something or someone."

"You taught me well," Porsche said. "Thanks for the bleak existence."

"It kept you alive, didn't it? Because of me, you could weather anything thrown at you. I'd say you owe me."

"Frankly, I haven't thought much of you for some time."

"Children and their ingratitude." He didn't miss a beat.

DeWitt had recruited her from Eastern Europe at thirteen, too young by most standards. As a teen, she was accustomed to a life of danger, her childhood a painful secret she held, hidden like an ugly scar she wanted no one to see. She was hardened and wise beyond her years, how Harry had found her.

Porsche sipped the hot espresso. When she looked up, she found him watching her. Without flinching, she said, "So why are we here? What do you want, Uncle?" She had always used that name.

"Bloody mess down there."

She shrugged. "Caracas-Gate they're calling it."

"They're burning the poison tree," Harry said. "A fire such as this will burn everything it touches. You watch your back."

"You know something?" She eyed him, her head cocking to the side.

He lowered his demitasse. "I hear things."

"Or nothing at all." She blew a puff of air from her lips, now reverted to their natural heart shape since she stopped using epidermal morphing agents to change her appearance. "Don't try to scare me into one of your games," she said.

"You're persona non-grata in South America, true or not?"

She didn't answer.

"But where the door's closed, there are windows."

"That's what I love about you, Uncle, always the shitty optimist," Porsche smirked with a tinge of disrespect.

"You're an excellent mechanic, one of the best. That hasn't gone unnoticed, dear girl."

"Glad somebody appreciates me."

"But don't get too comfortable, never in our business."

This caused Porsche to chuckle. "That's why you got out?"

"Players come and go but the game remains." He stared at her.

"My lunch break is almost over." She stirred her demitasse, making small circles with a raised pinky.

Uncle Harry smiled. "You want a job? Change of scenery?"

She tilted the cup to her lips and puckered. "Go on."

"It's freelance."

"Private sector? Must be a fief. You in a fief? I hear that's a comfortable life."

"Very." He smiled at her quickness. "I have work if you want."

"Else why would you be here?" Porsche said, rolling her eyes. "Show me the strings."

"No strings, see?" DeWitt showed her his open palms.

"I'm done playing games," she muttered and sipped the last drop. She made a motion to leave. "Thanks for the coffee."

"No games. It's a straight job."

"You ever straight? I doubt it. Details, please."

"Nothing too hard . . ." He chose his words with care. "I need a white shadow -- and more."

"Birdwatching?" She said, leaning back.

"More like a babysitter."

"One of yours?"

"A prominent technocrat, civilian -- we want to convince him to deliver what he promised. He's cagey, a case of cold feet. I want you to be nice, get him to cooperate. Turn him -- that's what you do best."

"So that's the more," she cooed. "You want me to spread my honey. Naughty Uncle." Raised overseas, sex wasn't a taboo subject as it was in puritanical America. She could boil the act of intimacy down to a bodily function no different from breathing or defecating. And when it came to the art of the honey trap, she excelled at luring moths to her web, male and female. She was an exquisite long-legged spider, eager to hunt. "Let's talk price."

"The client has deep pockets."

"Client -- so which fief is paying me?"

"You don't need to know yet, only that I'm your paymaster and handler."

"Just like old times." She scoffed.

"The job could be a great stepping stone if you play it right -- a great entry."

She paused for a few seconds. "Okay, I'll bite. Got nothing else but entering files any monkey could do."

"Then it's a yes?"

"Slow down. Will I go naked?" Porsche asked. "You wouldn't hire another shadow on me now, would you?"

"Going solo is your thing, I do recall."

She studied him, his face giving little information. "Why does your rabbit need a shadow? Who's on offense?"

"At this stage, maybe no one," Harry said. "But precaution is warranted."

"Ambiguous as ever," Porsche huffed. "Then I want a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow -- seven figures. I don't turn tricks for biscuits."

"That's too much." Harry countered. "One hundred."

"You two-buck Charlie cheapskate. You suggest I go rogue, but you go blue-plate special on me. Where's your fairness, Uncle?" She toyed with her napkin. "I'm worth every dollar, and you know it. Besides, my fee isn't too extravagant . . . Seven hundred and I guarantee his safety, whoever he is. That's a bargain."

"Two."

"Make it six."

"Three."

"Five."

"Four."

"Five," she repeated, not breaking his gaze.

Harry considered then said, "Done."

"I want girl's best friend -- carats, not paper."

"Material girl as always." Harry gritted his teeth behind a smile.

"Is there another kind? Show me a better motivation."

"World peace?"

"Ha, you were never idealistic."

"Values change with age."

"So does your continence." She made a cocked pistol with her fingers, then pointed it at him. "The job best stays exclusive." Then smiled.

"Zip-lock lips." Harry ran a finger across his mouth. "It's just you and me, kid."

"And I don't lift a finger 'til I see the bling," she said cocking one eyebrow.

"You'll have a third by tomorrow. Same drop as before?"

She sighed, looking around at the other patrons. "Yup, same location. Glad you remember."

"I need you to move fast on this."

"You know, a little biographical leverage wouldn't hurt, in fact, blackmail works wonders if you want this done fast."

"No duress. He must want to defect."

"Then I'll be really sweet." She cupped her breasts and smiled. "New assets. You like?"

"Save it for the mark," Harry said and slid a thumb-size device across the table.

"Anyone I know?"

"Tap it and you'll see. His coordinates and RFID frequency, all there." Uncle instructed. "This drive is armed. One pass only."

She nodded.

Harry glanced at his phone. "It's past your lunch hour. Time you get back."

"And how do I reach you?"

"I find you," he said.

"Fine, remember -- no bling, no ping."

He got up and left by the rear service exit. The old spy-dog was sensible. His protege went out the main door, with attitude.

After stashing the drive Harry had given her, Porsche returned to her cubic jail. She plunked into her chair, exasperated, looking at the pile of folders she needed to go through, and blew air out her cheeks loudly, not caring if anyone heard her. Her meeting with her old mentor had left a titillating curiosity, like ants crawling on her skin.

She shoved the mind-numbing pile away in disgust and looked forward to this side job. Maybe this will lead to somewhere else, anywhere but here.