The sound of a key being inserted into a latch echoed throughout the living room. The three men turned to the door as a startled Dominique Lavier walked inside. Her astonishment, however, was so brief as to be fleeting; there were no cracks whatsoever in her composure. Brows arched in the manner of a regal mannequin, she calmly replaced the key in her beaded purse, looked over at the intruders and spoke in English. Well, Kruppie, I might have known you were somewhere in this bouillabaisse. Ah, the charming Jacqueline, or may we drop the pretense, Domie? Kruppie? cried Alex. Domie? ... Is this old home week? Comrade Krupkin is one of the more advertised KGB officers in Paris, said Lavier, walking to the long, cubed red table behind the white silk sofa and putting down her purse. Knowing him is de rigueur