Spy Society

American-born ALINE, COUNTESS OF ROMANONES, recruited her pal the Duchess of Windsor when her old spymaster asked her to unmask a Soviet mole in Paris. The dead drop, she suspected, would take place at the Rothschilds' masked ball. In this excerpt from The Spy Went Dancing (Putnam) the Countess learns how dangerous her anonymous adversary is

It was February 1966, and as I paced my house in Madrid that morning, surveying the preparations for a black-tie dinner my husband and I were giving for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, I was totally unprepared when my maid told me who was on the phone. John Derby, code-named Jupiter, the O.S.S.'s chief of secret intelligence for the Iberian Peninsula during World War II, was currently a high official in the C.I.A. He had been my boss in espionage ever since I had started to work as a spy for the United States government twenty years earlier.*

"Aline, I've just arrived in Madrid and I'd love to see you.''

I suggested he come to my dinner for the Windsors that night. He accepted, but insisted, "I must see you alone first. It's a matter of major importance."

I told him to come early, and met him downstairs when he arrived.

"Aline, we have a job for you."

I laughed. "John, you know I can't do any more jobs for you. My husband made me promise the last time that I wouldn't get involved ever again."

"Look, let me explain," he said. "It concerns NATO. A mole in the Paris headquarters. Somehow the Soviets are receiving top-secret information about America's contingency plans to meet a Soviet attack. It's compromising our defense systems everywhere. Thanks to one of our best agents, we know a few things about the mole.' She really felt she had a lead. But now we can't use her anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because she is dead. It was Magic, Aline. She was found dead last week."

My heart sank. Magic had been my roommate at the spy school outside Washington. Her father, a concert pianist, had died in a concentration camp in 1943. She had dedicated her life to espionage for the United States. Then I thought of my husband, a grandee of Spain, and our three sons. "I'm sorry, John. You'll have to find someone else."

"Magic herself asked me to get you to help with this mission, Aline. There are thousands of NATO employees, but few who circulate with the Windsors and the social elite of Paris. Magic had a hunch that many of your friends attended the same parties as our traitor. That alone gives you a start."

"Not at all. There's so little to go on."

"There's more. Listen." He grabbed my arm. "Look, we know the mole was out of France for a few weeks during the month of January. The regular reports coming in to the Soviets were interrupted during that time. But he was in Paris the night of February 1st—the night Magic was murdered."

"How was she murdered?" I asked.

I could tell Jupiter didn't want to talk about it, but finally he said, "She was found at the entrance of the M6tro at Porte Dauphine, impaled on the spikes of the iron grating." His voice was pleading now. "You must consider this mission seriously, Aline. The next dead drop in Paris will be serviced sometime in March, we believe during some kind of fancy ball." I thought of the Rothschilds' ball, which was one of the reasons Luis and I were going to Paris the following week.

"We think the mole has advised his K.G.B. agent where to pick up the top-secret data at that affair," he went on, "or at least pass on some kind of information. The information will be in a roll of film. If the location of the dead drop is passed on at this ball, it'll most likely be by hand, by means of a coded message. You know, a dead drop is never used more than once. And in this case, since it is improbable that more than one person in the U.S. European Command is involved, the mole will have to load the drop each time

himself. That's when he is clearly exposed. If you go to Paris, you would probably be going to that ball, Tiger." I hadn't heard my code name in ages. The sound of it had

its effect. "We must find the next dead drop, Tiger, and we must find the man who uses it. If it had been the other way around, Magic would have tried to avenge you."

*I have had to change dates and certain names and details for purposes of security.

Is that you, darling?" the mans voice called out.

Nothing more was said that night, but when the Duchess reached her house in Paris the following day, she called to thank me for the dinner. "And, Aline, we'll be giving a dinner for you and Luis the night before you leave for the Rothschilds'. Is there anyone special you'd like me to invite?''

My adrenaline level shot up. Her question suddenly made Jupiter's request so easy. "As a matter of fact, there is. Someone from NATO I want to meet.''

"NATO? Really? What's the name?''

"I'll have to call you back about that. I've.. .I've lost the address.''

That same afternoon, I called Jupiter to tell him that the Duchess had offered to invite anyone I wanted to her house for dinner with us, and that Luis and I and the Windsors would all be attending the Rothschilds' ball. As for doing the mission, however, I made it clear I had decided nothing.

"Fantastic," he said. "If the Duchess helps, our chances are immeasurably better."

He gave me two names, and I called the Duchess back and gave the names to her: Colonel and Mrs. Michael Chandler, and Colonel and Mrs. Paul Ferguson.

"Are these friends of yours, Aline?"

"No, but I am most anxious to meet them, whichever couple of the two is the more social."

The following week my husband and I were at the Windsors', and the Duchess was saying to me, "I've invited the Fergusons to dinner. I hear they are very social."

We were seated in her dressing room, from where I could watch the Duke and Luis in the next room. I didn't want either to appear unexpectedly. She leaned an elbow on one skinny knee as her red-nailed fingers reached out to tap my hand.

"Aline, what is this all about?"

I pondered whether I should tell her about Magic's terrible end, but decided to restrict myself to the mole. "The man we're looking for frequents top social affairs in Paris," I said in conclusion, "the kind of places you go to. We want to know who his friends are, whom he speaks to. This Colonel Ferguson is a good beginning."

Her eyes opened wide. "Then you're still a spy!"

Instead of answering, I smiled. "You could contribute too," I said. "Do you realize what a useful spy you could be? Apart from knowing everyone, you have another advantage—no one would suspect you."

Through the open door into the boudoir, I could see Luis and the Duke engrossed in conversation. Briefly, I told her that I still did intelligence now and then for the United States, but that this time my husband did not know about it. I went on to explain that my boss, Jupiter, had learned that this mole would be attending an important ball in Paris during the month of March, and that a vital bit of information would be transferred.

"That has to be the Rothschilds' ball at Ferrieres next week," interrupted the Duchess.

"Yes, that's what I thought too," I said. "It would be great if we could ask Marie-Helene"—that was the Baroness Guy de Rothschild—"if these Chandlers or Fergusons have been invited, but that would make her curious."

"She's too smart; we might arouse her suspicions," said the Duchess. "But I'll look around at the ball and do my best to discover what NATO officials are there. Because of David's eye—it's never stopped bothering him since the operation—Marie-Helene has thoughtfully asked us to spend that night at Ferrieres, so we don't have to drive back to Paris late. David will go to bed early. But I'll stay up, and if there are any high-ranking Americans there from NATO, I'll find out. Oh, I do hope Colonel Ferguson turns out to be useful."

I froze. I was in the Windsors' bedroom.

"The Desert of the Barbarians" was a nude

woman confected of spun sugar.

In short, the Duchess was eager to help. Her only stipulations were that her husband not know about it, and that her name not appear on any C.I.A. document or list.

''Before we go any further," I said, ''I should tell you there's an element of danger involved. The man we're looking for is vicious and cold-blooded."

She shook her head. "I must admit," she sighed, "I'm not brave at all. But I'm good at getting people to talk. And I'm very American. There's no challenge in running two homes anymore. Spying might break the monotony."

As she looked at me, I noticed that the color of her eyes matched the sapphire ring on her finger. Then my glance passed to the blue-and-gray Portuguese rug with the Windsor feathers which had been designed by the Duchess. Nothing in the house or their lives had changed in years. Their marriage, so famous worldwide, had always seemed sterile and sad to me. Espionage would bring in some needed excitement.

Later, in our room, Luis asked me, "What were you and the Duchess talking about for so long?"

"Our costumes for Saturday's ball, what else?"

My mind was made up. With the Duchess so willing to help, I suspected we had a fighting chance of uncovering anyone we needed to find in this city. When I reached Jupiter by phone the next day, he was thrilled about the Duchess. He code-named her Willy and dubbed our mission Operation Magic in honor of my old friend.

Dinner was a trial for the Duchess, who struggled to get the American colonel to talk. Although she had placed me on the other side of Paul Ferguson, I had to be attentive also to the neighbor on my left, a Frenchman devoted to hunting. Halfway through the meal, I made a valiant effort to involve Paul Ferguson in a discussion. He was courteous, but his tone did not invite conversation. Nevertheless, his manner transmitted a mystery that intrigued me. There was something unusual about Paul Ferguson.

Next to the Frenchman beside me was an exotic Parisian woman who appeared to be in her late thirties and whom someone referred to as Claudine. She had thick dark hair, wide-set eyes, and a decolletage that attracted not only the men at the table but also the waiters serving the meal.

Later, when we moved to the salon for coffee and liqueurs, the Duchess managed to say to me, "Lockjaw, that's what I'll call Paul Ferguson from now on. He sat through the entire dinner without pronouncing a word! If it hadn't been for my new secret job, I'd have given up. But at least I was able to find out one thing: he was not absent from Parjs during the month of January, though I couldn't discover for sure if he was definitely here on February 1st. I've a feeling he's not our man."

Moments later, the woman named Claudine approached me. By then I had learned that her husband was a writer named Edouard de Jorans. "I've heard a lot about you," she began, "from a close mutual friend."

"Who is that?" I asked.

Someone was playing the piano, and we stood watching the others dance. Paul Ferguson was at a distance, leaning on the piano. She smiled coyly. "This friend is quite unusual. The kind one is either fascinated by or—' '

At that moment, Edouard de Jorans joined us. Glibly, Claudine changed the subject. She obviously didn't want to speak about our mutual friend—whoever that might be—in front of her husband.

The next day Luis and I left to spend the weekend at the Rothschilds' chateau on the outskirts of Paris. There would be a shoot the following morning and then the ball that night. The Duchess said they would see us at the ball.

Ferri&res was the most luxurious home in the world. Our car entered the walled-in, thousand-acre property through a massive iron gate. Then, at the end of a winding road through a forest of enormous trees, suddenly it was there—huge and romantic, a fairy-tale building of turrets and cupolas, of carved-stone embellishments on roofs and balconies and elongated Gothic windows, with a curved double staircase of wide stone steps which led up to a grand portal.

It was teatime when we arrived. Instead of entering through the impressive front hall, we went in through a small side door. From there we entered the main salon, where tea was being served. Our handsome, elegant host, Guy de Rothschild, approached, carrying a brown Teckel, a mini dachshund, in his arm, and embraced us both. We patted the sleek, doe-eyed dog, an important member of the household and one we knew well. We had given Quinta to Guy several years before from our bitch's litter.

The men started to talk shop. "Luis, did you bring cartridges?"

Luis laughed. "You think we Spaniards expect our host to provide not only the birds but the ammunition as well?"

While they chatted, I looked around for our dynamic hostess, whose artistic genius was the engine behind every Rothschild festivity. Marie-Helene was seated on a blue sofa talking to Audrey Hepburn. Her long-lashed aquamarine eyes smiled up at me. "You're late," she began and then, disregarding that detail, went on to say, "Tell me, did Luis bring the Jabugo, the Spanish cured ham I asked for?"

I assured her he had, and then we began to talk about friends from different countries who would be coming to the ball. She explained who some of the French guests were that neither Audrey nor I knew. She didn't mention either of the names Jupiter had given me, but I still hoped at least one would be present, since I knew she selected her guests from the full spectrum of Parisian life in order to make her parties interesting. My blonde, ebullient hostess possessed a penetrating mind, and at the same time an impish curiosity and directness that made her totally disarming. Also, thanks to Marie-H61ene's unparalleled good taste and energy, the chateau, which had been occupied by the Germans during the war and then abandoned for twenty years, had been completely restored.

Audrey was a beloved friend from Madrid, and I hadn't realized she would be at the house party. "I'm so excited," she exclaimed. "Do you know, I've never been to a ball before?"

Both Marie-Helene and I were astounded. "How's that possible?" I asked. "You, of all people." Marie-H61£ne said, "Why, I've seen you at so many balls—in War and Peace and My Fair Lady and—' '

(Continued on page 174)

It was the perfect setting, in fact, for anyone who wanted not to be recognized.

(Continued from page 154)

Audrey laughed. "That was only in the movies. I've never been to a real one." She was, as always, totally honest and unpretentious.

The buffet table was loaded with brioches, tiny sandwiches, petits fours, small sausages, cakes, and tarts—all prepared in the enormous kitchen below, where on other visits I'd seen four chefs working. In the time of Guy's grandparents, the kitchen had been in a separate building 150 yards away so that the cooking odors would not reach the salons. There had been a small underground train to deliver meals to the main house.

Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton came in about then. I had never met them before. Burton was attractive, but I was surprised to see that his face was badly marred by what looked like monstrous pockmarks. They remained together, leaning against the back of a sofa, looking tired, and neither seemed especially interested in partaking of the marvelous high tea. I was eager to meet Elizabeth, because both Ava Gardner and Deborah Kerr, close friends who also lived in Spain, had told me she was a wonderful friend and much fun.

At the tea table, an attractive couple from London stood talking with the beautiful Vicomtesse de Ribes and the debonair Guy Baguenault de Puchesse. There was a general fluster when the French prime minister, Georges Pompidou, arrived. He was an old friend and frequent guest of Marie-H616ne and Guy's, and had for years been director of Rothschild Fr&res. He always pepped up any gathering with his jolly, unassuming manner and wit.

Claudine de Jorans, whom I recognized from the night before at the Windsors', was seated on a sofa in the far comer in conversation with our old friend Klaus Fribourg. Seeing Klaus at Ferrifcres was a surprise. I didn't know he knew Guy and Marie-H616ne, but he was one of the best shots in Spain. That was probably why he had been invited.

Ada Fribourg came over and sat down with us. She was definitely a glamorous addition to the weekend; her abundant straw-colored hair was knotted at the back of her neck, and a few wisps of blond curls fell over the collar of the white cashmere sweater which hugged her still-slim, elegant torso. "What a fabulous place," she said to Marie-Hel&ne. "I fear my homemade costume for the ball will never do justice to these surroundings."

"Don't try to fool me," said MarieH61&ne. "I happen to know that your disguise was made by the best theatrical designer in Paris."

Just like Ada, I thought, to make certain her entrance would be sensational. Although her manner was gentle and shy, throughout the years she had proved to be a woman determined to excel. The partridge shoots Klaus gave, organized by Ada at their magnificent country estate near Toledo, were famous for the luxurious cuisine and the guests.

When I got up to find something to eat, Ada came too. She stood next to me at the buffet table, with a teacup in her hand.

"What do you think of that Jorans couple?" she asked. "I must say, it's hard to understand her success, don't you think? With those fat legs and that squeaky voice! But look at Klaus. He certainly seems to be fascinated. What surprises me is that the Jorans woman pays attention to him. Dear Klaus, although adorable, is not what he used to be." Ada laughed. "I've been told Claudine comes from a humble family in the wine area near Bordeaux. She got her start by being elected Miss Grapes or something like that—a minor beauty title. I guess in Spain we'd call it Miss Vendimia."

Listening to her, I was almost embarrassed. Years before, Ada had told me that her own beginnings were humble. It seemed strange she would make a point of calling attention to someone of similar circumstances. Could she be jealous of Claudine? It didn't make much sense, since she had just met her.

Georges Pompidou, "Pompi," as Marie-Hel&ne called him, joined us and suggested we go outside for a walk. We moved toward the door with him and down the wide granite staircase to the park, where long avenues of lawn, not yet green, stretched out on either side. Wide expanses of spectacular trees—still without leaves—led to the forest beyond. Guy's great-grandfather had brought them from the far comers of the earth to provide a variety of color to the rolling landscape. As we strolled in the last rays of the winter sun, Elizabeth and Richard Burton could be seen going up a path toward a small Victorian gazebo on a hill in the distance.

When it got dark, the guests who were not spending the night in the chateau left for Paris, and most of the houseguests went to their rooms. A few, including Luis, stayed below to play cards.

"That Claudine de Jorans plays a pretty decent game of backgammon," he told me later in our room. "She's amusing too." I told him Ada's comments about Claudine.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "I suspect many women are jealous of her. But not Marie-H61£ne. She told me Claudine was a most exceptional person. Evidently, when she was only fifteen years old she was in the Resistance in southern France, bicycling daily through lines of German soldiers, passing on messages for the Maquis and risking her life. Later she came to Paris to work and to study. That's where she met Edouard. She was one of his students."

"Ada said someone told her that she met Edouard in Bordeaux and that she married him for his money."

"I don't think that's correct. MarieHelene said Jorans didn't have any money when Claudine married him."

An hour later, we were seated at the large oval table in the dining room. Six liveried footmen served the eighteen guests. The menu in front of my place was lengthy. Marie-Helene had seated the table according to French protocol, of course, but everyone had at least one interesting dinner partner, because guests were picked for their wit or their attractiveness or their fame or their power or simply to provide a mixture of nationalities. The stimulating atmosphere made people be at their best.

The Joranses had gone back to Paris to sleep, but would return for the ball the following evening. The differences of opinion about Claudine had awakened my interest in her. During dinner I asked Guy, who was next to me, what he thought of them. His opinion on any subject was always unbiased and intelligent.

"Claudine's a delight," he said. "Edouard's another story. There's no doubt he's first-rate at what he does, as an art critic and writer. They say he paints quite well too. So on one hand he's what I would call gifted. But I'd say he's also obscure—enigmatic. At one time there were rumors that he had been a collaborationist, but Claudine was a heroine of the Resistance, so I doubt she would have married a man she considered despicable."

After dinner Marie-Hel&ne, her glamorous mother, Maggie van Zuylen, Pompidou, Luis, and others played gin at one end of the large blue salon. At the opposite end of the room, Guy, the handsome French minister of finance, Valery Giscard d'Estaing, and the rest of us chatted, laughed, and helped ourselves to drinks from a table nearby. We also looked at gigantic picture books of Ferrieres house parties dating back to 1860. Then we went to bed early to be ready for the next day's shoot.

For me, accustomed to rough, hilly Spanish terrain and rustic hunting habits, shooting at Ferri&res was like shooting in someone's salon. Everything seemed so pristine and neat—the beaters dressed in white jackets to avoid being shot at, the trucks transferring them from one drive to another so that they wouldn't have to go on foot. Even the pheasants contributed to the orderly atmosphere by flying in on a straight line and making a convenient racket so that one had time to get ready—very unlike the sneaky, fast Spanish partridges. Guy was generous about giving me a butt, unlike the English, who rarely offer a stand to wives. I found myself next to stiff, formal Giscard d'Estaing, whose good looks charmed the women and who was also a good shot. Pompidou was on my other side. I wasn't as good a shot as some Spanish women, but I got more birds than Pompidou, and we both laughed about that. Pompidou was witty about everything and kept those of us near him in high spirits all day.

Luis and Klaus were top shots and used to the competitive Spanish custom of noting the number of birds each gun downed. They were disappointed, I knew, by the nonchalance of the French, who moved on after each drive and left the beaters to pick up the birds, without ever so much as asking how many pheasants each gun had downed. Klaus's butt was near mine, and I walked over to kid him about how nobody was aware that he had downed twice as many birds as any Frenchman. The group was about to break for the small midday snack out in the field, and some of the women who had slept late were just arriving to join us. Ada was with them, a vision in a long, dark suede coat lined in mink, a matching hat, and high fur-lined boots, carrying an elegant antique walking stick. Klaus was busy sharpening his hunting knife and didn't even look up to salute his beautiful wife. For the first time, I felt sorry for Ada, and marveled that she had remained faithful to such a dull, unaffectionate man all these years.

In order not to spoil our appetites for the high tea, the snack was restricted to steamy consomm6, tiny sausages, and hot red wine spiced with cinnamon to ward off the chill of the day. While we ate, I commented to Luis about Klaus's indifference to his wife. "Not at all," said Luis, lowering his voice. "He's always been in love with Ada. But she's got somebody else, and he suffers a lot."

When we returned from the shoot late in the afternoon, the chateau was undergoing a metamorphosis. Boards, brightly colored cardboard slats, wire, light bulbs, tools, carpenters, painters, and decorators cluttered every entrance. On the second floor, people carrying boxes, headdresses, and costumes raced by, along with hairdressers, masseuses, dressmakers, and servants—everyone running back and forth. Guests were bathing or being curled and primped. Antoine, the famous hairdresser, with two boxes of dark curly hairpieces, bumped into me on his way to Elizabeth Taylor's room. Someone resembling Brigitte Bardot was entering the room next to mine. I looked again. It was Brigitte Bardot. This heterogeneous cast and fabulous decor, however, were run-of-the-mill as Ferri&res parties went. We rushed around in the typical last-minute frenzy before a ball in a grand chateau—probably just as others before us had done before balls and house parties in other French chateaux for centuries.

A few hours later, when the houseguests were frizzed, perfumed, jeweled, and bedecked with walking sticks, swords, animals, horns, and masks, we were directed to the grand entrance so that we could experience the thrills that the guests arriving from Paris would encounter on their way into the ball. Their first view would be of the chateau, with candelabras shining in every window. As they ascended the main staircase, lackeys in red brocade, their faces painted black or covered with cats' heads, would greet them on the landings. Then they would be obliged to enter a long, dimly lit tunnel, which had been constructed to wind in curves and twists inside the huge palace, a labyrinth of black ribbons, phantom animals, and giant cobwebs. We all passed through this fascinating construction, amused by the sounds of chains and groans, pushing away the shadowy cobwebs, laughing at the ghoulish dummies swaying overhead and the wispy ghosts dangling from invisible threads. Our screams rattled through the historic building. As we emerged, Guy and Marie-Hel&ne, in a headdress of a hind weeping diamond tears, were standing there to greet us.

We admired one another's costumes and toasted with champagne. The excitement of the ball had begun.

The Duchess of Windsor arrived, resplendent in a white satin-and-diamond mask sprouting feathers, with more feathers bursting from her ornate coiffure. The Duke was wearing a tuxedo and a black silk mask, which also served to protect his weak eye. Audrey Hepburn wore no mask at all, but had a wicker birdcage over her head, with little stuffed birds glued to it. A small door opened in front of her mouth so that she could eat.

Claudine de Jorans was among the first of the guests to appear without a mask. She was wearing a basket of live white pigeons on her head, which complemented her white Balenciaga dress—a dress, I realized to my dismay, that was exactly the same as mine. I had a white sequined headdress concocted by a Spanish stage designer to resemble a sea urchin. Luis wore ^ monstrous mask with painted ghastly cockroaches and strange stars, a little like a Surrealist painting.

. The music began as soon as the first guests emerged from the tunnel, and a few people in the adjoining room started to dance. Someone tugged on my sleeve. I turned around and saw a tall man whose head was encased in a furry wolf's head; he wore a shiny black mask and a tuxedo, and he had a tiny dead rabbit dangling from his handkerchief pocket. With no explanation, he took my arm and pulled me toward the other room.

Although I tried to get him to talk, he danced in silence, while directing our steps to an isolated comer. When we were at a prudent distance from the others, he lifted his mask for a split second, and I was astonished. He was the last person I had expected to see!

"Divina," he said in that familiar squeaky voice, "you always said I was a wolf in sheep's clothing, but frankly I don't like sheep's clothing, so I came as my real self." His accent and his giggle alone would have given him away.

It had been years, but it was as if we had said good-bye only yesterday. "For heaven's sake, Edmundo, get rid of that dead rabbit in your pocket. It's right under my nose and smells terrible." I couldn't help laughing. "What in the world are you doing here?" I asked.

He ignored my question. "Let me tell you, my pet, that you are beautiful. More beautiful than before, more alluring and more sophisticated. I always knew you had great promise.''

"Oh, Edmundo, you're as preposterous as ever. Now, be sensible and tell me how you happen to be at this ball.''

Again he disregarded my inquiry. "Well, take a look." He moved an arm's length away from me, turning his head from side to side so that I could admire his headgear. "How was I going to miss the chance to show my true colors?" He pulled on one of the soft, fuzzy ears.

I couldn't hide my amusement. I had missed my old friend all these years. "I didn't know you were a friend of the Rothschilds'," I said.

"I'm not. Never met either of them." He shrugged. "But I don't see what that has to do with my being here."

"How did you get in? No one is allowed to enter without an invitation. And there are place cards at the tables."

"You still talk like a beginner, my pet. Since when have documents of any nature been an impediment to work?' '

"Then you're still working for. . .our friends?"

"You ask such discourteous questions. Still a child. " He brushed off my curiosity.

"But where are you seated at dinner?"

"I'm not staying for dinner." He snickered. "To avoid any embarrassment for the hostess, of course, I'll absent myself for a while. You may see me later, however."

Despite the mask, I could see that the years had changed Edmundo—code name Top Hat—very little. His face was fuller than before, but he had the same thin slit of a mustache, and it was as black as ever, although the bits of hair escaping from under the huge wolf's head appeared to be pepper-and-salt. Yet the sparkling smirk, the Aztec cheekbones, the swagger carried the same sophisticated, exotic air I remembered so well.

"We may be interrupted," he said. "Be sure to call me. I have a small pieda-terre in Paris, although my base is in London. Here's the number and address." He slid a paper into my hand. "If I'm not in, leave a message. Ask for Jacques. That's my name for the time being."

"Then you are working?" Again I prodded him.

But Edmundo didn't answer. He continued to hold me in a tight grip despite the stinking rabbit. The tune ended, and he relaxed his embrace. He began to speak, then cocked an ear as the music resumed, and his voice trailed off. I understood why. A few piano strains of "Sur le Pont d'Avignon." We listened, both remembering the tune from our war years, when those strains had announced the beginning of a secret message on the regular radio broadcasts from southern France. As the band swung into a new song, we waltzed our way among the other couples to the bandleader. In a few words, Edmundo persuaded the fellow to play something a bit faster. At the piano, I realized, was the man who had been playing at the Windsors' two nights before. A few seconds later, Top Hat's snaky movements and wild twists distracted me from concentrating on anything else. His tango was still fun, but his wild dips and slinky steps began to attract attention. I marveled that the wolf's head stayed on, and was pleased to see that we had lost the rabbit. Suddenly, Edmundo straightened up and stood still.

"Sorry, Divina," he murmured, dropping my hand, "our dance ends now. Don't tell your husband or anyone else you've seen me. I've got to leave."

Before I had time to ask why, my partner had disappeared. I stood next to the band, stunned. To see Top Hat after so many years, and for such a short time! There were so many things I wanted to ask him.

I went back to the other room, where the last guests were emerging from the tunnel. As each new arrival tumbled out, there was a whoop of acclaim. One man was carried in on a long coffinlike box, stretched out on top like an effigy and sprayed with something that made him appear to be sculpted in stone. A woman entered with two heads; the wax one above her own was identical, and it was hard to tell which was real. Ada and Klaus Fribourg arrived—Ada in a spectacular black glittery headpiece with huge shiny antennae that resembled a black spider. The black eye makeup enhanced her paleblue eyes; the long black silk-crepe gown had tiers of black fringe, which also hung from the sleeves and shoulders. Next to majestic Ada, Klaus looked smaller than ever in a long white wig which hid his bald head, and a white mask. Salvador Dali appeared with his wife, Gala, his stiffly waxed mustache twisted, as usual, into sharp points on either side of his face. The dazzling flashbulbs concentrated on the famous Spanish painter as he was rolled in a wheelchair through the crowd. What made the atmosphere of this party so amusing was that few of the guests were recognizable. It was the perfect setting, in fact, for anyone who wanted not to be recognized. How, I wondered, was the Duchess ever going to find any American officers here?

The music stopped for dinner, and we took our seats at round tables set with surrealistic hand-painted place cards and centerpieces. The menu was made up of humorous double meanings and crazy phrases, so no one had the slightest idea of what was going to be served. When the dessert—referred to on the menu as "The Dessert of the Barbarians"—arrived, it was so spectacular that everyone applauded. Eight footmen supported a huge platter on which was a nude woman reclining on a bed of roses—the entire thing confected of edible spun sugar.

I was delighted to have Edouard de Jorans seated at my side. We talked about his plans for going to the feria in Seville.

"I am ashamed to say," he remarked in his French-accented English, "that although I've been all over Europe and the Near East, this will be my first trip to Spain. Claudine's too..." His voice trailed off and his forehead folded in deep creases. The thick black brows closed down over his eyes, which became two narrow slits. In one second, my handsome companion's aspect had become sinister. For a moment he maintained a gloomy silence, and then, as if coming back from another world, he turned to me, and his expression was warm and showed concern, probably because of my consternation.

"Forgive my rudeness," he said, "but I've just seen something very disagreeable." He jerked his head in the direction of a nearby table. "Do you see that plump man with the mustache, the Argentine?" I nodded. "Not long after my brother drowned, he appeared in Saint-Jean-deLuz in his impressive yacht and decided he was attracted to my mother. He pursued her relentlessly. And my mother was so upset about my brother that she didn't know what she was doing. She ended up leaving my father for him. My father couldn't take it—losing his wife and his son too. He became an alcoholic." Jorans glanced again at the man. "It's all the fault of that monster. We never saw her again, and he didn't even marry her! We heard later she died in Buenos Aires."

For the remainder of the dinner, Edouard was his usual charming self, but I was aware he was making an effort.

The Duke of Windsor was at the next table, engrossed in Princess Grace's conversation and gobbling the delicious dinner. Since he never had lunch, I knew that by this hour he was starving. Luis was at the same table and gestured to me that he would like to dance. I got up to join him, but Ada got there first and pulled him to the dance floor. For the rest of the evening, Luis was so busy dancing that we didn't have a chance to talk. I kept looking for Edmundo, hoping he would reappear.

After dinner, I tried to get close enough to the Duchess to ask if she had seen anyone, but she danced for a long time with former king Umberto of Italy and then with our host. At the beginning of the evening the Duke, despite his bad eye, was on the dance floor as well, doing everything from the twist to his old favorite, the Charleston.

The Duchess never stopped dancing. Luis was one of the best dancers there, and for comfort's sake had long since discarded his monstrous headpiece. Now he was dancing again with Ada, whose tiers of fringe enveloped her like swirling masses of black spaghetti. The music was continuous; when one orchestra stopped, another took its place. We enjoyed an orgy of polkas, cha-chas, rumbas, waltzes, and just plain old-fashioned fox-trots. As I passed the Duchess on the dance floor, she leaned close and whispered into my ear, "I'm dancing with every man here to see if I can uncover our mole."

When finally I saw her sitting down, I went over to ask if she'd recognized anyone. She grimaced. "No, but I've done my best. Don't worry, I'm going to invite Maureen Ferguson to go shopping with me. I'll work it out. Her husband may be better-looking, but she's a lot more talkative. David will be astounded at my sudden interest in this woman, but I can handle him." Then she lifted one white satin-slippered foot in the air. "What I don't do for my country! I'd prefer the front lines in a battle." She slid her foot out of the shoe. "The doctor says I'll either have to stop dancing or have these bunions operated on." Almost before she had finished speaking, Edouard de Jorans appeared and dragged her onto the floor again. To watch her laughing and whirling around, no one would have dreamed that her feet were killing her.

Ada was still attracting attention with her spaghetti dress, which was soon swirling around Edouard de Jorans. The night rolled on. Battered headdresses and costumes and discarded masks were strewn about on chairs and sofas. People drank, flirted, danced wildly, and gossiped. The Duke's eye bothered him, and he went to bed around one, but the Duchess stayed on. Claudine danced with everyone from Richard Burton to my husband to Paul Ferguson, who suddenly seemed to materialize on the scene about one A.M. When I saw him, I was shocked. How had the Duchess and I both missed that tall, thin frame? By the time I managed to get two words with her, she had only just become aware of him herself. "I saw him remove an Arabian headdress and mask a few minutes ago," she said. "But I haven't seen Maureen Ferguson, and, with those hips, I don't see how we could miss her."

We had no opportunity to discuss Ferguson, but I wondered seriously about him. Could he be the NATO mole after all, transmitting a message? If so, to whom? It wasn't enough just to see him—we needed proof that he was passing information. From then on, I never took my eyes off him, and I noticed that the Duchess kept him in her sights as well. Actual proof, I realized, would be impossible to get. At any moment he could have slipped a message into someone's pocket without our being able to tell, even though we were watching.

And Top Hat did not reappear.

It was almost three when I wandered into the red room to get a candy from the table bar. Edouard de Jorans and Ada Fribourg were in conversation on one of the sofas next to the fireplace. They had certainly become good friends quickly, I thought. Beyond them, in the open doorway but in shadow, someone waved to me. When I got near, I realized it was Edmundo. He pulled me into the hall and then to the entrance of the tunnel through which the guests had arrived. Inside, it was dim, and the flimsy remains of ghostlike figures and eerie cobwebs brushed against my head as he yanked me along.

"What's the matter, Edmundo? Why are we going through here?" He continued to tug me along, but he didn't answer.

Finally, I pulled my arm loose. "Stop for a minute and explain."

"I need your help," he gasped. "I have to get out of this place without being seen by the guards. I must get to the parking lot, where I left my car."

"This tunnel will take us to the main entrance, where there'll certainly be police or guards," I said. "But at this hour I don't see that it makes much difference. Nobody will stop you from leaving the building."

"No, no." He shook his head. "Isn't there some kind of a side entrance?" He was obviously upset. "Take a look at this." He rolled up his sleeve, and despite the shadows I could see a thick stream of blood running down his forearm. "This guy wasn't fooling, Aline." He pulled the sleeve back down, and I saw that the black cloth was sliced through. "I don't want any more problems with these people," he said.

He refused to explain what had happened. In order to help him, I suggested he break through the cardboard tunnel wall so that I could lead him to a side door. When we emerged, we found ourselves in the second-floor hallway, which circled the glass ceiling of the chateau's rectangular center salon. He followed me to a comer balcony; from there I knew we could look outside and get our bearings.

Silently, we both stepped out. The entire facade of the house was illuminated with torches. Below, two men in guards' uniforms were talking.

"I can't go out here. And that's not where I left my car anyhow," said Edmundo. "How do we get to the other side?"

We returned to the wide hallway and took a few steps. Abruptly, Edmundo grabbed my arm, and for a moment I thought he had lost his mind. But then I understood. At the end of the long, dimly lit gallery, a tall, thin man stood looking at us. Something about his stance was menacing.

"We've got to get out of here," Edmundo whispered, "fast."

He started to run toward the hole in the tunnel wall, and I turned to follow him, but my heel caught and I stumbled. Top Hat turned and whispered, "Get out of here quick! Don't let that guy see who you are. Take the opposite direction, and I'll go through this thing. He's bound to follow me. I don't want you mixed up in this."

I didn't stop to try to figure anything out. Edmundo's tone and the ghastly knife slash on his arm convinced me I was in danger.

In the distance, the tall man started to advance. I sprang up and instinctively did what Edmundo had told me to do—began running down the hall to look for a stairway that would let me escape into the protection of the festivities below. To my dismay, when I reached the comer, I saw that the staircase I had expected was not there. I looked behind me, and to my astonishment realized the man was following me instead of Edmundo, who had disappeared into the tunnel. My heart began to throb. The high heels on my white satin evening slippers made running difficult, but I turned the comer and kept going as fast as I could. Obviously, I had lost my bearings, but most likely the stairway was at the end of this corridor. Now I was passing the doors to the guest rooms. The man's heavy tread resounded as he took the turn behind me, and I knew there would not be enough time to find the stairway and reach the bottom floor safely.

The best solution would be to find my own room, lock the door, and telephone for help. My bedroom had to be only a few doors farther along. While I ran, I wondered if the man chasing me could be the enemy agent. Could he be the man who had murdered Magic in such a horrible way? My fears made me run faster and faster, and still the footsteps on the thick carpet behind me seemed to become louder each moment. Closer. Just in time, I reached my door, opened it, and, once inside, turned the key. My heart was beating like a tom-tom.

Just as I was beginning to relax, from the silent room came a familiar voice. When I heard it, I realized to my horror that I was in the wrong bedroom.

"Is that you, darling?" the man's voice called out.

I froze. I was in the Windsors' bedroom. I stood paralyzed next to the door. Could he hear my pounding heart? Would he get up? I hoped the man outside would disappear if I waited long enough. The Duke was so close I could hear the rustle of sheets, the mattress squeaking. He was trying to sit up in bed. In a second the light would be on. I turned the key again and slipped out. This time the hall was empty. I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I knew where I was. Holding my skirts up in the air, I ran until I reached my room.

When I called the switchboard, nobody answered. The phone rang and rang. I was completely puzzled about what had happened to Top Hat. Again I wondered if he was still working for the Company and if he might be on the same mission I was on. That seemed the most logical explanation. The Duchess and I certainly weren't the only ones working on it. I had a vision of the enemy agent wandering around the chateau, hidden among the guests or maybe even more anonymously among the waiters, musicians, electricians, or guards.

In the chase, I had tom my dress, so I changed into another, refreshed my makeup, and went back downstairs. The ball was still going strong. Waiters, footmen, band members, guests—everyone appeared to be interested in amusement alone.

Neither Edmundo nor anyone resembling the man who had followed me—I had had only a blurred view of his face— was in sight. I looked for the Duchess. She must have just left. I wondered what she would have thought if she'd seen me coming out of her husband's room. Luis came rushing to the doorway. "Darling, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you."

At that moment, I wanted to tell him everything. I needed someone to lean on, someone to share the anxiety. Instead I told him that a waiter had spilled coffee on my dress and that I'd gone upstairs to change. I was afraid that even mentioning having seen Edmundo would remind him of espionage.

Luis took me in his arms, and I felt safe again. We began to dance, and in a few minutes my fright of the past half-hour had almost faded. Claudine de Jorans danced by, obviously having difficulty following her partner's clumsy steps. When he turned his head our way, the puffy lips—as red as Claudine's lipstick— told me who it was, despite his white mask. Claudine saw me and, leaning over Fribourg's shoulder, called, "Cherie, you've changed your dress. Two other women this evening are wearing the same one. We seem to have chosen the most popular number in Balenciaga's collection."

Until that moment, it hadn't occurred to me that at a distance, in dim light, Claudine de Jorans could be mistaken for me.