Leslie, sweetie, you didn't tell us WHY you were going to Europe. But we have the following account based on unnamed sources:
"The salt spray leapt and danced in coruscating rivulets, propelled by the force of booming surf against rocky cliff. A warm wind full of promise and foreboding flung it into Leslie's eyes like a fist full of diamonds, making her squint and tear against Monaco's welcoming kiss..."
Leslie sauntered into the Hotel Paris. She bought a drink and winked at the croupier, the handsome attendant at a gaming table who collects and pays bets.
"Pierce Brosnan is meeting me here later. Make sure he knows I'm the one who's got his chips."
She sat down, carefully placing her drink on the table after a smallsip. She looked with distant incompletely concealed menace at the well-dressed gent across the table, riffled her chips, and said simply, "Strom.... Leslie Strom..."
The enigmatic gent took a puff on his hookah---held by a terrified manservant whose eyes darted from side to side nervously---and leaned slightly into the table as he hissed, "Enzo Carlutti.... Of Carlutti Exports... Tell me, Ms. Strom.... Do you feel lucky tonight?"
A faint smile crossed her face and she fleetingly glanced at the dealer and spoke the single syllable in a clipped tone, "Deal..."
The cool metal of the PPK sequestered in its soft leather cut-down holster beneath her left arm was little comfort. The stakes tonight were very high, indeed. And that damn PPK wasn't nearly enough to do the job later when things heated up. As they surely would. "And by the way, Mr. Carlutti... This is a no-smoking casino----and your Cohiba stinks to high heaven...."
Carlutti showed no emotion as he studied his cards. Presently, he looked up at Strom, and said-----------
"You know Ms Strom, we are nowhere near Pullman....aren't you a bit....how do you say.... out of your league?"
"Not at all" replied Strom, feeling more comforting all the time. "As a matter of fact, there are quite a few similaraties between the South of France and the American Northwest...."
"So you say," the smarmy card shark snickered. "As you can see, like Seattle, this place is overrun by lumberjacks and grunge rockers." His eyes narrowed as he asked, "what brings you to our little kingdom on the Mediterranean, AGENT Strom?"
"Video..... Quality video," she said as she scanned her eyes from the oily sleazebag, Carlutti, to the shaking manservant, quickly across the crowd and back to Carlutti.
"It just so happens that I screened a video this morning" he said, "shot by a Plumbicon tubed Sony..."
"Registered, I hope," Strom snapped.
"Uh, uh, yeah, I guess," Carlutti stammered. "What does that matter?"
"If you knew what you were talking about, you wouldn't have asked, would you?" Leslie said. "This is a SET UP!"
Carlutti moved his hand under the table and in a split second Agent Strom dropped for the floor as she grabbed for the lethal Walther nestled in her armpit. The greaseball's gun fired and the bullet creased Leslie's hair as she pulled her hand out of her shirt clutching her.....breast?
"Shit," she thought, "Bond should have to deal with this" as she exchanged the boob for the PPK. Her automatic spit fire and lead as Strom rolled expertly across the floor.
The manservant's lifeless eyes seemed to stare at the chandelier, the smoking Mac-11 beside him. Carlutti lay wounded and coughing blood, his luger on the floor, as Agent Strom stood above him, her pistol aimed at his head.
"Tell me about the video, and do it quickly" she hissed.
Carlutti shuddered, and with a whine, said, "don't kill me... I'll show it to you, I'll show it to you now."
With a beautiful yet cruel smile, Leslie whispered, "play it......, play it again."
To the uninitiated, the slow, strained, twitching motion of an evil man who was about to be plunged into the river Styx could be an emotional challenge. But Strom was emotionless as she watched Carlutti reach into his coat pocket and withdraw a bloodstained Betamax tape. One of Strom's bullets had found it. Carlutti handed it to Strom as he exhaled his last breath.
She holstered the PPK and pried the tape from the dead man's hand. "Damn," she thought, "Where am I going to find a deck to play this thing?"
"I have one." The male voice came from behind her.
The hairs went up on the back of Strom's neck at the sound of that voice.. A sweet purring tone, eminated from deep inside of her, rolling out his name like warm honey melting from her tongue Felix - Felix Leitner, you Dog! It was of course Felix, the American CIA -er Casting Director who had periodically filled a very burning gap in Strom's somewhat sordid existance. He always seemed to turn up when her need grew dear.
He approached her snapping the lid of his gold plated zippo, as he lit a Black Sobrani and slid it between her lips....
The small flame from the lighter cast a soft light in the night, drawing Leslie's eyes to the shadowed silhouette of a man hovering in the background. As he approached, her eyes surveyed the chiseled features of the Herculean stranger - her mind in total abandonment of her quest. The tape fell from her fingers as a long moment of silence embraced them.
Felix could feel the electricity, and began shifting his weight nervously. "Leslie, meet Prince Albert."
"So, they finally let you out of the can.", mused Leslie as a smile moved across her mouth.
"My pleasure, madame," rolled the soft, sexy voice of the handsome Prince of Monaco. He kissed her hand, oblivious to the customary wise cracks of the Pullman alumni. Felix took advantage of Strom's distraction, and made his move for the tape.
====carry on with the next addition of this off-topic stretch of scriptwriting madness (although it is good practice for me as I enter into scripting my crayfish project)====
(I just hope Leslie's trip is half as interesting as our fantasy about it.)