Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

  “There is only one way this could have happened,” Lance said. “Not even I could have engineered it, and I can engineer almost anything, if I try hard enough. No, that action originated far, far above my pay grade. One, and only one, personage could have initiated it, and he, coincidentally, is a friend of yours. But, for reasons of both decorum and self-preservation, I will say no more about that.”

  “Thank you, Lance, that is a relief.”

  “Good, but you have little else about which to be relieved, Stone.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that Yevgeny Majorov has made some of the same deductions I have made, and he believes you, in one way or another, to be responsible for both his brother’s failure to penetrate the ownership of your hotel group and for his brother’s untimely demise.”

  “The man must be delusional,” Stone said.

  “Nevertheless,” Lance said, “while you are in Paris you are going to have to watch your ass—or rather, Rick and his coterie are going to have to. Do you understand and accept this fact?”

  Stone sighed. “If I must,” he said.

  “Yes, you must. Good day to you.” The van glided to a stop at a Paris street corner; Lance exited the vehicle and immediately got into a black sedan.

  “Now to l’Arrington,” Rick said.

  3

  Rick’s van took so many turns down so many narrow streets that Stone lost his bearings. After a time, however, the van slowed for a left turn, and Stone saw, for the first time, the gates to the new hotel. They turned and drove through a handsome archway into a large courtyard. A building that was probably impressive under ordinary circumstances had been concealed by acres of scaffolding and plastic cloth.

  “I believe they’re sandblasting the limestone facade,” Rick said.

  “I hope the inside looks better,” Stone said.

  “What was this place before it was a hotel?” Rick asked.

  “It was a hotel,” Stone replied. “Before that it was a hospital that Marcel duBois’s father had bought and turned into a cheap hotel. Marcel has now turned it into an expensive one.”

  Stone alit from the big van and discovered that it had been followed by three black SUVs, which now disgorged Dino and Viv Bacchetti, Mike Freeman, and the top policemen of Los Angeles and Boston and their luggage.

  Dino came over and peeked into Rick’s van. “I want one of these,” he said.

  Stone introduced everybody to Rick, while a team of bellmen erupted from the hotel to collect all their luggage.

  “Is this place finished?” Dino asked, looking around.

  “Almost,” Stone said. “The paint in your room may still be wet, though.”

  There was no check-in process; they were immediately escorted into elevators, and Stone was shown into a large, elegantly furnished suite, while Dino and Viv were put in an adjoining bedroom.

  A large crystal vase of calla lilies stood on a table in Stone’s living room, and he read the attached card. Welcome to your new home in Paris, it said, and was signed by Marcel duBois.

  Dino and Viv unpacked and returned to the sitting room, where tea and some light food had been brought up.

  “When do we see Marcel duBois?” Viv asked.

  “You’ll see him at dinner. Dino, when do your meetings start?”

  “The day after tomorrow. We’re supposed to get over the jet lag during that time. What was the deal with the white van?” Dino asked.

  “It contained Lance Cabot,” Stone explained, “who wanted to tell me that the Russians haven’t forgotten about me.”

  “Oh, shit,” Dino said.

  “Am I going to have to provide your security?” Viv asked.

  “No, Lance has thoughtfully taken care of that. Rick LaRose, who you just met, is the CIA’s Paris station chief, newly in the job.”

  “What’s Lance doing in Paris?” Dino asked.

  “He says he came to help Rick settle into his new office, but I tend to think that nothing Lance says is ever entirely true.”

  “How long do we have until dinner?” Viv asked.

  Stone looked at his watch. “An hour.”

  “Then please excuse me, I have a lot to do.” She vanished into their room.

  “Me, too,” Dino said. “See you later.” He followed Viv.

  Stone went to do his own unpacking and freshening.

  —

  THE WHITE Mercedes van awaited them in the courtyard, sans Rick.

  “Where are we going?” Dino asked.

  “To a wonderful restaurant called Lasserre,” Stone said. “Marcel duBois is our host, and I understand there will be some other people there, too.”

  They arrived at the restaurant, in the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, and were taken up in an elevator. They walked into a large, square dining room with a sunken center. To Stone’s surprise, all the guests were milling around the room, drinking champagne and talking with each other.

  Marcel duBois broke from a knot of people and came across the room, arms spread. There followed the usual kissing of both cheeks, and Stone reintroduced him to Dino and Viv. “Marcel,” he said, “why is no one dining?”

  “Because I have not yet told them to,” Marcel replied.

  “Do you mean you’ve taken the whole restaurant?”

  “I had to. I couldn’t get everyone I wanted you to meet into my dining room at home.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “The crème de la crème of Paris, of course,” Marcel replied. “Business, show business, hotel business, writing business, you name it. Come and meet them.”

  For half an hour they were ushered from group to group and introduced. When they were done, Stone could remember only one name: Mirabelle Chance, who was about five-two barefoot, raven of hair and ivory of complexion.

  “Come, let us sit down,” Marcel said.

  At a signal from Marcel a chime rang, and the guests began finding their place cards. Marcel headed the table in the very center of the room.

  Viv looked up. “The roof is opening,” she said. She was right: the frescoed ceiling slid open to reveal a rose arbor on the roof.

  “Whenever it gets a bit too warm,” Marcel explained, “the ceiling opens and lets out the hot air.”

  Stone was pleased to see that the place card next to his read MIRABELLE CHANCE, although there was no sign of her. A parade of food and wine ensued.

  4

  They were halfway through their first course, a slab of fresh foie gras, when Mirabelle Chance finally took her seat. The gentlemen all rose to receive her, and Marcel introduced her to those at the table she had not yet met.

  “I do beg your pardon,” she said, with the slightest French accent layered over upper-class British English. “There was a line in the loo.”

  “There always is,” Viv said, and everybody laughed.

  “Now, Mr. Barrington,” Mirabelle said, “since I know your name, it is time for me to learn who you are, where you come from, and everything else about you of any possible interest.”

  Stone laughed. “Well, I am an attorney,” he said. “I come from New York, and everything else about me you will have to root out, one piece of information at a time.”

  “Then I must work for my supper?”

  “Only as hard as you wish to,” Stone replied, “but before you start, I think I’m entitled to an exchange of information.”

  “All right,” she said. “I am a Parisienne from my birth, though, having a British mother and an indifferent French father, I went to school and university in England, then I at first modeled, and now I design dresses, including the one I am wearing.”

  Stone looked her up and down. “You are very good at what you do,” he said.

  “Now, my turn to dig,” she said. “Where were you schooled?”

&nbs
p; “Within a few blocks of my home in Greenwich Village, at P.S. Six, at New York University, then at their law school.”

  “No further graduate work?”

  “Yes, I got my Ph.D. as a patrolman and detective with the New York Police Department. I attended for fourteen years, but the degree is purely honorary.” He nodded toward Dino. “That gentleman over there, whose name you will remember is Dino, was my partner as a detective, and he now rules the NYPD as police commissioner. His wife, Vivian, or Viv, as we call her, was a decorated detective before she retired to enter the private sector.”

  “My goodness, so many policemen. I feel quite at home, because my father, Michel Chance, is the prefect of police and the Cabinet, the most important of several prefects and roughly analogous to the position of Commissioner Bacchetti.”

  Marcel spoke up. “May I say I feel extremely safe at this table?”

  “And well you should,” Mirabelle said.

  “And how did you avoid becoming a police officer?” Stone asked.

  “That was left to my brother, who has risen through the ranks to the position of commandant, and is in charge of investigations in Paris.”

  “Until Dino’s recent promotion,” Stone said, “he held that position in New York—chief of detectives.”

  “Well,” Mirabelle said, “now we have everyone’s credentials.”

  “Not quite,” Stone said. “Which university did you attend in Britain?”

  “Cambridge,” she replied, forking a considerable chunk of foie gras between her lush lips.

  “I congratulate you,” Stone said.

  “Thank you, but your congratulations are late, since I earned my degree some fifteen years ago.”

  “My apologies for my tardiness. For whom do you design dresses?”

  “I am strictly couture,” she said. “I make dresses for clients, I do not manufacture them for the masses, or even for the elite classes.”

  “If you were a Frenchwoman, Stone,” Marcel said, “you would know all this. Mirabelle is quite famous in her world.”

  “I never doubted it,” Stone said. “Mirabelle, perhaps you could tell me why there are two men in black suits across the room there”—he nodded—“staring at you.”

  “My father and my brother feel that, since I am of their family, I require police protection at all . . . well, at nearly all times.”

  “I’m glad there are exceptions,” Stone said.

  “And perhaps you could tell me, Stone, why the man and woman in gray over there”—she nodded—“are staring at you?”

  “They are employed to see that I may do business in Paris without coming to harm.”

  “Since you are dealing with Marcel, I assume this is l’Arrington business of which you speak?”

  “It is.”

  “Stone,” said Marcel, “is the originator of the Arrington brand, having opened the first one in Bel-Air, Los Angeles. He also sits on the board.”

  “Along with Marcel,” Stone pointed out.

  “Well,” said Mirabelle, “if I should ever need a place to sleep, I shall know whom to call.”

  “I am at your beck and call,” Stone said, handing her a card, “and I hope I may be of service soon.”

  Mirabelle tucked the card into her bosom. “We shall see,” she said.

  —

  TWO HOURS LATER, sated and suffering from jet lag, Stone and his party went downstairs to his waiting Mercedes van. It wasn’t there.

  Stone was about to call Rick LaRose when his cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the calling number. “Yes, Rick?”

  “Your van has become unavailable,” Rick said. “Get everybody back inside and wait for my call.”

  Stone herded his group back inside. “Rick LaRose’s orders,” he said.

  “Oh,” Mirabelle said, “there is my car outside now.” She said good night to all, went outside and departed.

  A moment later, a long black car appeared outside, and Rick LaRose got out and came inside. “We have another car for you,” he said.

  They trooped outside and got into the car. As they drove away Stone asked, “Whose car is this?”

  “The ambassador’s,” Rick replied.

  “And what happened to the van?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  5

  Stone was awakened by the room service waiter early the next morning. For a moment he forgot he had left the order on the doorknob.

  He let the man in, then got back into bed while the waiter set a tray on his lap, along with a copy of the International New York Times and one of Paris Match. Stone tried that, but his French wasn’t good enough to read it, so he reverted to the Times. He switched on the TV and found CNN.

  His phone rang. “Yes?”

  “It’s Rick.”

  “Good morning, Rick.”

  “Do you have the TV on?”

  “Yes, on CNN.”

  “Turn it to the local news, channel two.”

  Stone switched and found a Frenchwoman gazing into the camera, producing a torrent of her language. “Okay, got it. What am I watching?”

  “Just hang on for a minute.”

  “Have you planted something on TV, Rick?”

  “No, but I got a tip to watch this.”

  The woman’s image disappeared, replaced by that of a burning vehicle.

  “What’s this, a bomb in Paris?”

  “No, that’s your van,” Rick said.

  Stone looked more closely, but it was hard to tell. “And why is it on fire?”

  “Someone is sending either you or me a message.”

  “If the message is for me, what is it?”

  “If it’s for you, I think it means, ‘Pay attention this time.’”

  “To what?”

  “To the people who tried to kill you when you were last in Paris.”

  “The Russians?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that the message is for you, instead of me. What is the message?”

  “‘Stop trying to protect Stone Barrington.’”

  “What happened to the driver?”

  “He was standing, leaning on the van, having a cigarette—he’s not allowed to smoke in the van—and someone laid a cosh upside his head.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s in our little clinic at the embassy, and he has a very bad headache, but the doc says he’ll be okay.”

  “So, how are you going to react to this message?”

  “By replacing the van. We have more than one. A black one will be there at noon to pick you up for your lunch date with Marcel duBois.”

  “How did you know I was having lunch with duBois?”

  “I’m in the CIA, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot: you know everything.”

  “Near enough to everything—enough to put two men in the van this time: one to protect you and the other to protect him.”

  “Well, I hope your plan works. From what I just saw on TV, I don’t think the air-conditioning could keep up.”

  “It’ll be okay this time, I promise. You know, this incident is probably going to help us more than it’ll hurt.”

  “How will it do that?”

  “By telling Lance that our little operation here is a good idea. Lance likes learning that he was right.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “You’re going to be getting another call this morning.”

  “From whom?”

  “Mirabelle Chance.”

  “The last woman I met in Paris was one of yours. Is Mirabelle one of yours, too?”

  “I’m working on that. In fact, you could be a great help to me.”

  “You want me to recruit her for you? I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
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br />   “She clearly likes you. We know that from her behavior at the dinner last night.”

  “I hope you’re right. I certainly like her.”

  “She may raise the subject with you. I, and particularly Lance, would be grateful if you could help her move in our direction.”

  “What do you want from her?”

  “Anything we can get. She’s very well connected in Paris, beginning with her father and brother, and continuing down her client list, which is heavy with the wives and mistresses of government officials.”

  “Okay, Rick, if she asks me if she should become a resource for the Agency, I’ll say, sure, why not?”

  “Come on, Stone, you can do better than that.”

  “I can’t promise that I will.”

  “I’ll rely on your good sense. Gotta run. The van will be there at noon.” He hung up.

  Stone stared at the breakfast in his lap, congealing before his eyes. Eggs Benedict did not benefit from getting cold. The phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” Mirabelle said.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Chance,” he said.

  “Are you free for breakfast?”

  “I am, if we can do it here.”

  “At l’Arrington?”

  “In the penthouse suite.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Au revoir.” She hung up.

  Stone called down to room service to collect the tray and to double the order, then he got out of bed and into a shower and a shave.

  6

  Stone’s doorbell rang, and he opened it to find standing there Mirabelle Chance, dressed to the gills. Cheeks were kissed.

  “Do you always dress so beautifully for breakfast?” he asked, admitting her to the suite.

  “Of course,” she replied. “I am my own best advertising. Do you like it?”

  “You make that dress look gorgeous,” he said.

  “I’m not sure that I understand your language well enough to know if that is a criticism of the dress.”

  “Not at all,” Stone replied. “The dress would make any other woman look beautiful.”

  “Again, I’m not sure . . .”

  “I compliment the beauty of both you and the dress,” he said. “Without reservation.”