“You spray fluorocarbons into the atmosphere,” Thro explains patiently, “where they’re bombarded by sunlight—right?—and what do they do when they’re bombarded by sunlight? They break up, releasing atoms of chlorine, is what they do. Then the chlorine atoms react with the ozone, which is a kind of oxygen whose molecules contain three atoms instead of what’s normal, which is two, converting it. … You’re sure I never told you this one before?”
“No, no, this is all new to me.” He thinks: Everything will be riding on the first contact. That’s the moment when it either goes right or it goes wrong. The first contact.
“… converting it to conventional oxygen, and there goes your ozone shield and in pour the ultraviolet rays, and zingo, everyone comes down with skin cancer.”
“My God!” He thinks: I’ve got to handle him carefully. Any sudden motion, he’ll take off like a panic-stricken pigeon.
“That’s one possibility,” continues Thro. She laughs nervously. “Then there’s the possibility we’re moving into a new ice age. Indisputable scientific fact number one: The earth is colder than it was ten years ago. Indisputable scientific fact number two: The icecap over the poles is growing thicker each year. Are you listening, Stone? You sure you’re interested to hear this? If that doesn’t finish us off, there’s always the possibility that we’ll use ourselves up.” Thro is becoming agitated by her own story. “We dig out of the earth 2.7 billion tons of minerals a year. Okay. If you figure on the basis of a three percent annual growth rate a year, which figure is modest to say the least, the consumption of minerals in a single year one thousand years from now will be greater than the weight of the earth! Can you imagine that, Stone? Greater than the weight of the entire earth.”
“Holy cow!” Stone tries to imagine it, but draws a blank. He thinks: If I went according to the manual, I wouldn’t be doing this myself. I’d send in Kiick or Mozart. But I’m curious to see him—I’m curious to see the face of the man whose life I plan to ruin.
Thro bites viciously into a croissant, sucks noisily at her cup of American coffee, takes another bite of croissant. “Then there’s the distinct possibility that the Antarctic ice sheet will slip into the ocean, which would raise the sea level twenty feet and flood every coastal city in the world. And you have to confront the fact that someday the sun is going to burn out. And if all that doesn’t get us”—she breaks into a slightly hysterical laugh—“we’ve got to live with the very real likelihood that there is less than one atom for every eighty-eight gallons of space, which means the universe is going to expand forever, with the result that the stars will all fizzle out like candles and we’ll be adrift in an endless empty black graveyard of space.”
“That would be a pity.” Stone thinks: I hope I don’t like him. I hope to God he rubs me the wrong way. I’m ready to go through with it even if I do like him, but it’ll be easier if I don’t.
“What worries me sick,” Thro sighs, “is that something will happen that we don’t have enough imagination to imagine.” She bangs down her coffee cup. “You haven’t heard a word I said, Stone. The fact is you don’t give a damn how the world will end.”
“You want to do me a favor,” Stone says in an undertone, irritated at the heads starting to turn their way, “stop flashing that goddamn ring of yours when you talk. It makes me nervous.” He thinks: What if the heavies refuse to let him out of their sight? What if he tumbles to the microphone? Or the camera? What if?
Thro’s eyes—they look brand-new—suddenly lift and focus on Stone’s face; she looks deathly pale in the cold lilac light sifting through the leafless branches on Boulevard Saint-Germain. “Sometimes,” she says softly—when she is really hurt, she always talks softly—“I can’t believe how aggressive you are.”
“Everyone’s aggressive,” he says sullenly, “except the dead.”
“My aggressions are less violent than yours, Stone,” she retorts. “They’re physical.”
Stone, embarrassed by her stare, shakes his head, waves a hand—vague gestures of apology for his natural acidity, which is the way he responds to pressure. There is a long silence. Why is it, he thinks, that my relationships with women start off in poetry, slip into prose and wind up in strained silences? “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He is conciliatory now. “It’s just that every time the ring turns black, you have a way of waving it around like a flag.”
An elegant woman at the next table turns quickly away, whispering to her companion in French, and Stone, annoyed at being overheard, switches to what Thro calls his “BBC Russian”; it always manages to get a laugh out of her. “I’ve got an idea for you, Thro. Why don’t you put an ad in the Tribune. Or hire yourself a skywriter.” He reaches up and traces a phrase in Cyrillic in the air with the tip of a spoon. “N-y-e-t s-e-x.”
The accent has the desired effect; Thro cannot help but smile. “Love, it’s my way of signaling you,” she answers in a Russian only slightly less fluent than his. “All lovers have signals. I happen to have a gold ring that turns black when I get my period.” She tugs playfully at the hairs on the back of his wrist, leans closer until her mouth is next to his ear, switches into what Stone calls her “BBC sexy.” “Remember,” she says playfully, “our first trip to Paris together?”
As if Stone could ever forget it. He had been scouting the Soviet frontier near Hamina, Finland, for crossing points. Thro, five pounds overweight and wandering around with a degree in psychology she wasn’t sure what to do with, was on her way back from the Hermitage in Leningrad. Their paths crossed in Helsinki, in a hotel sauna, to be exact. Stone was flat on his back, being scrubbed down by an old woman he nicknamed “Mama Wash” when Thro turned up, round and pink and bare and unconcerned by five extra pounds or the bareness, carrying it off as if it were the most natural thing in the world to walk into a sauna stark naked and find yourself alone (Mama Wash soon disappeared) with a strange man trying to will away an erection. Unsuccessfully, as things turned out. They made love in the sauna, showered together, made love again in his hotel room, then took their first long look at each other: Stone with his natural acidity and his brooding way of peering out at the world and his permanent fixture of a frown, as if he were pondering the absence of a great scheme of things; Thro with her run-on sentences describing all the ways the world would end—the list was never-ending. Both of them liked what they saw, and said it, so they teamed up and went on to Paris for what turned out to be a glorious week, with Thro falling in love with an outdoor café in Palais Royal while Stone fell in love with Thro. “Get that company of yours to post you here,” she commanded—it was before she knew what Stone’s company did; before she herself went to work for it—“or at least invent some assignments that will bring us back once in a while.”
Which is why, when Stone got the bright idea to set up a Russian diplomat, he picked one who was based in Paris.
Stone glances at his watch, sees it this time, calls for the check, argues (in BBC French; another smile from Thro) with the waiter attempting to hold them accountable for four croissants instead of three, counts out change. “I’ve got to get going,” he says in English. “I’ll be back at Kiick’s shop around two-thirty, three maybe, to tie up the loose ends. Which should put me back at the hotel around six at the latest. Did you see what Kiick painted on the window of the showroom? ‘Père et Fils depuis 1977’!”
Thro smiles, but there is a tightness to her lips, and lines at the corners of her eyes. “Traditions have to start someplace.” She hesitates. “This isn’t … dangerous, is it, Stone?” she asks quietly.
Stone shakes his head and smiles, and she smiles back, though the tightness is still there. “I’ll never get used to you with a three-day beard,” she says. “You look like a Polish Jew from the shtetl.”
Stone answers in singsong Yiddish. “A Polish Jew from the shtetl is what I am. Gold rings turned black by your endocrine balance are what I detest. Sholom aleichem.”
Thro waves her black ring in his face. “Are
you a Hasid,” she taunts him in English—the elegant lady at the next table visibly cringes—“that you’re afraid to have sex during menstruation?”
Stone picks up a Tribune at a kiosk, scans the headlines, is mildly surprised to see it is already February. He is all business now, and the first order of business is to tuck the Tribune under his arm so that the crossword puzzle is clearly visible.
Stone was trained as a street man, but he has had very little opportunity to put to use what he knows. Now he operates on memories of old textbooks with a very limited distribution, and an instinct for the street that caught the eye of his instructors when he started out twenty years before.
Halfway across the Pont des Arts, he stops to watch an unshaven young man at work on all fours. (He is trying to pass himself off as a poverty-stricken art student, but the Gucci loafers give him away.) He has printed, in large Gothic letters, on the walkway:
LES QUOIQUE SONT DES PARCEQUE MÉCONNUS
M. PROUST
and is illuminating, with bits of colored chalk, the first letter of each word.
Where, Stone wonders, does Kiick find them? Shrugging, he drops a franc onto the chalk drawing of a hat already filled with coins.
“Kiick said you’d be stingy,” the young artist mutters without looking up. His voice is neutral, without tone, without shadings. “In case you’re curious, you’re clean as a whistle.”
“You do that well,” Stone comments, nodding toward the illuminated letters, trying to sound mildly sarcastic.
“I’m a medievalist at heart,” the young man replies seriously.
“Aren’t we all,” moans Stone.
He continues across the bridge, feeling more secure now that he has confirmed he is not being followed. To be on the safe side, he mingles for a while with a large group of German tourists gaping at the Louvre, then doubles back on his tracks, wandering (not so aimlessly) through the park. A church bell is chiming the hour as he enters Palais Royal from the Louvre side.
He spots the two heavies almost immediately; the one he is supposed to notice is sitting on a bench scattering seeds to pigeons that peck around his trousers, which are baggy and have wide frayed cuffs. The other, dressed in clothing he bought in Paris, sits on the edge of a fountain, which has been turned off for the winter, buried in a right-wing French newspaper called Minute. The third heavy he learns about from the Gypsy woman (another one of Kiick’s free-lancers) with a baby under her arm (Stone doubts the baby has been thrown in free of charge). “There’s another one in the café,” simpers the Gypsy woman, holding out her hand for a coin. “Crew cut. Blue tie. Also a team photographing from the apartments.”
Stone comes up with a franc for the Gypsy, then strolls across the park toward La Gaudriole, Thro’s hangout when they first came to Paris together. They were drawn to the small café with the white metal tables outside because of the name; Thro was forever telling off-color jokes, which is what gaudriole means. Stone, his face tense beneath the mask of beard, approaches the Russian diplomat who is sitting at a table, his feet planted flat, knees apart, a copy of Céline placed conspicuously in front of him. He looks exactly like his passport photograph, Stone thinks: tired, with a grainy complexion; one-dimensional. He is fiftyish, with thick hair brushed straight back without a part, and very ill at ease; he wears black silk stockings that have long since lost their elasticity and sag around his thick ankles. Two tables away, the heavy with the crew cut and the blue tie sizes up Stone; his look is so open, so frank, that Stone has the impression he is soliciting.
“Good day to you,” Stone addresses the diplomat. He speaks French with a slight German accent now. “I invite you to come with me.”
The Russian diplomat, whose name is Boris Gurenko, looks around uncertainly. “I understood the meeting would be here. You specified La Gaudriole. You said nothing about following you elsewhere.”
“The meeting is here,” Stone explains patiently. “The exchange of my documents for your money, if it takes place at all, will take place in an excellent restaurant not very far away.” Stone glances casually at the line of apartment windows overlooking the park. “Here it is too … observable for my tastes.”
The diplomat hesitates, turns questioningly toward the heavy two tables away, who takes another long slow insolent look at Stone before he makes up his mind. He nods once. “All right,” the diplomat says, collecting his copy of Céline. “But I don’t see what you’ll gain. They’ll follow wherever we go.”
Without a word, Stone starts off with the diplomat in tow. The three heavies fan out behind them; two in their wake, the third (the one Stone isn’t supposed to notice) angled off to one side. With Stone leading, this odd procession makes its way to the entrance of Le Grand Vefour, a three-star restaurant on the far side of Palais Royal, backing onto Rue de Beaujolais.
Inside, Stone—vaguely ill at ease; dining at a three-star restaurant was Mozart’s bright idea of how to ditch the heavies—mumbles a name to the maître d’hôtel, who scans his notebook, confirms the reservation, offers them the last two vacant seats. Behind them at the door, there is a frantic conference as the three heavies (the one in French clothes has dropped all pretense of being there by accident) study the menu posted in a glass case; it is impossible to get out of Le Grand Vefour, a restaurant where the vin ordinaire is a reasonably grand cru, for less than two hundred francs a head. After an animated discussion, the Russians pool their resources, dispatch the one with the French suit inside—where he is turned away by the maître d’hôtel; one dines at Le Grand Vefour by reservation only.
“That was neatly done,” the Russian diplomat comments, warming to the ambiance, licking his lips at the thought of the haute cuisine that he will soon feast on. Outside, two very worried heavies have taken up positions on either side of the entrance to the restaurant; the third has raced off to find a telephone.
“The Americans have a saying,” remarks Stone. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”
The Russian watches intently as the waiter serves lobster in a milky sauce to someone at the next table. “They are only here to protect me,” he explains, “in case you aren’t what you say you are.”
“You have no need of them,” Stone says flatly. “I am what I say I am: Someone who has four single-spaced typed sheets of military information to sell if the price is right.”
The maître d’hôtel approaches. “Would you care for a cocktail?”
“We’ll order immediately,” announces the Russian diplomat. “My friend here has a lean and hungry look.” Gurenko studies the menu as Stone squirms uncomfortably; Le Grand Vefour is not his cup of tea. “We’ll begin with some gravettes,” the Russian instructs the maître d’hôtel. To Stone, he explains: “Gravettes are very small sweet oysters from the Arcachon Basin. I always make it a habit to begin a meal eating something with my fingers. It’s very important to touch food, I think.” To the maître d’hôtel, who is visibly impressed: “Then we’ll attack a plate of your young leeks with truffles in olive oil. After that”—Gurenko purses his lips, as he tries to decide—“ah, after that we’ll try your Rouelle de Langouste Bretonne à la Vapeur de Verveine aux Girolles et Chicorée.” To Stone: “You’ll like that. The transparency of the green chicory leaf complements the translucence of the langouste. Now, let me give this some thought. Yes, yes, after that we’ll have a salad of white endives and mushrooms—canaris, lactaires, girolles, charbonniers and trompettes de la mort would make a superb bouquet. Don’t bother with the cheese platter; only bring us a perfect Reblochon. For wine, you’ll have to put up with my unusual tastes. Bring us a bottle of your Mouton Lafitte, 1964. Ha! I can see the choice astonishes you.” The Russian explains to Stone. “I’m one of the very few people who appreciate the ’64. Most people consider it too tart. But it suits me.”
The maître d’hôtel backs off, still scribbling on his pad. The Russian says conversationally, “I’ve always thought the world was divided into two groups—those who prefer a good yea
r of a bad wine, and those who prefer a bad year of a good wine.”
Stone, out of curiosity, asks, “What made you choose Céline as your recognition signal?”
This is the last thing that the diplomat expects to be asked. “I happened to be reading Céline,” he answers carefully—he’s not sure where the question is leading and feels his way. “Many people consider him a great writer.”
“There are many who consider him a great anti-Semite,” retorts Stone.
The sommelier lets Gurenko inspect the label on the wine bottle before he opens it, lays the cork alongside the bottle, tilts Gurenko’s glass and measures out a small amount, swirls it around with a practiced gesture before he offers it to him. The Russian sips, nods his acceptance. The glasses are half filled. The sommelier withdraws.
“About Céline,” Gurenko says. He thinks he understands why the subject was raised now; the man in front of him with several days’ growth of beard must be a Jew. “There were many great artists who were anti-Semites. That shouldn’t stop us from appreciating the genius beneath—”
“Céline was an anti-Semite at a time when millions were murdered for the crime of being Jewish,” Stone bursts out. There is a passion, a sudden intensity, a sudden bitterness, to the rush of words. The conversation is like a squall; Gurenko is rubbing him the wrong way. “You look past his anti-Semitism to the genius beneath, assuming there is a genius beneath, because you don’t give a goddamn about the killing of the Jews. Oh, intellectually you recognize it as a crime. But you don’t care.” Stone catches himself, suppresses the intensity, forces himself to look casually around; he spots Kiick and Mozart and a lady friend across the room, notes that the lady’s oversized handbag is planted on the table and pointing their way. “Céline,” Stone continues more quietly, “isn’t a favorite of mine.”
The Debriefing Page 2