Paris Match (5 page)

“And how will you answer the loss of the van?”

“The CIA will answer, since the van was theirs, and I expect they will do so emphatically.”

“Will that not escalate the matter?”

“I think the Agency will do it in such a way as to discourage escalation.”

“Do you know how they will do it?”

“No, and I don’t want to know.”

The two men changed the subject and discussed the opening of l’Arrington in detail.

“I’m very impressed with my suite and with what I can see of the lobby and the exterior.”

“By our opening next week, all will be perfection,” Marcel said. “I assure this by throwing the first party in the hotel for the staff and the construction crews. They will bring their wives and girlfriends to dine and drink, and for their party, they will see that everything is perfect. Our party will be a couple of nights later.”

Stone rose to return to his van. “Anything I can do at the hotel?”

“You might send a note to the manager with any suggestions, complaints, or requests that would make your stay more enjoyable. Guest feedback is the one thing we don’t have yet.”

“I will do so.”

They said their goodbyes, and Stone returned to the sanctity of his supervan.

  
  
8

S
tone was still feeling the effects of jet lag, so he had a nap, and when he woke, the Bacchettis were in the living room.

“We’ve ordered tea,” Viv said. Dino merely rolled his eyes. The waiter arrived and arranged things, then left.

“Have you made plans for dinner?” Viv asked.

“I have,” Stone replied. “Will you excuse me?”

“Yes, we have the welcoming dinner tonight at the Élysée Palace,” Dino said. “It’s our first opportunity to meet everybody before the conference begins tomorrow.”

“It’s Mirabelle, isn’t it?” Viv asked.

“It is.”

“Good, I’m glad you’ll have the company of someone other than Marcel and us.”

“That’s kind of you, Viv.” He knew she was thinking of Ann.

“Have you spoken to Ann yet?”

“Not yet. It’s still early there. I’ll try before dinner.”

“What’s going to happen with her if Kate is elected?” she asked.

“Everything,” Stone replied.

“That doesn’t sound good for the two of you.”

“It’s not. I’m going to have to get used to life without her, until she burns out on the job.”

“Poor Stone.”

“Don’t pity me. We had a good run, and we may have another opportunity later.”

The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Yes?”

“It’s Rick. How was your ride today?”

“Perfectly satisfactory, thank you.”

“Don’t go anywhere unless it’s in that van, you hear me?”

“I’m touched by your concern, Rick.”

“I have my pension to think of.”

“You’re a little young to be thinking of that, aren’t you?”

“Call it federal employee–itis.”

“Any repercussions from last night’s bonfire?”

“A small car bomb went off in a sheltered Paris street this morning. No one was harmed, but it made a lot of noise and smoke. I believe some windows were broken—the appropriate ones—and the facade of a particular building is going to need some work.”

“So the message was delivered, but do you think they’ll heed it?”

“I think they’ll think twice before pulling such a stunt again.”

“DuBois tells me he’s had an offer for his Arrington stock from some corporation he’s never heard of.”

“And how did he respond?”

“I suggested he send a brusque negative reply.”

“Good. I want them walled off.”

“So do I,” Stone said. “Rick, I didn’t bring any self-defense equipment with me. Do you think you can supply me with something concealable?”

“When are you going out again?”

“Around seven-thirty.”

“I’ll see that there’s a package for you in the van. Where are you going?”

“Out to dinner at a restaurant.”

“Where?”

“Brasserie Lipp, in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

“I’ll see that you’re seated away from the windows, and there’ll be someone there to keep an eye on you.”

“Let’s not overdo it.”

“When we don’t overdo it, things happen. Witness the events of last night.”

“All right, I won’t complain further, just make it as unobtrusive as possible.”

“Sure. See you later.”

Stone hoped not; he hung up and called Ann’s cell number.
The call went straight to voice mail. “Hi,” he said into the void. “I’m in Paris and fairly recovered from the flight. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

—

THE BLACK VAN
was waiting in the courtyard when Stone came down, and there was a lump wrapped in tissue paper on the seat.

“Brasserie Lipp?” the driver asked, and started to move without waiting for the answer. The guard in the passenger seat handed Stone a small device.

“There’s only one button,” the man said. “Press it once two minutes before you need us to pick you up. Press and hold as a panic button for a rapid response.”

“Thank you,” Stone said. He unwrapped the package and found a small 9mm handgun in a holster that clipped onto his belt. His tweed jacket covered it nicely, and it didn’t make a big bulge.

They pulled out of l’Arrington’s courtyard and into the evening traffic.

“Hang on!” the driver shouted, and the van began to make quick turns down dark streets, then back onto the boulevards. Stone figured this was precautionary and not due to a threat. They arrived at Lipp at two minutes before eight, pulling up behind a black Mercedes S-Class with darkened windows. He got out of the van as Mirabelle got out of the Mercedes.

In a moment, they were inside, and the headwaiter
immediately showed them to a cozy table well away from the windows.

“I don’t know if this table is for me or for you,” Mirabelle said.

“For the both of us, I think.”

They ordered drinks and dinner.

  
  
9

T
hey both ordered the house specialty, choucroute garni, which was a selection of sliced meats on a bed of sauerkraut, and beer, instead of wine.

While they waited for their food, Stone sipped his beer and had a good look around the place. He had taken the seat with his back to the wall, and he could survey the whole restaurant from there. His eyes stopped at a table across the room.

“Something wrong?” Mirabelle asked.

“I’m having a déjà vu experience,” he said.

“Describe it to me.”

“It’s last year, I’m having dinner at this restaurant, and two Russian thugs are seated at a table across the way.”

She looked into the mirror above his head. “Which ones?”

“The two in dark suits with shaved heads. An inordinate
number of the Russians I come into contact with have shaved heads.”

“I see them,” she said. “They look like their type, don’t they?”

“They do.”

“Well, they aren’t going to start shooting in one of Paris’s best-known restaurants. They’ll wait until we’re outside to kill us.”

Stone laughed. “So we’re two courses away from an ugly death?”

“But a famous one. We will be all over tomorrow’s papers, and my father and brother will be on TV, separately, promising to destroy our killers.”

“Why separately?”

“They don’t like each other very much.”

“How do they get along with you?”

“Better than they get along with each other.”

“That must make for tense family dinners.”

“There are no family dinners—at least, not with both of them in attendance. They take turns seeing my mother.”

“And you’re there for both turns?”

“Sometimes. I try not to always make it.”

“Given the family business, you must have had an overprotected childhood.”

“Once past puberty, yes. It didn’t help that my brother, my only sibling, is ten years older than I. Boys with too much ambition for me were delivered beatings.”

“Did that cut down on the number of your suitors?”

“No, it just made them stop coming to the house. I had to
meet them somewhere my father and my brother couldn’t think of, or a girlfriend would pick me up and deliver me, on the way to her own evening out.”

As their dinner arrived, Stone’s cell phone began vibrating. He knew who it was, and he pressed the button that would send the call to voice mail.

“Do women often call you in the middle of a dinner with another woman?”

“It only seems that way,” he said. “Anyway, it was my call being returned. I’ll phone again tomorrow.”

“She must miss you terribly.”

“One hopes, but she is a very busy woman right now. She works for Katharine Lee’s campaign.”

“Ah, our papers have been full of the pregnant candidate!”

“What do the French think of it?”

“The women like it. The men think she should leave the race, but they are careful about telling their wives that. Do you know Kate Lee?”

“Quite well,” Stone said.

“Is she carrying your baby?”

Stone held up a hand. “Don’t say that, even in jest. You never know who’s listening.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“The answer is an emphatic
no
. I know her quite well, but not
that
well, and her husband is my friend, too.”

“That would not stop a Frenchman.”

“It wouldn’t stop a lot of Americans, either, but I am not one of them.”

“We have had some…
unusual…
first ladies,” she said, “especially lately, but we’ve never had a pregnant one, at least not since Jacqueline Kennedy.”

“Neither have we,” Stone said. “I was at the press conference when Kate announced it, and the reaction of the media was pretty much nuclear in nature.”

“Do you think it will help or hurt her chances of election?”

“The first poll taken after her announcement elicited mostly favorable responses from women and neutral ones from men. I think American men, like Frenchmen, don’t want to argue the point with their wives. Their reactions in a bar with male friends might be very different, though.”

“So, will it help or hurt?”

“I think it will help to the extent that it turns out the women’s vote. If they respond, that could mean the election. The immediate effect is for the press to ignore her opponent and concentrate on Kate, which must drive the Carson campaign crazy.”

“Well,” Mirabelle said, “if it drives the other campaign crazy, it must be good for her.”

They continued their dinner, but slowly, since they were talking so much. As Stone asked for the check, he saw the two men at the other table doing exactly the same.

“I’m going to pay in cash,” Stone said, “and then I think we should run for it while the opposition is dealing with credit cards.”

“I’m on my mark,” she said.

  
  
10

S
tone glanced at the check, threw some euros on the table, got up, grabbed Mirabelle’s hand, and hurried toward the door. He glanced at the two bald men and saw one of them signing a credit card chit and the other rising and heading toward them. Stone hit the door running, passed the tables outside, and stopped on the sidewalk. No van. Then he remembered the panic button.

“Come on,” he yelled, and started running through Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He groped in a pocket, then another but couldn’t find it.

“Don’t go down this street,” Mirabelle shouted. “Too few people!”

Stone turned and ran back into the open plaza and into
traffic. A huge black shape appeared in the corner of his eye, and there was a screeching of brakes and a chorus of horns.

“Get in here!” a man shouted.

Stone turned and saw the van, the rear door open. He pushed Mirabelle inside and heard the door slam behind him. Through the window he could see the two bald Russians running toward them, looking annoyed.

“What happened?” the guard yelled.

“Two Russians,” he panted.

“Why didn’t you use the panic button? We had two men in the restaurant.”

“Couldn’t find it. Two Russians were there.”

There was a banging on the front door of the van, and the guard’s window slid down. He exchanged some words with someone outside, then closed the window. “Were the Russians two bald guys?”

“Yes,”

“Those were our people. You scared them to death.”

“
Your
people?”

“Of course. What did you think?”

“I thought they were the Russians.”

“You’re getting paranoid, Mr. Barrington.”

“I wonder why? I’m locked in an armored van with two armed men, two others are watching me in a restaurant. Why would I be paranoid?”

The man ignored the question. “Where to?” he asked.

“The Arrington?” Stone said to Mirabelle.

“I think we’ll be safe there,” she said sardonically. She
picked up her phone. “I have to call my car.” She spoke in French for a moment, then put the phone away. “They’ll follow,” she said.

The ride home was much like the earlier ride—fast and down side streets. They were at the hotel sooner than Stone had anticipated.

—

STONE CLOSED
the suite door behind him.

“That was quite funny,” Mirabelle said.

“I’m glad you were amused.”

“The sight of an American spy running from his own bodyguards must have amused any Russians present.”

“Champagne?”

“Perfect.”

Stone found a bottle of Marcel’s favorite Krug in the bar fridge, opened it, and filled two flutes. He sat down next to Mirabelle on the sofa; she didn’t move over.

“Listen carefully,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“I am
not
a spy.”

“So you say.”

“I am an attorney. I am a partner in a New York law firm. As such, I sometimes consult for the Agency.”

“You said that before, but it doesn’t make any sense. Why would the CIA consult with anybody?”