Steve dug into his pocket for money. “We're not going to have to drink them. Here she comes.”
She walked with her head held high, hauteur in every step. Ignoring the peasants at the tables she passed.
“Holy smokes,” Steve grunted. “It's a wonder Fredrick let her in.”
She hesitated momentarily before the doorway of the prestige restaurant allowing the passers-by to realize she'd just emerged, and then turned to her right to promenade along the shopping street.
Fifty feet below La Calvados, Steve said, “Let's go, Woolford.”
One stepped to one elbow, the other to the other. Steve said quietly, “I wonder if we could ask you a few questions?”
Her eyebrows went up, “I beg your pardon!”
Steve sighed and displayed the badge pinned to his wallet, keeping it inconspicuous. “Secret Service, Miss,” he murmured.
“Oh, devil,” she said. She looked up at Larry Woolford, and then back at Steve.
Steve said, “Among other things, we're in charge of counterfeit money.”