by Stuart Woods
“That’s good.”
The waiter went away and came back with two of the big round glasses with their creamy heads.
Stone took a deep draught.
“Feel better now?”
“Much.” Stone glanced up at the mirror and saw the reflection of the man Rick LaRose had described as “opposition” taking the same seat he had the day before.
“See somebody you know?”
“Not know, just familiar.”
“The guy with the shaved head and the hooked nose?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a Russian spy.”
“You think he’s after Lipp’s choucroute recipe?”
She laughed. “Isn’t everybody?”
“He was here yesterday, too, that’s why he looks familiar.”
“Who were you with yesterday?”
“A friend from the embassy.”
“The American Embassy?”
“Yes. I passed out in a cab at the airport, and the driver took me to the embassy, where they . . . I don’t know what they did. I woke up there.”
“Passed out on the floor?”
“No, in a kind of hospital room.”
“They have hospital rooms at the American Embassy?”
“Just the one, as far as I know. It wasn’t a very nice room.”
“How long were you there?”
“I don’t know, exactly, maybe twenty-four hours.”
“What kind of drug were you given?”
“Something called hypno something or other.”
“Hypnotol?”
“That’s it.”
“Jesus Christ, that stuff can kill you. It was only on the market for about ten minutes before the FDA yanked it. People were dropping like flies.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I read something about it in the science section of The New York Times.”
Their choucroute came and they attacked it.
“What part of the embassy was your hospital room in?”
“I don’t know,” Stone lied. He regretted having told her about the embassy.
“When you left, did you leave by the front door?”
“No, there was some sort of side entrance, through a garden.”
She put down her fork and looked at him hard, chewing. “You were in spookville,” she said.
“Beg pardon?”
“In the CIA offices, one floor down from the main entrance.”
“If you say so.”
“Why would they put you in a room in spookville?”
“When I passed out in the cab, the driver went through my pockets and found the card of a friend of mine who works for them. He showed it to a marine guard, and they took me there.”
“Did they grill you when you woke up?”
“Not the way I’m being grilled now,” Stone said with some irritation.
She held up a hand. “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to you.”
“So am I.”
“Was the friend you were here with yesterday a spook?”
“He’s the commercial attaché.”
“That means he’s a spook. How do you know him?”
“I met him at a party in the Bois de Boulogne the other night.”
“At the racing club?”
“No, at someone’s home.”
“If you know someone who owns a house in the Bois, then you’re mixing with a high-altitude crowd.”
Stone shrugged. “He sold me a car.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, you were at Marcel duBois’s house?”
“How did you know that?”
“He’s been working on this supercar for years, and the papers say it’s ready to hit the market, and he lives in the Bois.”
“That’s the one.”
“The Blaise?”
“Yes.”
“It’s named after his son, Blaise, who was killed in a racing accident several years ago.”
“He didn’t mention that.”
“How do you know Marcel duBois?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s one of the things you don’t remember?”
“Yes. I got a dinner invitation, and I was curious, so I went.”
“Who else was there?”
“Tout le monde,” Stone replied. “Or at least, that part of it that counts. There were twenty-four at the table.”
“Who else did you meet there, besides the commercial attaché?”
“I don’t remember a lot of names. There was a Swedish woman named . . .”
“Helga Becker?”
“Are you sure you weren’t at this dinner party?”
“Absolutely sure. I’m not on M’sieur duBois’s invitation list.”
“So who is Helga Becker?”
“A famous divorcée and beauty. I heard she got a hundred thousand euros when she split with some Swedish businessman.”
“That much? Where did you hear that?”
“On the grapevine—you know how those things go.”
“Who is Marcel duBois anyway?”
“You don’t know?”
“If I did, I don’t remember.”
“But he remembered you.”
“Yes, he seemed to.”
“Well, if he sold you a Blaise, you’re probably the first man in the world to own one. It’s not being released until next week. DuBois must owe you for something.”
“I was wondering about that,” Stone said. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s said to be the richest man in France, maybe even Europe.”
“How’d he make his money?”
“The hard way: he inherited it. Or at least enough to give him a running start in the world. He’s into everything. He’s the Warren Buffett of France.”
“Well, good for him.”
“He’s almost unknown in the States, but . . .” She looked at him.
Stone’s brow was screwed up.
“You remembered something, didn’t you?” She leaned forward. “What?”
“Unknown in the States,” Stone said. “That rings a bell, but I can’t remember where I’ve heard that. How could someone that rich be almost unknown in the States?”
“He’s a creature of France. He’d be known in certain circles in London or Milan, but I don’t think he’s ever even been to the States.”
“He’s been to New York,” Stone said. “I know that much.”
“How do you know that?”
Stone sighed. “I don’t know.”
14
They left Brasserie Lipp and began strolling through the back streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, checking out gallery windows.
“Amanda, why do you think the bald guy at Lipp is a Russian spy?”
“He’s a well-known figure about town, turns up at gallery openings and the like, chatting up people. Much like your friend the commercial attaché, I expect.”
“Why would a ‘spook,’ as you call LaRose, be interested in me?”
“Did he seem to want anything from you?”
“He asked my advice about clothes. I took him to Charvet, where he spent more money than a diplomat should be able to.”
“That means he’s not a diplomat, he’s a spook.”
“Why would a spook have tens of thousands of dollars to spend on clothes? And why would he?” Stone asked.
“Maybe he has family money. A lot of the old boys came from that. As to why he would buy a lot of clothes, maybe he wants to fit in better in Paris. A spook would.”
“Well, he was wearing a rented tuxedo at duBois’s dinner party.”
“There you go. He’s probably just come in from an assignment in some statio
n where clothes don’t make the man, like Africa.”
“How is it you know so much about the CIA?” Stone asked.
“If you live abroad long enough, you meet those people, just as you did. After a while, you get to know the drill with them. Who is your friend in the Agency?”
“She’s a retired army officer who joined them and seems to have done well.”
“How well?”
“She got promoted last year. She works directly for the director, I think.”
“So you are very well connected at the Agency.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“If you were connected there, you certainly wouldn’t.”
“Look, I’m an attorney and an investor. Any connections I may have arise from those two things.”
“How did you meet your lady friend, the spook?”
“Oh, it was years ago. I went down to Florida to take delivery of an airplane at the factory. I was in a local bank, getting a cashier’s check to pay for it, when a couple of people with shotguns walked in and robbed the bank. I saw them shoot a customer, then run. I did what I could for the man until the ambulance arrived, but by that time he was gone.
“He was about to marry a woman who was the local chief of police. A while after that she was in New York for something, and we had dinner.”
“That’s a bizarre story,” Amanda said. “In fact, it smacks of an Agency cover story.”
“Oh, come on! It’s a highly improbable story that just happens to be true in every respect.”
“Do you still have the airplane?”
“I traded it for something bigger and faster.”
“What airplane?”
“A Citation Mustang.”
“You fly it yourself?”
“I do.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Why do you know about airplanes?”
“Oh, I got my private license many years ago, but I couldn’t afford an airplane.”
“How would you know if a story smacked of an Agency cover story?”
“I’ve heard a few.”
“From whom?”
“Various folks.”
“Amanda, are you now or have you ever been associated with the CIA?”
That stopped her in her tracks, literally; they had been walking and she just stopped and stared at him.
“Well, come on,” Stone said. “Give me a straight answer.”
“Let me put it this way,” she said. “If I had been, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell me if you were still with them, but if you left, you have no obligation to dissemble when asked that question.”
“Why do you think I might be CIA?”
“You know too much about it not to be. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I’ve given you the only answer I can,” she said.
“Ah now, that answers my question in part, but not the part about whether you’re still in the Agency’s employ.”
“All right, I’m not.”
“And why should I believe a trained liar?”
She burst out laughing. “I can’t win, can I?”
“Hang on,” Stone said. He had stopped in front of a gallery window and was staring at a painting inside. “Let’s go in,” he said. He led her into the shop and asked the woman inside if she could remove the painting from the window. She did so, and he looked closely at it and inquired of the price. A little haggling ensued, and Stone handed her his American Express card and his address.
“I don’t get it,” Amanda said as they waited for the transaction to be completed.
“Don’t get what?”
“You’re walking around Paris with an expert, and you don’t even ask my advice. Or my opinion, for that matter.”
“You might have disagreed with me,” he replied, “and my only criterion when buying art is whether I like it enough to want it in my home. But now that I’ve bought it, what do you think of it?”
She smiled. “If you hadn’t bought it I would have bought it myself for one of the collections I curate. You got a good price, too. Where did you learn about art?”
“From my mother, by osmosis. She was a painter.”
“Wait a minute, I’ve got it! Your mother was Matilda Stone?”
“She was.”
“Her work is on my permanent to-buy list, whenever it becomes available, not that it does very often.”
“In that case, you’re very smart. She’s on my permanent to-buy list, too. I’ve picked up two small paintings in the last year. I hope I won’t have to start competing with you.”
“You may have to,” she said.
“Tell you what: I’ll give you a generous reward for every picture of hers you lead me to.”
“My arrangement with my clients allows me to freelance,” she said. “You’re on.”
Stone signed the bill, and they left the shop. “You know,” he said as they strolled down the street, “I can see why you’re no longer a spook.”
“And why is that?”
“You can’t have been very good at it.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say. Why did you say it?”
“Because the bald guy from Lipp has been following us since we left. He’s across the street in a doorway now, pretending to look at a piece of sculpture.”
“Well, shit,” she said. “On the other hand, why do you think he’s following me?”
“You’re the ex-spook. Why would he follow me?”
“Maybe because he’s seen you at Lipp on two consecutive days, in the company of people he believes to be CIA?”
“Well,” Stone said, “I’m going to have to start hanging out with a better class of people.”
15
Stone got back to the Plaza Athénée and checked his messages: Holly had called. He went upstairs to his suite, and as he opened the door he found the place dark. That surprised him, because the maids always threw open the curtains to his terrace. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he started. A man was sitting in one of the comfortable chairs across the room. Stone felt for a light switch and turned it on. Lance Cabot was sitting in the chair, his chin on his chest, apparently dead.
Stone went to the windows and pulled the curtains open.
The corpse moved a little, then opened its eyes. “Hello, Stone,” it said.
“Lance, what the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you in the middle of Senate hearings on your appointment as director?”
“The hearings are over,” Lance replied, stretching. “We expect a favorable result in a couple of days.”
“Why are you in Paris, then? Shouldn’t you be getting sworn in or something?”
“Yes, I should, but until I am sworn in I’m still deputy director for operations, and I have to deal with the unbelievable mess you’ve made in Paris.” He stood up and began pacing.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You managed to get yourself drugged on an airplane, and you’ve thrown my Paris station into a frenzy.”
“Well, your first statement is apparently true, but how have I thrown your station into a frenzy?”
“Let’s see,” Lance said, holding up a finger. “First, you turn up semiconscious at the embassy and cause my medical officer to have to save your life, instead of doing what he’s supposed to be doing. Then you’ve got my station head worrying about your activities in Paris instead of confounding his country’s enemies. You’re taking up most of the time of one of my best officers, who has apparently adopted you as a role model and has stuck me with a forty-thousand-dollar bill at Charvet. You’ve interfered with his approach to Marcel duBois, whom I had hoped he could make into an asset for us. You’re fucking another very effective operative of ours, who should
be paying attention to others, and wasting the time of yet another, who is dawdling at lunch and in galleries with you instead of doing her work. You’ve also brought her to the attention of a Russian named Majorov, who was previously unaware of her existence, which is the way I like it, and somebody has already taken a shot at her.”
“A shot? At Amanda? I left her only twenty minutes ago.”
“And she was shot at ten minutes ago, no doubt by Majorov or one of his operatives.”
“And all of this is my fault?”
“Certainly it is. If you weren’t in Paris, none of this would have happened. How the fuck do you happen to know Marcel duBois?”
“I’m not entirely certain of that,” Stone said.
“Has the drug wiped out all memory of the man?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it.”
“You don’t even remember meeting him in New York?”
“I was drugged,” Stone said defensively. “You said so yourself.”
“You weren’t supposed to be. The woman who dropped the stuff in your drink was supposed to put it in the drink of a man in the row behind you, but she was drunk and screwed up, because Amanda was talking to you and not the target. You were simply an unintended consequence of our plan.”
“Is the woman who drugged me one of your operatives, too?”
“Not anymore, she isn’t. She’s now doing clerical work in a windowless basement office at Langley, waiting for her retirement to kick in. Think carefully: What were you and Marcel duBois doing in New York?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Have you talked to your managing partner, Bill Eggers, about this? Maybe he knows.”
“Eggers is in darkest Maine—moosing or something—and can’t be reached.”
“Swell. Now you are going to have to be my way to Marcel duBois.”
“Me? You want me to recruit the richest man in Europe to be your spy?”
“Not a spy, just an asset. Can you imagine how much information duBois could pass to us, given his business contacts on the continent? He could be invaluable.”
“Why would he consider an approach from me?”
“He sold you that fucking automobile, didn’t he? And at a steeply discounted price, when half the billionaires in the world would pay a high premium to get their hands on one.”
“Well, it’s a very nice car, and you can’t blame me for accepting his offer.”