CHAPTER 5De Gaulle is as French as O’Hare or Kennedy. International airports are pretty much alike, and so are their restaurants. My ham omelette was unaware of the country’s culinary reputation. But it filled the spot left by the sandwich I hadn’t gotten to finish in Fischman’s Cafe.
All that Maureen Byrne was having was a tall glass of Perrier. She wasn’t the hard-eyed businesswoman Paul Rochefort had led me to imagine. Her eyes were soft, and so was her voice. She was a slimmer, older version of her daughter. Her suit was elegantly tailored but not trendy, her hair was cut longer than that of most French women executives, and she didn’t use makeup to hide the work and anxiety lines around her mouth and eyes.
I found myself liking her. But ever since I’d made the mistake of telling her
