Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

  They pulled out of l’Arrington’s courtyard and into the evening traffic.

  “Hang on!” the driver shouted, and the van began to make quick turns down dark streets, then back onto the boulevards. Stone figured this was precautionary and not due to a threat. They arrived at Lipp at two minutes before eight, pulling up behind a black Mercedes S-Class with darkened windows. He got out of the van as Mirabelle got out of the Mercedes.

  In a moment, they were inside, and the headwaiter immediately showed them to a cozy table well away from the windows.

  “I don’t know if this table is for me or for you,” Mirabelle said.

  “For the both of us, I think.”

  They ordered drinks and dinner.

  9

  They both ordered the house specialty, choucroute garni, which was a selection of sliced meats on a bed of sauerkraut, and beer, instead of wine.

  While they waited for their food, Stone sipped his beer and had a good look around the place. He had taken the seat with his back to the wall, and he could survey the whole restaurant from there. His eyes stopped at a table across the room.

  “Something wrong?” Mirabelle asked.

  “I’m having a déjà vu experience,” he said.

  “Describe it to me.”

  “It’s last year, I’m having dinner at this restaurant, and two Russian thugs are seated at a table across the way.”

  She looked into the mirror above his head. “Which ones?”

  “The two in dark suits with shaved heads. An inordinate number of the Russians I come into contact with have shaved heads.”

  “I see them,” she said. “They look like their type, don’t they?”

  “They do.”

  “Well, they aren’t going to start shooting in one of Paris’s best-known restaurants. They’ll wait until we’re outside to kill us.”

  Stone laughed. “So we’re two courses away from an ugly death?”

  “But a famous one. We will be all over tomorrow’s papers, and my father and brother will be on TV, separately, promising to destroy our killers.”

  “Why separately?”

  “They don’t like each other very much.”

  “How do they get along with you?”

  “Better than they get along with each other.”

  “That must make for tense family dinners.”

  “There are no family dinners—at least, not with both of them in attendance. They take turns seeing my mother.”

  “And you’re there for both turns?”

  “Sometimes. I try not to always make it.”

  “Given the family business, you must have had an overprotected childhood.”

  “Once past puberty, yes. It didn’t help that my brother, my only sibling, is ten years older than I. Boys with too much ambition for me were delivered beatings.”

  “Did that cut down on the number of your suitors?”

  “No, it just made them stop coming to the house. I had to meet them somewhere my father and my brother couldn’t think of, or a girlfriend would pick me up and deliver me, on the way to her own evening out.”

  As their dinner arrived, Stone’s cell phone began vibrating. He knew who it was, and he pressed the button that would send the call to voice mail.

  “Do women often call you in the middle of a dinner with another woman?”

  “It only seems that way,” he said. “Anyway, it was my call being returned. I’ll phone again tomorrow.”

  “She must miss you terribly.”

  “One hopes, but she is a very busy woman right now. She works for Katharine Lee’s campaign.”

  “Ah, our papers have been full of the pregnant candidate!”

  “What do the French think of it?”

  “The women like it. The men think she should leave the race, but they are careful about telling their wives that. Do you know Kate Lee?”

  “Quite well,” Stone said.

  “Is she carrying your baby?”

  Stone held up a hand. “Don’t say that, even in jest. You never know who’s listening.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “The answer is an emphatic no. I know her quite well, but not that well, and her husband is my friend, too.”

  “That would not stop a Frenchman.”

  “It wouldn’t stop a lot of Americans, either, but I am not one of them.”

  “We have had some . . . unusual . . . first ladies,” she said, “especially lately, but we’ve never had a pregnant one, at least not since Jacqueline Kennedy.”

  “Neither have we,” Stone said. “I was at the press conference when Kate announced it, and the reaction of the media was pretty much nuclear in nature.”

  “Do you think it will help or hurt her chances of election?”

  “The first poll taken after her announcement elicited mostly favorable responses from women and neutral ones from men. I think American men, like Frenchmen, don’t want to argue the point with their wives. Their reactions in a bar with male friends might be very different, though.”

  “So, will it help or hurt?”

  “I think it will help to the extent that it turns out the women’s vote. If they respond, that could mean the election. The immediate effect is for the press to ignore her opponent and concentrate on Kate, which must drive the Carson campaign crazy.”

  “Well,” Mirabelle said, “if it drives the other campaign crazy, it must be good for her.”

  They continued their dinner, but slowly, since they were talking so much. As Stone asked for the check, he saw the two men at the other table doing exactly the same.

  “I’m going to pay in cash,” Stone said, “and then I think we should run for it while the opposition is dealing with credit cards.”

  “I’m on my mark,” she said.

  10

  Stone glanced at the check, threw some euros on the table, got up, grabbed Mirabelle’s hand, and hurried toward the door. He glanced at the two bald men and saw one of them signing a credit card chit and the other rising and heading toward them. Stone hit the door running, passed the tables outside, and stopped on the sidewalk. No van. Then he remembered the panic button.

  “Come on,” he yelled, and started running through Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He groped in a pocket, then another but couldn’t find it.

  “Don’t go down this street,” Mirabelle shouted. “Too few people!”

  Stone turned and ran back into the open plaza and into traffic. A huge black shape appeared in the corner of his eye, and there was a screeching of brakes and a chorus of horns.

  “Get in here!” a man shouted.

  Stone turned and saw the van, the rear door open. He pushed Mirabelle inside and heard the door slam behind him. Through the window he could see the two bald Russians running toward them, looking annoyed.

  “What happened?” the guard yelled.

  “Two Russians,” he panted.

  “Why didn’t you use the panic button? We had two men in the restaurant.”

  “Couldn’t find it. Two Russians were there.”

  There was a banging on the front door of the van, and the guard’s window slid down. He exchanged some words with someone outside, then closed the window. “Were the Russians two bald guys?”

  “Yes,”

  “Those were our people. You scared them to death.”

  “Your people?”

  “Of course. What did you think?”

  “I thought they were the Russians.”

  “You’re getting paranoid, Mr. Barrington.”

  “I wonder why? I’m locked in an armored van with two armed men, two others are watching me in a restaurant. Why would I be paranoid?”

  The man ignored the question. “Where to?” he asked.

  “The Arrington?” Stone said to
Mirabelle.

  “I think we’ll be safe there,” she said sardonically. She picked up her phone. “I have to call my car.” She spoke in French for a moment, then put the phone away. “They’ll follow,” she said.

  The ride home was much like the earlier ride—fast and down side streets. They were at the hotel sooner than Stone had anticipated.

  —

  STONE CLOSED the suite door behind him.

  “That was quite funny,” Mirabelle said.

  “I’m glad you were amused.”

  “The sight of an American spy running from his own bodyguards must have amused any Russians present.”

  “Champagne?”

  “Perfect.”

  Stone found a bottle of Marcel’s favorite Krug in the bar fridge, opened it, and filled two flutes. He sat down next to Mirabelle on the sofa; she didn’t move over.

  “Listen carefully,” he said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I am not a spy.”

  “So you say.”

  “I am an attorney. I am a partner in a New York law firm. As such, I sometimes consult for the Agency.”

  “You said that before, but it doesn’t make any sense. Why would the CIA consult with anybody?”

  “Sometimes they need an opinion or information from outside the Langley bubble. At least, that’s my view: I’ve never asked them why they wanted me under contract.”

  “So you’re a contractor?”

  “Not in the sense of someone who does black bag jobs and shoots people in the head. I’m an attorney under contract.”

  “That’s your cover story, isn’t it?”

  “There’s the phone,” he said, pointing. He gave her the Woodman & Weld phone number. “Call it and ask for me.”

  “Well, of course they would back up your story. It wouldn’t be much of a cover if they didn’t.”

  “What else can I do to convince you?” he asked.

  She thought about that for a moment. “I don’t think you can,” she said at length.

  Stone refilled their glasses. “Google me,” he said. “You won’t find a word about the CIA in the results.”

  “Oh, please.”

  Stone made a strangled noise.

  “Tell me,” she said, “what does it take to get an American spy into bed?”

  Stone took her face in his hands and kissed her. “A kind word,” he said, “that doesn’t refer to the CIA.”

  “Please?”

  “That will do nicely.” He took their glasses in one hand and her in the other and headed for the bedroom.

  11

  A shaft of sunlight struck Stone’s face as he slept. He threw up an arm, as if to protect himself from the paparazzi, but a check revealed the light to be coming across the neighboring rooftops. The bed next to him was empty; Mirabelle had snuck out early.

  Stone staggered toward the bathroom, blinking to recover his full vision. The sound of the shower struck his ears. He walked into the bathroom and saw the lovely form of Mirabelle through the mist on the shower glass.

  “Good morning!” she shouted over the roar of the water. “Please join me!”

  Stone did so, and the rush swept away his sleepiness. Mirabelle had him in her hand, squeezing gently. “Is it awake?” she asked, biting him on a nipple.

  He started. “It is now!”

  “Ah, yes, I can feel it returning to consciousness.” She bit him on the other nipple. “It’s awake!” She put both arms around his neck and hoisted herself to him.

  Stone cupped his hands under her cheeks to support her weight, freeing her hand to guide him inside her. “There,” she said, nibbling on an earlobe. “There is where it belongs.”

  Stone pressed her against the tiles, then pressed home their union. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Good, good,” she was saying rhythmically. “All the way in. Yes!”

  They came together noisily, and Stone’s knees weakened. They sank to the shower floor, still entwined, and let the warm water run over them. A moment later they were toweling each other.

  “I’m starving,” she said. “When is breakfast?”

  “I’ll order.” Stone picked up the bathroom phone and ordered, then hung up. “Twenty-five minutes,” he said.

  “Good,” she said, taking him by the penis and leading him into the bed. “Time for one more.”

  They used the time well.

  —

  WHEN THEY had breakfasted and Mirabelle had dressed, he walked her to the door. “Goodbye, my spy,” she said, kissing him. “You did not disappoint.”

  “I’m so glad,” Stone said wryly.

  “How about dinner in the country tonight? There are fewer bald Russians to frighten us there.”

  “I’m game.”

  “That you are. I’ll meet you here at seven, and we’ll take your tank to protect us from the automatic weapons fire.”

  “You make it sound so cozy,” Stone said.

  She kissed him and slipped out the door.

  Stone was lying in bed with a second cup of coffee and the Times when the phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Ann.”

  “Hello, there!”

  “I returned your call last night but got only voice mail.”

  “I got your message, and I was waiting for it to be late enough to call you. There’s a seven-hour time difference. Why are you up so early?”

  “A dream woke me,” she said. “I dreamed you were making love to another woman.”

  “My goodness.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “It’s all right if you make love to other women, Stone, just don’t tell me about it.”

  “That’s very generous of you. How is the campaign going?”

  “Splendidly. Kate has crafted a stump speech for herself, including some funny stuff, and always a sly reference to the pregnancy.”

  “How’s that going down with the crowds?”

  “Like champagne. Carson’s appearances, by comparison, are like a dose of castor oil.”

  “Fortunately, I’ve never tasted castor oil, but I understand the comparison.”

  “Fortunately, neither have I.”

  “Was announcing the pregnancy the right thing to do?”

  “Absolutely. The very fact of it has kept the Republicans off balance since day one. And they can’t say nasty things about a pregnant woman—their wives would kill them.”

  “How is Kate doing in the polls?”

  “An average of a seven-point lead. Of course, that can evaporate in a flash, if she should stumble.”

  “Kate’s not the stumbling type,” Stone said. “How are you bearing up under the pressure?”

  “I’m not sleeping much,” she replied.

  “More bad dreams?”

  “No, I’m just always thinking—new ideas are flashing through my mind, and I can’t seem to make them go away.”

  “Count sheep.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I’m always happy to give advice.”

  “I’m getting a lot of attention from the press,” she said. “They usually mention you.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As my boyfriend, paramour, companion, or some other sly reference.”

  “I certainly don’t mind the connection.”

  “Neither do I. Oh, my God!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to get up and go to work.”

  “Give my best to Kate.”

  “I’ll do that. Have a good day.”

  “I’ll try. Call you later?”

  “Perhaps it’s best if I call you. I’m a lot busier than you are.”

  “As you wish.”

  She made a kissing noise a
nd hung up.

  Stone went back to his paper but didn’t concentrate very well. He found the crossword impossible.

  12

  There was a hammering on the door. “Entrez!” Stone shouted.

  Dino opened the door from the adjoining room. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “Nothing left to interrupt,” Stone replied. “She’s gone. What are you up to today?”

  “The head of the German intelligence service speaks at ten. Should be interesting. By the way, guess who’s in from London?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “You forget easily.”

  “Oh, God, is it Felicity?” Felicity Devonshire, with whom Stone had had a long-running affair, was the head of MI-6, the British foreign intelligence service.

  “Bright as a new penny, as the Brits would say. She sends her regards.”

  “Send mine back, and my apologies for not being in touch.”

  “What shall I tell her?”

  “Anything but the truth—I’m not up to two women. Tell her I’m overwhelmed with the opening of the hotel.”

  “Gee, I hadn’t noticed that.”

  “We have a board meeting this afternoon to hear about progress toward the opening.”

  “They’re doing major stuff to the lobby and sandblasting the exterior.”

  “Good, those are the last things on the list. The rooms are ready for opening.”

  “You don’t really need to be here, do you?”

  “That’s not what I told Bill Eggers. Actually, the board seems to value my advice. Perhaps it’s because I don’t give them much. Are you learning anything from your European colleagues?”

  “Tidbits. We seem to be ahead of them in a lot of areas. I wish the Israelis were here, but they’re not Europeans to the EEC. The Brits have a camera system all around their country that would be the envy of Big Brother.”

  “I’m sure you’re working on that.”

  “We’ll get what we need when Tom Donnelly is mayor.” Donnelly was Dino’s old boss, who was running for office.

  “Then you’ll have a free rein.”

  “We’ll see. How’s your evening looking?”