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footman, could have absconded with such a huge haul from his queen. It was unbelievable.
    I buttered a six-cup soufflé mold and, in another allowance for the properties of chocolate, sprinkled it with flour, not sugar.
    I took a large, sharp knife, slivered three and half ounces of semi-sweet chocolate off a one-pound block, scraped it into the top of a double boiler over scarcely simmering water, and added a little espresso.
    St Moritz. One of the most exclusive, expensive resorts in the world. Thomas obviously didn’t have a clue what he was saying when he said “St. Moritz” and “unlimited budget” in the same sentence. But, then again, if the queen were paying . . . was there something else to this? Something Thomas hasn’t told me? What did he mean when he said he’d performed a number of covert services for the queen over the years?
    I stirred the starch and milk together in a saucepan, added a little sugar, and let them come quickly to the boil. Within seconds it was a thick, gluey mess. I immediately pulled the pan off the heat and beat in the hot, melted chocolate, laid a few pats of butter over the top, and set it aside to cool. Letting this mixture reach close to room temperature is one of the key steps to a successful chocolate soufflé.
    Now for the eggs. Five whites into a large bowl and three yolks into a small one. I threw away the other two yolks. Some cooks keep extra whites and yolks in the freezer for future use, but when I need them, I need them and I can’t use them if they’re frozen, and that’s assuming I even remember they’re in the freezer in the first place.
    A large suite at the Palace Hotel. I have a policy about traveling: I’m not interested in staying anywhere that isn’t nicer than my own home. But from what I’d heard over the years, I was quite sure Badrutt’s Palace would come close.
    The egg whites quickly came together into stiff peaks before I added a little sugar and by then the chocolate batter was cool enough to receive the yolks without cooking them. In they went, whisked until well blended. Then the egg whites folded in delicately. Then the whole affair went into the baker and into the oven.
    I sliced a loaf of bread for the crostini, laid the slices on the grill, and kept a close eye on them while they browned.
    “I thought a nice fat Syrah would be perfect with the ragout,” Thomas interrupted my reverie. He set a bottle of 1999 Chapelle Jaboulet Hermitage on the counter and began to remove the capsule.
    “Absolutely.” I brushed the toasts with olive oil, scrubbed them vigorously with sliced garlic, and sprinkled them with crunchy crystals of Fleur de Sel and ground pepper.
    Well, it can’t hurt to ask a few more questions, can it?
    By the end of lunch, he’d sunk the hook in fast and reeled me in. Thomas can be very persuasive. I agreed to take on the assignment.
    The soufflé was perfect. We ate it in bed with a bottle of Champagne.
    I slept little that night. I focused instead on creating a feasible strategy and scenario, and each time I created a plan, I ran through it from beginning to end, testing every possible angle and pitfall. Many ideas were discarded, but finally, about two-thirty in the morning, all the pieces fell into place and after another couple of hours of testing its merits, I felt confident I had a bulletproof strategy. It would be complicated and possibly even dangerous, but it would work. I got up and made a pot of coffee and sat quietly in the living room, just staring across the now moonlit valley, testing and testing, examining every contingency.
    Pierre, my houseman, arrived at seven to drop off the newspapers, croissant, and baguette. I was already dressed in my favorite pink warm-up suit and soft leather ballet slippers.
    “Pierre,” I said. “I think Monsieur has time to look at the new tractor-mower this morning. Does that suit you?”
    He nodded.
    “Good. I’ll let him know.”
    After breakfast, Thomas and Bijou left