Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

  She blinked, then smiled. “Have you coffee?” she asked.

  The doorbell rang. “I do now.” He admitted the waiter, who set up the table on Stone’s terrace. Shortly, they were seated, and Mirabelle had her coffee.

  “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Stone said.

  “That is the Luxembourg Palace,” she said, pointing, “and surrounding it are the Luxembourg Gardens. And they are both very beautiful. How well do you know Paris?”

  “Not as well as I expect to in a couple of weeks. What I need is a personal guide.”

  She leaned forward on her elbows. “Is that all you require?”

  “The river of my needs is broad and deep,” he said.

  “So, then, it takes more than one woman to meet them?”

  “Not necessarily. It just takes more than a personal guide.”

  “A multitasker, then?”

  “If you want to be technical.”

  “Do you?”

  “I would prefer not.” The waiter, who had been rearranging the silverware, brought two plates of eggs Benedict from the hotbox below, set them in place, and whisked away the covers.

  “Bon appétit,” he said, then vanished.

  “Now we are alone,” she said.

  “No, we have eggs Benedict.”

  “Ah, yes.” She dug in. “Tell me,” she said after a moment’s chewing, “what is your connection to the CIA?”

  “I am a consultant to the Agency,” Stone said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that sometimes they ask for my advice, and I give it. At other times they don’t, and I don’t.”

  “Are you paid for this advice?”

  “Only on a piecework basis.”

  “How much per piece?”

  “I bill them by the hour. I am an attorney, after all, and that is our wont.”

  “You won’t what?”

  “It means our usual practice or desire.”

  “You bill the CIA for your desires?”

  “No, I bill them for their desires. What is your connection to French intelligence?”

  “None,” she said. “They have so many—anagrams?”

  “Acronyms.”

  “Ah, yes, acronyms. French intelligence has too many, and I would never know with whom I was dealing. I have been asked, sort of, to become associated with American intelligence.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As a conveyor of gossip, apparently.”

  “I suppose you would hear quite a lot of that from your clients.”

  “Constantly, but rarely anything that would amuse the CIA.”

  “You never know what might entertain them,” Stone said. “Did you accept their offer?”

  “Not yet. What is your advice?”

  “Would it amuse you to associate yourself with them?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then accept, but negotiate the terms.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You are a businesswoman: whatever they offer you, demand more.”

  “Will I get it?”

  “You will get some of it, that’s what a negotiation is about: you rarely get everything you want.”

  “I nearly always get everything I want,” she said emphatically.

  “I’m not surprised. Perhaps I should hope that you don’t want me.”

  “If I should want you, then God help you.”

  “In that circumstance I would prefer to handle the transaction myself.”

  She laughed.

  “That’s the first time this morning you’ve laughed.”

  “I don’t laugh, unless I am really amused.”

  “Then I will take your laugh as a compliment—assuming that you are laughing with me, rather than at me.”

  “An interesting distinction,” she said. “When I was at school in England I learned, with some difficulty, when Englishmen were being funny. I have had much less experience with Americans.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” Stone said.

  “Was that an offer of or a request for sex?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “You see! I think maybe that was meant to be funny, but I’m not sure. What does ‘not necessarily’ mean?”

  “Not in every instance. It’s best to go back a couple of sentences to my offer of help.”

  “What sort of help?”

  “Almost anything you need.”

  “Almost?”

  “It’s best to reserve a little wiggle room.”

  “Wiggle? Is that like wriggle?”

  “The same, only more colloquial.”

  She laughed again. “You are fun to talk with.”

  “I’m so glad, I would not like to bore you.”

  “I will let you know when you are boring me.” She looked at her wristwatch.

  “Ah, already,” Stone said.

  “No, no, I just have an appointment in twenty minutes, and there is the rush-hour traffic.”

  “Then you had better finish your eggs.”

  She pushed back from the table. “No, only half my eggs are on my diet. I must continue to be able to wear my own designs.”

  “Would you like to have dinner this evening?”

  “Just the two of us?”

  “I prefer conducting business during the daylight hours, reserving the evening for more intimate occasions.”

  “When and where?”

  “Eight o’clock? At your favorite restaurant.”

  “Eight is good. I don’t have a favorite, there are too many in Paris.”

  “Your favorite today.”

  “All right. Do you know Brasserie Lipp? In Saint-Germain-des-Prés?”

  “I do.”

  “Eight o’clock then.”

  They rose, bussed, and she departed.

  Stone sat down and finished his eggs.

  7

  The new black Mercedes supervan was indeed waiting for him in l’Arrington’s courtyard at the appointed hour, and it got through the midday Paris traffic with few delays. Stone noted the second man up front, and he could see the short barrel of an automatic weapon protruding from the man’s cradled arms. He found that reassuring but unsatisfying, since it apparently indicated that Rick believed any opposition would be similarly armed. If bullets started flying, he would prefer single squirts to spraying, even if the vehicle was armored.

  The van was stopped at an archway for a security check, then allowed to drive into a courtyard, much like that at l’Arrington, but smaller. There were three large trees in pots arrayed against the walls, and next to each stood a man in black body armor, booted and helmeted, with an automatic weapon slung from a shoulder. The concrete tree pots would provide cover, he assumed.

  Inside the front door of the office building of, perhaps, fifteen floors, he was stopped at a desk and required to place his right thumb on a sensor while gazing into a lens with his right eye. The equipment indicated its assent by displaying two photographs of him on a screen: one taken the year before and one taken just now. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” a female voice said from the speaker. “M’sieur duBois is expecting you. Please take the elevator at your left to the top floor.”

  “Thank you,” Stone replied to the mass of electronic equipment. Stone knew the building housed Marcel’s business operations and that he lived on the top two floors. As the car rose a piece of music, a particular favorite of his, began to play: the Dave McKenna Quartet with Zoot Sims, playing “Limehouse Blues.” The car reached the top floor before McKenna’s piano solo was over, but as he stepped off the elevator, the music continued from unseen speakers. By the time Zoot began his soprano saxophone solo, he was seated in a comfortable chair, a perfect Bloody Mary in his hand, being told by a minion that M�
��sieur duBois would be with him shortly. He sat back and luxuriated in the wonder of Zoot Sims. Superb. The vodka didn’t hurt, either.

  Marcel tapped him on a knee as “Limehouse Blues” died. “Bonjour, Stone. Do not rise.”

  The Frenchman sat down beside him. Their view through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall was of treetops and a view across the city.

  “Good morning, Marcel,” Stone finally managed. “I am very impressed by the new wrinkles in your security system. I assume the police-like costumes and weapons of the men downstairs were chosen for a reason?”

  “Ah, yes. After our difficulties of last year, your good friend Michael Freeman suggested that the presence of security be overt, rather than the subtlety of men dressed in blue suits with bulges under their arms.”

  “An economical and, no doubt, effective change. What about my thumbprint, my cornea, and my taste in music? Where did they come from?”

  “The prints were unobtrusively harvested from your person last year,” Marcel replied. “And the music was read from the albums stored on the iPhone in your pocket. Imelda—the name given to her voice—deduced which was the most-played track among them and played it for you. I rather liked it. Are the artists popular in the States?”

  “The artists, unfortunately, are all dead, as are most of my favorites—Count Basie, Artie Shaw, Erroll Garner, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, et alia. Fortunately, their work survived them.”

  “Ah, yes, the same with me. Did you and Mirabelle enjoy your breakfast together?”

  “Once again, Marcel, you are well ahead of me. Yes, we did.”

  “And have you been enjoying your Blaise?”

  “I drive it to my house in Connecticut on a road ideal for it. I think it goes too fast for the police to see.”

  “Ah, good.”

  “I have also enjoyed the performance of Frederick Flicker, and he and I have come to a more permanent arrangement. I’m grateful for your realization that I needed him.”

  “Every gentleman of any substance needs a gentleman’s gentleman to take care of him. I have so much substance myself that I need three, in shifts.”

  “I can manage very nicely with the one,” Stone said.

  There was the tinkle of silverware from behind them. “And now, shall we have some lunch?” Marcel asked.

  They rose and went to the table that had been set for them. Instead of courses, a small smorgasbord was wheeled out on a cart, and they chose what they liked from a dozen dishes.

  “So much food,” Stone said. “I hope what we don’t eat will not go to waste.”

  “Don’t worry, the kitchen staff are anxiously awaiting the return of the cart. By the end of their lunch hour, it will be empty.”

  Champagne was poured for them. Marcel raised his glass. “A Krug ’55,” he said. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  Stone enjoyed it.

  —

  WHEN THE TABLE had been cleared they returned to their seats before the huge window.

  “Now,” Marcel said, “I must tell you that I have had an offer for my stock in the Arrington Group.”

  “Is it from a Russian source?”

  “It is from a corporation, benignly named. No name was attached to it.”

  “Then I think we will have to assume that the source is Russian, and that the name is Yevgeny Majorov.”

  “It was a more reasonable offer than I would have thought that gentleman would come up with, but I have the same suspicions as you. Should I explore it further?”

  “Marcel, should you ever wish to dispose of your Arrington stock, I or my other investors will buy it from you for a better price than the Russians would give you.”

  “Oh, no, Stone, I don’t want out,” Marcel said. “I just wondered if we should toy with them a bit.”

  “Marcel, these ‘gentlemen’ would regard anything beyond a simple no as an encouragement, and they would become even more of a nuisance than they already are. My advice would be to have your secretary, on your behalf, write a short, blunt refusal to the corporation. Don’t even sign it yourself.”

  “All right, I’ll do that.”

  “It has been my experience in dealing with criminal elements who seek to disguise themselves in legitimacy, that if you give them so much as a bite, they will want the steak, and the bone, too, on unacceptable terms. They have already accompanied your offer with a violent attack: the CIA van that I and my party rode in to your dinner last night was destroyed while we dined. This is what they like to think of as the carrot and the stick.”

  “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

  Stone 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 shelt
ered 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.