Foreign Affairs (8 page)

C
asselli seemed momentarily nonplussed, then he collected himself and spoke. “I think perhaps it would be useful if you and I met.”

“Fine, how about lunch tomorrow?”

“I'm committed for that time. Would the day after tomorrow be convenient?”

“Brasserie Lipp, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés at one o'clock?”

“But that is in Paris,” Casselli said.

“And I am in Paris,” Stone replied. “I don't know when or if I'll be returning to Rome. I may have to go back to New York soon.”

“Paris is awkward for me,” Casselli said.

“All right, New York?”

“No,” Casselli said. “Brasserie Lipp at one o'clock the day after tomorrow.”

“I'll book,” Stone replied. “See you then.” He hung up and turned to Rick. “Day after tomorrow.”

“I'm astonished,” Rick said. “It can't be that easy.”

“Apparently, Casselli thinks that dealing with me would be easier than dealing with Marcel. As you heard, I told him I wouldn't be returning to Rome.”

“Then I'll get in touch with our French partners and arrange for him to be detained.”

“Not until after lunch,” Stone said.

“Why after?”

“Because I want to hear what he has to say. And I want to see if I can persuade him to leave us alone.”

“Good luck with that,” Rick said, standing up. “Now, I have a meeting at my office.”

“Thank you for the protection,” Stone said. “I feel better knowing your men are out there. If Hedy should leave the house, please see that she is followed.”

“Of course,” Rick said. They shook hands, and he departed.

Dino came downstairs, yawning. “What time is dinner?”

“Seven-thirty?”

“It's dinnertime in New York.”

“No, it's lunchtime. Go see Marie in the kitchen—she'll find something for you.”

Dino disappeared into the kitchen, and Hedy came inside, carrying her easel. “I'm beginning to feel confined,” she said.

“Try the roof,” Stone replied. “There are some interesting views from up there.”

“Good idea.”

“Take the elevator to the top and walk up one flight. Don't be surprised if you encounter a man with a gun.”

“Would he be theirs or ours?”

“Ours. Introduce yourself.”

She vanished into the elevator, and Dino returned to the living room, bearing a sandwich and a beer.

“What's this called in French?” he asked, indicating the sandwich.

“
Croque-monsieur
. A grilled ham and cheese.”

Dino took the chair next to Stone's and had a bite. “It tastes different from a ham and cheese at home.”

“Lots of butter.”

“I saw Rick LaRose leaving, didn't I?”

“You did. He and his people are watching over us.”

“Well, that gives me a nice warm feeling inside.”

“It's the
croque-monsieur
.”

“Maybe you're right. What's new with Rick?”

“I think you already knew that he's the station chief in Paris?”

“I know.”

“What's new is that the Agency, meaning Lance, is beginning to view the European community as one country, the United States of Europe.”

“That's broad-minded of Lance. How will that help them do their job?”

“I think they're trying to find that out right now. Sounds great on paper, though, or at a congressional hearing.”

“I never think of Lance reporting to anybody.”

“Lance has a budget, like every other top bureaucrat, and it has to be approved by Congress.”

“I suppose.”

“Still, I think Lance manages to be more of an autocrat than most other Agency heads. Right now, he's taken the view that I should be a sacrificial goat in order to entrap Casselli, who is the lion in this scenario.”

“Are you going along with that?”

“To the extent that I have to, if I want his and Rick's protection while I'm in Paris.”

“What about Hedy? Is she a goat, too?”

“No, just an innocent bystander who's beginning to learn who she's involved with. I'm doing my best to make her feel safe.”

“Is she safe?”

“I hope so.”

T
hey enjoyed a very fine dinner at Lasserre that evening and Dino and Viv got to bed early to help with their jet lag.

While Hedy was getting ready for bed—a process that took half an hour—Stone took the elevator to the top floor, then walked up to the roof with a flashlight.

He opened the door and called out, “Hello? Anybody there? It's Barrington.”

“Step out the door,” a voice said, from nearer than Stone had expected. He switched on his flashlight and walked outside. Another flashlight came on, pointed at his face. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. What brings you up here tonight?”

“A little fresh air, and I like the view.”

“Everything all right down below?”

“Everything's just fine, thanks. I hope I didn't startle you.”

“No problem.”

Stone took in the view, including the Eiffel Tower, for a few
minutes, then went back downstairs and got into bed. Hedy came in and snuggled up. “Are we safe?”

“We are safe.”

“Are we going to stay that way?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Then I feel safe.”

They made love for half an hour and fell asleep in each other's arms.

—

T
he following day was sunny, and they drove out to Versailles in the old Mercedes convertible that had been part of the deal when Stone bought the house. They toured the palace, then had lunch at a local restaurant, and when they got back late in the afternoon, Rick LaRose was waiting for them in a black SUV, parked inside the gate.

“What's up?” Stone asked.

“We picked up some chatter. Casselli is, apparently, going to show up tomorrow,” Rick replied. “He plans to have lunch, then return to Rome.”

“If I can reason with him, do you still want to bag him?”

“I'll have to ask Langley.” That meant Lance.

“I'd like to try, anyway.”

“I came over to brief you on tomorrow's lunch.”

“So, brief me.”

“We're going to have a significant presence in and around the restaurant, that is, we and the Paris police.”

“Good.”

“Also, we've had a word with the maître d' about seating arrangements. Any apparent entourage of your luncheon companion will be shunted upstairs.”

“Good idea.”

“I also want you to record your conversation.”

“I don't mind doing that.”

Rick handed him a small jeweler's box. “This is what you'll use.”

Stone opened the box to find a small American flag pin. The red stripes were rubies, the white ones diamonds, and the blue field diamonds on a background of sapphires.

“Just put that in your buttonhole,” Rick said. “No visible wires or batteries. As soon as you plug the pin into the little clamp that holds it on, it activates. It's good for about three hours, which should be plenty.”

Stone put the pin back into the box and the box into his pocket. “Okay.”

Rick handed him another box. “This goes into your left ear,” he said.

Stone opened the box and found what appeared to be a lump of plastic. There was also a sort of tool with a hook on the end.

“Push it into the ear as far as it will go. To get it out, use the little hook.”

Stone examined the thing carefully. “You'll be able to talk to me?”

“Only if I have suggestions. If you can lead him into an admission of a crime, that would be a nice bonus.”

“I doubt he's going to pour his heart out to me.”

“Maybe he'll brag.”

“Who knows?”

“Exactly. If he does, encourage him.”

“I'll do that.”

“You might also encourage him to threaten you. That would be helpful to the French. Tomorrow, you won't see any of us. Just leave the house and walk down the street to Lipp.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want a weapon?”

“What would I do with it? Shoot him in the middle of a popular restaurant? I'd never get a table again.”

“Lance says to be careful.”

“Lance always says that. He doesn't really think I'll be exposed to harm, does he?”

“Lance always expects that. It's not a bad policy. One more thing: when you've wrapped up your lunch, don't leave the restaurant with him. Make an excuse to stay.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck.”

“Will I need it?”

“We'll see.”

A
t ten minutes before one Stone left the house and strolled down the few blocks to Brasserie Lipp, doing some light window-shopping along the way. The restaurant, a longtime hangout for people in the arts, had outside tables and a ground-floor dining room, plus an upstairs one where the tourists were invariably sent, to keep the main room open for regulars. Stone thought of it as Paris's answer to Elaine's, his old hangout in New York, until the death of Elaine.

The maître d' recognized him immediately.
“Bonjour, M'sieur Barrington.”
The two shook hands. “Your guest has not yet arrived.” He led Stone to a table against the wall, with a good view of the front door. Stone settled in and ordered a bottle of Perrier. “And please,” he said to the waiter, “bring large glasses for the wine and pour generously.” The man nodded and left.

He had not long to wait. Casselli appeared at the front door,
apparently alone, then approached the maître d'. Two men then entered the front door. The maître d' escorted Casselli to Stone's table, while his assistant greeted the two men and, after a short argument, sent them upstairs.

Casselli apparently didn't notice. Stone stood to greet him, and they shook hands coolly.

“I hope you had a good flight,” Stone said.

“I did,” Casselli said. “How did you know I flew?”

“I assumed that driving or taking a train would be cumbersome.”

“Quite right. How long have you been in Paris?”

“I'm sure you know,” Stone replied. May as well cut through the niceties.

Menus were brought.

“What's good here?” Casselli asked.

“It's an Alsatian restaurant. Try the
choucroute
.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Assorted meats and sausage on a bed of sauerkraut.”

Casselli turned up his nose. “Oh, all right, after all, when in . . . Paris.”

Stone ordered the food and a bottle of red wine.

“Now,” Casselli said, spreading his napkin in his lap. “If we may speak of business.”

Stone nodded. “Of course.”

“I realize that both you and Mr. duBois are not Italian, and you may not be fully aware of how business is done in Rome.”

Stone shrugged.

“Accomplishing such an enterprise as building a hotel in the city is very complicated . . . and very Italian.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“There are many, many permits issued by separate city departments which are required for building.”

“As there are in Los Angeles and Paris, where we already have hotels.”

“Oh, it is quite different in Rome,” Casselli said with a little smile. “One must deal with different . . . personalities, and in different departments they do not always operate by the same rules. Personal intercession by a knowledgeable intermediary can save much more time and money than the cost of such services. Everything goes more smoothly with the help of a . . . consultant.”

“I should imagine,” Stone said drily.

“You must have a permit for the foundations, then for the structure, then the roof—electrical, plumbing, all sorts of things.”

“'Twas ever thus, 'twill ever be.”

“What?”

“Please go on.”

“Our services extend even to supervising the building's workforce and that of subcontractors.”

“Mr. Casselli—”

“Leonardo, please.”

“Leonardo, perhaps you are not aware that we have obtained all the required permits so far with little trouble with the
bureaucracy. We, in fact, have already employed . . . consultants . . . who are performing satisfactorily.”

“Ah, but you have had a major fire, which complicates things.”

“Not really. We have obtained a permit for clearing the ground and starting over.” Stone didn't really know about these things, just the broad strokes, but he wanted to needle Casselli.

The food and wine arrived, and the waiter poured generous glasses. Stone raised his and took a sip. Casselli raised his and took a gulp.

“Sometimes,” Casselli continued, “frequently even, accidents occur on a site, and new permits are required.”

“Leonardo,” Stone said, “let me pause you right there. Clearly, you have spent much of your life in New York, and perhaps even on the Lower East Side and Little Italy. What you are trying to explain, decorously, to me is just a new version of an old practice. Someone throws a brick through the window of a small shop, then magically, his colleague appears to offer the owner protection from such outrages. A small weekly fee and no more bricks through the window: no more customers covered in broken glass, no more plateglass windows replaced. It's a very old racket, and I must say, I'm surprised that you have not found newer, more profitable ways to earn a living.”

Casselli reddened slightly, then smiled. “And I am surprised that you would think that we are not more modern in our approach. Oh, and the food is delicious—good choice.”

“Thank you. If you will forgive me for interrupting, I think I should take a moment to tell you what you are up against.”

“Up against?” Casselli asked, as if he had never heard of such a thing.

“In this instance, you are not dealing with a shopkeeper, but with Mr. duBois, possibly the richest man in Europe, and one with many, many business resources, and in my case with a person of considerable wealth and associations that are wide and deep. Perhaps you have heard of a company called Strategic Services?”

“Vaguely.”

“They are the second largest security company in the world, with offices in fifty cities, employing more than thirty thousand highly trained personnel and as many more contractors, many of whom are former Special Forces, Navy SEALs, FBI agents, and police officers, with all the training and capabilities that their experience can provide them. I am the second largest stockholder in that company and its chief attorney, and I can call upon their skills at any time and very quickly. Some of your men have already encountered these people and have come off badly in comparison.

“Secondly, there is me: perhaps you do not know that I am a former New York City police officer, and that my partner during those years is now the police commissioner of New York City, the most important police officer in the world, who is on close terms with his counterparts in Europe, including a Mr. Massimo Bertelli, who, as I'm sure you know, is head of the Italian DIA, which is responsible for pursuing ‘consultants' who attempt to extort legitimate businesses. Mr. Bertelli, I should tell you, is
taking a keen interest in the operations of Arrington Hotels in Rome, and especially in the building and permitting process, and a keen interest in you, personally, and in your operations and personnel.

“Finally, if I can say this without bragging, I am an informal adviser to the former president of the United States and his wife, the current president, and their close friend, which helps in all sorts of ways, and I am also a consultant to the Central Intelligence Agency, which helps in all sorts of other ways.

“So, should you continue to press your ‘services' upon us, you will find yourself swept by a tsunami of government and police attention to your every move. And should you think that you are sufficiently legally detached from your operations, you should know that we are in a position to offer multimillion-dollar rewards and new passports to anyone who might offer evidence of your criminal connections. When that happens, some of your associates might find it more profitable and safer to realign their loyalties.”

Stone refilled their wineglasses, then locked eyes with Casselli, who was paler, now, and trembling with anger. “Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

“No one has
ever
spoken to me in that manner,” he said, “and lived to tell about it.”

“Leonardo,” Stone said evenly, “perhaps you had better become accustomed to being spoken to in that manner, both in court and outside of it. It is time for you to retire from ‘business' and enjoy your ill-gotten gains, before they are all taken from
you and the flesh flayed from your bones, leaving you to the vultures.”

The waiter appeared and offered them dessert.

“I must go to the men's room,” Casselli said. “Please order me a double espresso.”

Stone ordered two and watched the man disappear down the stairs toward the toilets. Shortly, he heard a police siren from somewhere outside.

Casselli had been gone ten minutes when Rick LaRose came in, sat down in his place, and began drinking his espresso.

“I didn't hear from you through my earpiece,” Stone said, fishing the thing out with its hook.

“I thought you were doing very well without my help,” Rick replied.

“Did you take him?”

“He had a car waiting outside the kitchen door—a Paris police car. He's
gone.”