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“I can’t say that I’m exactly shattered. I’m too cynical for that. But it’s still disillusioning when your own government—or at least those who represent it—lie to you! That’s the sort of thing we expect from the Russians, but not from our own people!”

Angry and frustrated, Carla was speaking by phone to a close friend in New York, one of the senior editors of Time magazine. As she talked, she paced impatiently back and forth within the limits of the phone’s short cord in her fourteenth floor room at the Palais des Congres. Perfectly framed in her window, there before her gaze at the far end of Avenue Raymond Poincare lay the majestic monument of Place Victor Hugo and the sprawling Palais de Chaillot, while just beyond arose the black filigree of the Eiffel Tower. She fixed her eyes on its familiar and stolid beauty as a frame of reference for a world gone badly awry.

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