“Sorry,” Bernie said. “Should I start over then?”

“Yes, start at the beginning,” Kingsley said, uncrossing his legs and dropping down to the floor. “And go slowly. Pretend I’m you.”

“Why would I pretend you’re me?”

“Ah…just tell me,” Kingsley said.

“We don’t know her name,” Bernie began. He clasped his hands in his lap and one foot danced along the floor. “She goes by Madame. That’s all.”

“Madame?”

Bernie nodded. “We think she’s the leader of a cult.”

“A cult? Really? In France?” Kingsley couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of the Catholic Church?”

“This is a sex cult.”

“So it is the Catholic Church.”

Bernie blinked, his eyes dim as a five-watt bulb.

“Go on,” Kingsley said. “You now have my attention.”

“Some men…important men, have disappeared over the past ten years. They’ll be gone a week or two with no word to their families or friends at all, and then they’ll simply reappear, glassy-eyed and confused, standing outside their front doors with no idea how they got there.”

“Important men. Such as?”

“The son of an English duke. A minor Spanish prince. A wealthy North African financier. And now—”

“The colonel’s nephew.”

Bernie shrugged. “He was last seen getting into a wine-colored car. That was one month ago.”

“White wine or red?”

“Oh,” Bernie said. “I don’t know that part.”

Kingsley met Bernie’s eyes. “You’re someone’s nephew, aren’t you?”

Bernie looked sheepish and guilty. “Yes.”

“Whose?” Kingsley demanded.

“My aunt’s.”

Kingsley counted to five in both French and English and then smiled at Bernie. “So it’s a sex cult. Run by a woman who goes only by Madame. And the colonel wants me to go there and check on Leon, and convince him it’s time to come home. Where’s this woman live?”

“Apparently her château is off the map. The phone number is untraceable.”

“She does have friends in high places. Wait, did you say château?”

“Yes, she lives in a château,” Bernie said. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Maybe,” Kingsley said. “But I can’t remember why.”

“Will you take the job?” Bernie asked.

“Why me?”

“Why you?”

“Why am I being sent on this job?” Kingsley asked.

“I don’t know. I’m only the messenger.”

“You’re a messenger who eavesdrops. Why me?”

Bernie flushed. He looked guilty as a little boy who’d seen his first naked girl in a movie. “I might have heard the colonel say something about you being a good fit for the job.”

“Why?” Kingsley asked, eying Bernie meaningfully.

“He used a phrase, but I don’t know it.”

“What phrase?”

“It’s English,” Bernie said. “Something like, uh…oeuf trader? Egg broker?”

“Rough trade?” Kingsley asked.

Bernie’s eyes lit up. “That!” Then he paused. “What’s it mean?”

“It means the colonel thinks I’ll fuck anyone,” Kingsley said. He decided not to tell Bernie the phrase specifically referred to working-class men who had sex with men with money and for money. That was a conversation Bernie was not ready to have yet. Or Kingsley.

“But…you will fuck anyone.”

“I won’t,” Kingsley said, insulted. “I’ll fuck almost anyone. There’s a difference.”

“Who wouldn’t you fuck?” Bernie sounded skeptical.

Kingsley flipped another page in the file. “Nazis.”

Kingsley found the file woefully lacking in useful information. No addresses. No photographs apart from the one of Madame. There was a phone number written on the file. That was about it for useful information.

“I need to know more about her,” Kingsley said. “What else did you overhear?”

“Three different agents have already tried getting to Madame. Only one of them has gotten further than a first phone call. It’s like she gives them a test, and they all fail, but they don’t know what the test is, so they don’t know how to pass it.”

“I’m not saying I’m doing this job,” Kingsley said. “But if I were going to do it…what do I do? What’s the first step?”

“You’re supposed to go to a payphone. Call the number on the file. When whoever answers, you say ‘looking glass.’ ” Bernie was speaking French to him, but the password—“looking glass”—he’d said in English. That seemed significant, though Kingsley couldn’t say why.

“Looking glass?”

“A mirror,” Bernie said.

“I know what it means,” Kingsley said. “If I can get to her, what’s my cover?”

“Tell her you’re a friend of the family, and they’ve asked to look into Leon’s disappearance. She’s made all the other agents immediately, so the less you lie to her, the better. She’ll probably make you, too, but she might still bite if she likes you. They don’t think she’s dangerous. I mean, she probably won’t try to kill you.”

“Probably?” Where had Kingsley heard that before?

Bernie nodded, smiling.

“Anything else?” Kingsley asked. “Anything at all? Anything that might help me not get ‘probably’ killed by her?”

“Oh, one thing. They worship a book.”

“Every cult worships a book. It’s called The Bible.”

“No,” Bernie said. “Different book.”

Once more he went into his bowling bag and produced the book in question.

“This book,” Bernie said.

Kingsley didn’t take it from him. He only looked at it. It was Histoire d’O—Story of O—by Pauline Réage, the most notorious novel of sadomasochism of the twentieth century. In the book, a young woman’s lover takes her to a house in Roissy where she’s ravished and imprisoned and trained to be the perfect slave. No, not a house.

A château…

“Lieutenant? Something wrong?” Bernie asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Kingsley said. Quite possibly something very right. “Tell the colonel I’ll do it.”

“You’re braver than I am,” Bernie said.

“I know. Now get out.”

“But—”

“Out. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

Kingsley held the door open for Bernie. The poor boy had to scramble to push all his papers back into his bag. It appeared there was an actual bowling ball in his bowling bag. Kingsley decided that either Bernie was literally the worst spy in the entire world or the best.

“Leaving, leaving,” Bernie said. “But don’t you want the book? You might need it?”

He held it out to Kingsley again.

“You keep it. Read it. You might learn something,” Kingsley said, before shutting the door in Bernie’s face.

He didn’t need to keep the book, after all.

Kingsley had his own copy.