by Stuart Woods
“Good morning,” Architect said softly, causing an immediate hush to fall on the room. He gazed around the table at the two dozen faces, a third of them women. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said finally.
“The subject—the only subject—of this meeting is one Marie-Thérèse du Bois, known also as La Biche, an aptly assigned sobriquet, if I may say so.” A tiny smile twitched at a corner of his mouth.
“I am sure that you have all read the dossier compiled on this woman, a dossier appalling in its nature and, especially, in its bearing on the members of this service. I need hardly tell you that she must be stopped.”
There was a murmur of assent around the table.
“Carpenter,” he said.
All eyes turned to her, and she felt her ears burning.
“Yes, sir?”
“Give us a little recap of her activities in this city over the past few days.”
Carpenter did not need notes for this. “She has murdered a former officer of this service, a serving officer, an Arab diplomat known to be an intelligence officer, and an innocent female civilian. She has also seriously wounded a serving officer of this firm.”
“And how is Thatcher?” Architect asked.
“He has suffered partial paralysis of both legs as a result of an ice pick wound to his spinal cord, but he is out of danger and is responding to treatment and showing signs of improvement. The prognosis is for a complete or nearly complete recovery.”
“Good, good. Is he being well taken care of?”
“He is, sir.”
“Good. Now, Carpenter, please give me your assessment of the current situation regarding La Biche. I’d especially like to know about her detention and release by the New York City Police Department. How were both these things accomplished?”
“An item appeared in a gossip column in the New York Post regarding the attorney who had arranged for an operative to photograph Lawrence Fortescue, formerly of this firm, during a tryst with a woman, who turned out to be La Biche. It was mentioned in the article that the attorney frequented a restaurant called Elaine’s, on the Upper East Side, and La Biche turned up at the restaurant to inquire about the lawyer, whose name was not mentioned in the article. The restaurant’s eponymous owner telephoned a police officer of her acquaintance to report the incident. He immediately organized an arrest, and La Biche was taken to the Nineteenth Precinct and questioned.”
“That covers her arrest. What about her release?” Architect asked.
“La Biche had dumped two weapons in the ladies’ room of the restaurant, after wiping them clean. Although they were recovered, they yielded no fingerprints and could not be connected to her, since, in theory, anyone could have left them there. One weapon, a pistol, underwent a ballistics test, in the hope of connecting it to the murder of the Arab diplomat. The results were negative.” She took a deep breath. “The police were also hampered by the fact that this service has declined to report her activities to any police force or to Interpol, so there were no outstanding charges under which she could be detained.”
The room went very quiet, since everyone knew that the decision not to alert police had been Architect’s.
“Quite,” he said calmly, betraying no annoyance. “Go on.”
“Finally, she presented a valid passport in her true name with a valid entry stamp, or at least a forgery so good that the police were unable to detect it. She was represented by a New York attorney named Sol Kaminsky, who has, in the past, been known to represent Arab terrorists in court. He was prominent in the unsuccessful defense of the men who placed a bomb in the basement car park of the World Trade Center some years ago.”
“I am acquainted with Mr. Kaminsky’s reputation,” Architect said. “Who made the decision to release La Biche?”
“The deputy district attorney of New York County was personally present during her interrogation, and when no probable cause could be found to hold her, or even to photograph and fingerprint her, he ordered her release.”
Architect nodded. “And how would you assess our current situation, Carpenter?”
“We don’t know where she is or who may be helping her. We have no credible evidence against her, so that even if we were able to apprehend her, we could not bring her to trial—and, if we were somehow able to do so, she would be acquitted, in either a British or American court. I should point out that, due to her very average appearance, which changes constantly, and the absence of a fingerprint record, we would find it very difficult even to identify her. In short, we haven’t laid a glove on her, nor are we likely to do so.”
Architect fixed her with a steely gaze. “In your desire to be realistic, you are being too pessimistic, Carpenter. Do you have a plan for proceeding?”
“We know that she has, in the past, frequented lesbian bars, where she has picked up women, murdered them, and used their residences and identities for short periods. I suggest that, since we have a number of women present, we stake out as many such bars as we can, in the hope of spotting her. Every such officer should be wired and under constant electronic surveillance.”
“You will note that I brought four female officers with me,” Architect said. “Any other recommendations?”
“We should tap the telephones of Mr. Kaminsky’s law offices and his home, and keep him under surveillance. He is the only person we know her to have contacted in New York.”
Architect’s voice became even softer. “Is that all? Surely you have a further recommendation.”
Carpenter met his gaze and held it. When the inquiry into this situation came, as it surely would, she wanted to be on record. “I have no further recommendation, sir.” It is bloody well going to have to come from you, you silky bastard, she thought.
“You disappoint me, Carpenter.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Quite.” Architect looked around the table. “All right, here is how we will proceed: Mason, you will undertake the staking out and electronic surveillance of the lesbian bars. Incidentally, how will we find them?” He looked around the table for an answer.
Carpenter spoke up. “I would suggest that we begin by walking the streets of Greenwich Village and Soho. Once some such establishments have been located, our people can inquire among the customers present about the location of others.”
“Well,” Architect said, permitting himself another hint of a smile, “I feel some small relief in learning that none of my people has any personal acquaintance with such places. See to it, Mason.”
“Yes, sir,” Mason replied.
“Sparks,” Architect said, singling out another male officer, “I will leave the electronic surveillance of Mr. Kaminsky in your hands. See that our presence does not become known to the local authorities.”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied. “Will we seek FBI approval?”
“Not exactly,” Architect replied, “but I am having dinner this evening with the director of that agency, who is in New York, and I will see that he is appropriately apprised of our activities.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sparks replied.
“Well,” Architect said, closing his briefcase, “I believe we’re finished.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Carpenter said. “Do you have an assignment for me?”
Architect gazed at her. “Well, obviously, since La Biche has seen you up close, we can’t send you around to these bars . . . however much you might wish to go. . . .”
Carpenter’s ears got hot again.
“. . . But I believe you are personally acquainted with this lawyer—Barrington? Is that his name?”
Carpenter looked over at Mason, who had assumed a studious attitude with some papers before him.
“Yes, Barrington. Since La Biche apparently has an interest in him, your assignment, Carpenter, will be to see that the twain do not meet. If she keeps killing civilians . . .” He left that thought unfinished.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“And further, Carpenter, you are directed to t
ake whatever measures are necessary to remain alive. You’re no good to me dead.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Mason said.
“Yes, Mason?”
“May we have instructions on what to do about La Biche, once we’ve found her?”
Good for you, Mason, Carpenter thought. Get him on the record.
“You are not—repeat, not—to attempt to detain her,” Architect said. “She is far too dangerous, and I don’t want to lose any more people.” Architect closed his briefcase. “Dispose of her,” he said, “by whatever means are available.”
“Sir,” Mason pressed on, “any such opportunities that arise are likely to be in public places.”
“I am aware of that, Mason,” Architect said. “Try to avoid collateral damage.” He picked up his briefcase and walked out of the room.
As the group filed out, Carpenter fell into step with Mason. “Are you prepared to follow that order?” she asked quietly.
“I am unaccustomed,” Mason said, “to not following his orders.”
36
Stone was getting hungrier and hungrier, and Carpenter had not called. The phone finally rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” she said.
“How did your meeting go?”
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
“How much later?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to work through the evening. Why don’t you go to Elaine’s, and I’ll meet you there later?”
“Do you feel safe at Elaine’s?” Stone asked.
“The last time La Biche came to Elaine’s, she got arrested,” Carpenter said. “I don’t think she’ll be anxious to return, do you?”
“I guess not,” Stone agreed. “Any idea what time you’ll be there?”
“I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Bye.” She hung up.
Stone took a cab to Elaine’s, settled in at his table, and ordered a drink and a menu. Elaine came over and sat down.
“You missed all the excitement last night, huh?”
“Yeah, Dino said you alerted him. That was a good call.”
Elaine shrugged. “Just watching your ass for you.”
“Thanks. I still have possession of it. How did all this happen?”
“She came in and sat down at the bar. One of the bartenders, Bobby, chatted her up a little while she had dinner, and they got along real well. She even gave him her number. Then she pulled out the Page Six clipping, and he mentioned it to me. She wanted to know your name, and he told her. I remembered a conversation in here about that.”
“She gave Bobby her number?”
“Yeah, they were going like gangbusters. Bobby’s pretty swift with the ladies.”
“Excuse me a second,” Stone said. He got up and went to the bar. “Hey, Bobby.”
“Hey, Stone. How you doing?”
“I’m good. Thanks for your help last night.”
“I thought I was helping myself.”
“Elaine said the lady gave you her number?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“You still got it?”
Bobby went to the cash register, hit a key, and the drawer slid open. He reached under the currency tray for something and came back with a slip of paper. “Here you go. I don’t guess I’ll be calling her, from what I’ve heard about her.”
Stone pocketed the paper. “Thanks, Bobby. Have one on me.”
“Thanks.”
Stone went back to his table and looked at the paper. The area code was 917, which was reserved for New York City cell phones.
Elaine looked at him. “Jesus, you’re not that horny, are you?”
“Of course not,” Stone said, putting the number in his pocket.
“Where’s Felicity?”
“Working. She’ll be in later.”
“And Dino?”
“We had lunch. We’ve seen enough of each other for one day.”
“Stone, you think you’re in any sort of danger from this woman?”
“I hope not, but she’s unlikely to come in here again, after what happened to her last night.” Stone looked up to see a woman alone come through the front door. She stopped and looked around. Medium height and weight, brown hair, nicely dressed. He started looking for something to throw at her and settled on the wooden Indian standing guard next to his table.
Then the woman seemed to spot somebody at the rear of the restaurant. She walked quickly down the aisle, past Stone, and embraced a man, who had stood up to greet her.
“That’s his wife,” Elaine said. “Maybe you better have another drink.” She waved at a waiter and pointed at Stone.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“That one’s on me,” Elaine said to the waiter when the drink came.
“Thanks,” Stone said, raising his glass to her.
“Maybe you ought to get outta town for a few days,” Elaine said. “Why don’t you go up to Connecticut?”
“I just got back,” Stone said, “but that’s not a bad idea.”
Elaine got up to greet somebody, leaving Stone alone. He ordered dinner, then took out the phone number again. Impulsively, he dialed it.
She answered immediately. “Yes?”
“Ms. du Bois, this is Stone Barrington. Don’t hang up,” he said quickly, “I just want to talk to you.”
There was a brief silence. “All right,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?” Her accent was perfectly American.
“First of all, I want to explain why I had you photographed.”
“I would be interested to hear this,” she said.
“It was a domestic matter: Lawrence Fortescue was married to a woman, my client, who believed he was having an affair. They had a prenuptial agreement that precluded his getting any of her money in a divorce if he was shown to be adulterous. I had no idea who you were.”
“Do you now?” she asked.
“I have a better idea,” he said, “and I’d just as soon not be on your list of enemies.”
She laughed aloud. “Well, Mr. Barrington, you have a well-developed sense of self-preservation, I’ll give you that.”
“I think it would be a good idea if you and I met,” Stone said.
“Come now, you don’t really expect that, do you?”
“Are you acquainted with the American principle of the inviolability of the attorney-client relationship?”
“I believe so.”
“Then you must understand that if you and I meet for the purposeof your seeking legal advice from me, both the meeting and the conversation would be privileged, and I could not tell the police about either.”
“I understand that. Would the attorney-client relationship prevent you from, shall we say, inviting others to this meeting?”
“Yes. I could not ethically inform any authority of our meeting or our conversation unless I had direct knowledge of your intent to commit a crime.”
“And what do I know of your ethics, Mr. Barrington?”
“Nothing, except that all American lawyers live by the same code. American attorneys do not turn in their clients, except under the circumstances I have already described.”
“I take it you are curious about me.”
“Of course, but that’s not the principal reason for wanting to meet you.”
“And what would the principal reason be?”
“I want to save your life, if I can.”
“You wish to persuade me to turn myself in? I was in police custody only yesterday, and they didn’t seem to want me.”
“I don’t represent the police . . . or the British intelligence services.”
There was a silence. “You are very interesting, Mr. Barrington, because of who you do not represent. I’m sure you have a cell phone. Give me the number.”
Stone gave it to her.
“Tomorrow at six p.m., be at the skating rink in Rockefeller Center. Perhaps I’ll buy you a drink. But please don’t be so foolish as to ask anyone to join us.” She
hung up.
Stone was about to put away his cell phone when it vibrated in his hand. “Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hi.”
“Things are going very slowly here, and I’m going to be several more hours. They’re ordering in some Chinese, so I’ll eat here and see you at home later.”
“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it.”
“Me too. Bye.”
Stone put the cell phone away, thinking not about Carpenter, but La Biche. He wondered what he was getting himself into.
37
Marie-Thérèse kept her appointment at Frédéric Fekkai, a fashionable hairdressing salon and day spa on East Fifty-seventh Street. They knew her there by another name.
Mr. Fekkai greeted her warmly. “Mrs. King, how are you? How are things in Dallas?”
“Hey, sugar,” Mrs. King replied in a broad Texas accent. “Things are just wonderful. The price of oil is up, so I thought I’d come up here to the big city and spend some of Mr. King’s money.”
“We are delighted to see you. Let’s see, you have a massage and herbal wrap scheduled, and a manicure and an appointment with a makeup artist. We’ll do your hair last, is that all right?”
“Of course, baby.”
“The girl will order you some lunch.”
“I’m famished. Does she have any bourbon?”
“We’ll see what we can do.”
Marie-Thérèse submitted to half a day of pampering, then reported to Mr. Fekkai at the end of it.
“Now, what shall we do with your hair?” he asked.
“I want it fairly short,” she said, running her fingers through it, “and I want a nice blond color, with some streaks.”
“I think that will suit you perfectly,” he replied. “The colorist is waiting for you, and I’ll see you next.”
At four o’clock, she left the establishment, quite literally, a new woman. All her identification had been arranged to support the effect. She went into Bergdorf’s and bought some clothes, then allowed herself to be fitted for two wigs, charging everything to an American Express card in Mrs. King’s name, which would be paid automatically from a bank account in the Cayman Islands. At six o’clock, she stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, took out her cell phone, and made the call.
