He has to be a spy.

Just has to be. Undeniably. Most certainly. Highly definitely and through-and-through thoroughly. The intrigue? The mystery? The continued absence of the once-perfectly-consistent yet cryptic classified ads in boldface type? The veiled references to scuba diving and a packed travel schedule? The refusal to respond to text messages (to avoid leaving a data trail)? Nope, no doubt about it, no way around it, no reasonable means of reasonably ruling it out. Plain and simple, clear as mud, Michel is completely, unequivocally, distinctly a spy.

He totally is.

Surely you remember Michel. From the Fusac, Paris’s Anglophone weekly? The classifieds, ‘Strictly Conversation.’ Looking for a French/English language exchange, for someone with whom to “walk-and-talk” in Parc Monceau. Or jog. Both ads in BOLD. For years. Decades, practically. The exact same two ads every two weeks. Nothing changed, not one word, ever, not even his alleged age. And then – poof! – he’s gone. Out of print. Disappeared! No walk-and-talk, no jogging, no language exchanges in Parc Monceau. Just gone.

Which is why it was so obvious to a veteran journalist that Michel was a spy. Had to be. Because when you place the same ads with the same words; when you declare that you’re age forty-eight for years and years and years, decades even, you’re not interested in walking and talking, couldn’t care less about jogging, wouldn’t give a rat’s cul for French/English language exchanges. When you buy that many ads, over and over again, you’re sending out an espionage-related code to your fellow operatives. ‘Still waters run deep’ or ‘smooth sailing on rough seas’ or something similarly sinister. And then when all of a sudden – poof! – you’re gone, out of print, well, it means that something’s going down. Everybody knows that.

But nooooo…people wanted proof. They didn’t believe said veteran journalist. Thought she had gone a wee bit batty. Refused to believe that the silky voice on Michel’s messaging system sounded like James Bond’s. They craved more information. They couldn’t help themselves. One couldn’t blame them.

“My dear, you’ve got to deliver the goods,” a certain editor commanded, her eyebrows arched in a certain authoritative manner. “You have a deadline, and readers want answers.”

Answers. What could said journalist do? She pondered Mata Hari, and if she had felt similarly pressured at the debut of a new mission, one that she couldn’t wile her way out of. What would Mata Hari do? She would arrange to meet Michel, of course. Set up a rendez-vous. It was necessary, paramount, unavoidable, professional.

But most importantly: what would Mata Hari wear?

A series of phone calls. He couldn’t meet her this week because he was in Germany, then Austria. (That wasn’t proof enough that he was a spy?) What about next Wednesday, after work? Pas possible. Other commitments. Hmm. Saturday morning, then (when there would be plenty of weekend people milling around the park)? Euh…non. Was planning to sleep in on Saturday. Had been scuba diving several times as of late and was a little tired. Scuba diving? How fascinating. Very James Bond. How does your Friday evening look, like, say, around six (when there was bound to be plenty of after-work people milling around the park)? Perfect. Six o’clock. Sharp. We’ll meet at Metro Courcelles.

“So what’s your cover story going to be?” inquired an American writer who had recently been reading Raymond Chandler and had moved on to a gruesome behind-the-scenes account of the inner workings of biker gangs.

Right. A cover story. Every good spy had one. What was hers?

“You’re going to have to give him your reason for being in Paris,” he offered.

Right again. A reason for being in Paris? What reason was there for not being in Paris? But O.K., she got the point.

She was in Paris because…because…because she was briefly visiting her uncle who lived here. A boxing champion. A boxing champion who was training with a famous coach who was based here in the City of Light. Her uncle was kind of like Edith Piaf’s lover, the boxer Marcel Cerdan. Only he was her uncle. Her boxing uncle. And her niece. She had a niece who lived here too, you know. A karate-kicking niece. She had a black belt in, like, everything.

“And what do you do for a living?” the writer persisted. (You kind of got the feeling that he was jealous and wanted to be Mata Hari too.)

That was easy. She worked in marketing. Everybody worked in marketing, after all. It was a believable cover. She worked in marketing for some faceless American corporation that manufactured useless gadgets that stood no chance of selling during the best of times, let alone in the throes of an economic crisis. Therefore, she could complete what little work she had to do from abroad. Telephone and Internet and Skype and all. A fine cover indeed.

Friday morning. Overcast. Thirteen degrees, Celsius. According to Météo France.

A certain journalist-cum-Mata Hari, niece to a boxing uncle, aunt to a karate-kicking niece, middle manager in the marketing department of a nameless U.S. manufacturer of completely pointless products that would never sell, anytime, anywhere, is groggily going through the morning papers. Newsflash: a Web site, a classifieds Web site, one that she knew well and used often, is on the hot seat. Several women linked with the service had been brutally murdered by roving maniacs. Roving maniacs who sought out their victims on the Internet. In the PERSONAL ads.

Mata Hari began making silent secretive freaking out sounds.

She called a girlfriend, one who also worked in the media, an executive-type who would no doubt conjure up staunch images of the journalists working in Iraq, the real journalists, the ones who had cajones, the ones who risked their lives to get the story told, making a certain journalist-cum-Mata Hari feel like a big baby. This was what she was seeking; she needed a little tough love, a little spine-ironing.

“But what if Michel has a band of thugs waiting for you in the park? They could club you over the head and carry you away to attack you some more, and no one would be the wiser,” the executive-type hypothesized helpfully. “And if everything does go well, which I only pray it will, be careful in the Metro afterwards. You probably shouldn’t go directly home in case he follows you. Do you want me to call you at six-fifteen to make sure you aren’t being assaulted by then?”

Oh God.

Six o’clock sharp. Well, six-oh-two, actually. Some distraught someone has thrown themselves onto the train track, delaying the Line Two to Metro Courcelles. A certain journalist tries not to take this as a bad omen.

Michel calls as she’s getting off the train (when you’ve been a spy for this many years, you’re always punctual) and it’s decided that they’ll meet in the café across from the Metro exit instead. The sky is threatening rain – not ideal weather for walking and talking in Parc Monceau.

She smooths her hands over her dress. She had wanted, as a tribute to the first Mata Hari, to wear something a little sexier, slinkier, more Mata Hari-esque, more va-va-voom! But then she remembered reading the autobiography of an ex-CIA agent, a woman, who noted that real spies didn’t dress like the actresses that played Mata Hari in the movies because it called attention to them. They wore boring, frumpy fashions instead. Like Laura Ashley. Va-va-voom-ing it up would have pegged her as an amateur, so she donned her least favorite dress, a flowery flowy thing that made her look pregnant. She wasn’t. Definitely. But she figured it would make her look, well, average. Plus, in the off-off-off-off chance that Michel was really a psychotic axe murderer, it could serve as protection. Psychotic axe murderers probably thought twice before hacking up pregnant women. Then, too late -she already had the flowery pregnancy dress on – she remembered the Manson Family.

And now she spotted him. She picked him out right away. He was sooooo a spy. And he was soooooo not forty-eight.

But it was him all right. Couldn’t have been anyone else. Wasn’t the guy in the trench coat and fedora that was lounging creepily around outside of the newsstand. Was definitely not the dude in the dark sunglasses seated on the terrasse of the café, sporadically muttering into a walkie-talkie. No, it was the tanned, gray-haired, hatless gentleman of medium height and build, in a dark polo shirt and matching slacks. She just knew it. After all, in the interest of staying current, he had probably read the book by that CIA woman, too. He may not have been forty-eight, but he was trim and fit-looking for his age. And that, of course, was because of all of that jogging and scuba diving and walking and talking and James Bond caper-filled spying.

Oh, he was good, all right, this Michel, in his Mr. Everyman get-up. This scuba-diving jogger, this bi-lingual French/English walker-and-talker. But soon he would see that he had met his match. After giving a little wave, a certain journalist-cum-Mata Hari-cum-niece-cum-aunt-cum-middle marketing manager tossed her hair, threw her shoulders back, held her chin high and thought: time for a little spy-versus-spy.

But the thing was, Michel was too good. Was far too experienced to be had by some Mata Hari newbie. Had seen much too much to blow his cover for a pregnant dress-wearing wannabe spook. Knew the ropes too well to be hoodwinked into revealing his born identity. Wasn’t going to give it all up by ordering a dry martini, shaken, not stirred. (He preferred a Diet Coke, light on the ice, with a twist of lemon, merci beaucoup.) And while the weather made it difficult for walking, it didn’t prevent talking, and that’s just what Michel did: he talked. And talked. And talked. And talked. And talked. About scuba diving. Mainly. Mostly. Pretty much the whole time. Do you receive a lot of calls for your French/English walk-and-talks? Yes, in the springtime. In the winter, nobody calls, which is good, because it frees up more time for scuba diving. And you travel a lot, yes? For business or pleasure or…? Yes, for pleasure, of course. I like to visit different spots to scuba dive. And, as a certain journalist watched six-fifteen, then six-seventeen, then six thirty-five, then six forty-eight, then seven-oh-four tick by, it occurred to her: this spying racket can be tedious.

Sunday morning, eleven o’clock. A certain journalist has severed ties with her boxing uncle, has disowned her karate-kicking niece. She’s quit her job at the faceless American manufacturer of useless products. Given her flowery flowy pregnant spy dress away to charity. She didn’t really need her cover anymore, didn’t have the energy to keep it up. Probably it was different back in Mata Hari’s day, back when spying was more romantic.

A beeping mobile phone, the arrival of a new text message. She glances down and smiles. That Michel – what a pro! Won’t drop his cover for anything! He may not be in the Fusac anymore – she would miss him, she really would – and it was time for her to move on. He, however, a real spy, through and through, was maintaining his front just the same. And so before erasing the message (she, too, wanted to avoid leaving a data trail), filled with nostalgia for her old, short-lived profession, she re-reads it several times:

“The other day, I forgot to ask: do you jog?”