by Stuart Woods
“Tell me, how many days have you not worked since he made you New York station chief?”
“Let’s see . . .”
“Not a one, correct?”
“I am ashamed to say you are correct. So finally, Lance ordered me to Paris to cover your ass.”
“What a wonderful human being Lance is!”
“Isn’t he? Well, maybe not. I think he just thought I’d work better if I got laid now and then.”
“He’s a smart human being, too.”
“I know I must be interrupting a liaison of some sort,” she said. “Is there someone under the bed?”
“No, there is not. However . . .”
“I thought so! Who is she?”
“Well, I had no idea you were going to turn up, or I would have been, in Tallulah Bankhead’s memorable words, ‘as pure as the driven slush.’”
“Perfectly put, in your case. Now, who is she?”
“She’s the daughter of the prefect of police and the sister of another highly placed Paris police commander.”
“So, you’re under constant surveillance?”
“Perhaps so. I haven’t found any bugs in the suite, though.”
“Shall we look for them?”
“No, let’s entertain the listeners.”
“I don’t really mind your philandering, Stone—even when it’s not with me. We are of similar natures.”
“I know that, and somehow, it always makes our reunions important to me.”
“And to me, too. It reminds me of how crazy I am to work so much, but I was so happy to get the job that I thought I should do it well. Unfortunately, doing it well is, all too often, a 24/7 job. Now tell me about these attempts on your carcass.”
Stone told her about the roasted van and the shotgun incident of the night before.
“I’m impressed that she had the fortitude to fire when the time came.”
“The lady is not lacking in fortitude,” Stone said, “but I was impressed, too. I would have liked an opportunity to speak with the other shooter, though.”
“So they know absolutely nothing about him?”
“Nothing, except what I told you.”
Holly got out of bed, went to her luggage, and came back with a laptop computer. “Let’s try something,” she said, logging on to the CIA mainframe and opening the facial recognition program. “Let’s see. Age, thirties. Height, six feet. Weight, one-eighty. Is that right?”
“Right.”
“Did he speak at all?”
“He never had the chance.”
“Hair color?”
“Light brown, I suppose. He had a rather severe flattop haircut.”
“What was he packing?”
“The Beretta 9mm that’s the standard army sidearm.”
“Lots of those around. You said that he went for the gun with his right hand, but his wristwatch was on his right wrist?”
“Right. I thought that was odd.”
“Let’s type in ‘ambidextrous,’” Holly said, and did so. “Any apparent skills?”
“Burglary and car theft,” Stone said.
“There was no fight?”
“Not that I saw. Apparently, she heard something downstairs and went down there with her grandfather’s shotgun. I got there just in time to see it used.”
Holly clicked on “search” and waited. She did not have to wait long. “Is that the guy?” she asked, turning the screen toward him.
Stone stared into a familiar face. “Holy shit, it is! How’d you do that?”
“The ambidexterity did it,” she said. “Only about three percent of the population has that gift.” She tapped some more and came up with another photograph, this one in the uniform of a United States Marine, with a file attached.
“Name, John Simpson, no middle initial. White-bread all the way through. English descent, born in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, thirty-nine years ago. Attended the local schools, got his high school diploma, joined the Marines on graduation at seventeen, with parental permission, rose to master sergeant, two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan— Uh-oh. Detached for special service four years ago—that means Special Forces or Navy SEALs . . .”
“Or CIA,” Stone pointed out.
“Oh, Jesus,” Holly said.
19
The two of them sat in bed and stared at the file of John, no middle initial, Simpson. “Is that all there is?” Stone asked.
“In this particular file, yes,” Holly replied. “His service record ended when he was transferred to Special Operations, and a new record was started. That file is heavily encrypted, and only the director of Central Intelligence—and others at his level in the various services—can retrieve it. That explains why his fingerprints and DNA didn’t produce a match.”
“Wouldn’t his whole service record be sequestered, then?”
“Yes, but we didn’t request his record—we made him with the facial recognition program, and I guess that was a back door to his original service record. Watch.” She started over on the mainframe and requested the army service record of John, no middle initial, Simpson. Immediately, she got a response: NO RECORD EXISTS.
“So, call Lance and ask him to retrieve the file.”
“Can’t you think of a reason why we shouldn’t do that?” Holly asked.
Stone thought that over. “Because there’s a chance that Simpson could be CIA?”
“Right, and if that’s the case, Lance might know what Simpson was doing at your friend’s house. And I don’t think I want to ask Lance about that.”
“I see. Suppose Simpson had retired from whatever special service he had been transferred to. Would that make his record more easily retrievable?”
“No, it would be permanently sequestered. I think you’re thinking . . .”
“Suppose he left the service and became a freelancer?”
“Right.”
“The question remains, a freelance what? I figured him for a pro when I looked him over, but I still don’t know a pro what.”
“Suppose he didn’t leave his new service?” Holly said.
“Well, I don’t think Army Special Forces or Navy SEALs would be conducting operations in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen,” Stone said. “Or committing burglary and grand theft auto in Paris.”
“Good point,” Holly said. “So where do we go from here?”
“How about to Rick LaRose?” Stone suggested.
“Rick is a station chief, like me. He wouldn’t have access to a sequestered service record any more than I do.”
“Maybe not, but he was at the scene. That gives him a good excuse to ask Lance to retrieve the file.”
“That raises another thorny point,” Holly said.
“What’s that?”
“If Simpson was working for the Agency in Paris, Rick, as the local station chief, would be aware of it, and he would know why. And if he doesn’t know, it might be very embarrassing for him.”
“And yet he seems as baffled as we are by the dead guy in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”
“If I were in Rick’s shoes, and I knew about an operation, it would be in my interests to seem to be baffled, too,” Holly pointed out.
“God, I’m glad I’m only a simple, barefoot New York lawyer and not an intelligence agent. It’s too complicated.”
“Now you know why I work all the time,” Holly said. “I have to figure out stuff like this.”
“What the hell,” Stone said. “I’m going to do what an amateur like me would do.” He picked up his phone, dialed Rick’s number, and put the phone on speaker.
One ring. “Rick LaRose.”
“Rick, it’s Stone.”
“Morning. How was the dinner party?”
“Eventful,” Stone said. “Rick, I think I’ve ID’d the corpse i
n Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah? Have you come over all psychic, Stone?”
“Not yet. His name is John, no middle initial, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army master sergeant, maybe retired.”
“Nah. If he had a service record, we’d have gotten a hit on his prints or DNA.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Nevertheless what?”
“Nevertheless, that’s who the guy is.”
“Where the fuck did you come up with that?” Rick demanded.
“I have friends in high places.”
“Ahah! We’re not talking about this on the phone. I’m coming over there.” Before Stone could respond, Rick had hung up.
“Well,” Holly said, “I guess I’d better put on my knickers.”
—
HALF AN HOUR LATER there was a knock on the door, and Stone answered it. He and Holly had spent their time getting dressed and tidying the suite. Rick came in. “I knew you would be here,” he said to Holly.
“Hi, Rick, how are you?” Holly asked. “How’re things in Paris? How’s the Paris station? How’re the wife and kids?”
Rick went to the bar and found himself a bottle of fizzy water, then took a seat. “Things in Paris are just swell, the Paris station is a barrel of laughs, and you know I don’t have a wife and kids.”
“Mistress and kids? After all, it’s Paris.”
Rick ignored that. “What have you two been up to?”
“You’d better tell him, spy to spy,” Stone said to Holly. “I might leave out something.”
“All right,” Holly said, and she told him.
Rick stared at them in wonder. “How long did all this take?”
“I don’t know, eight or ten minutes,” Holly replied.
“You just went online and conjured up a sequestered subject?”
“Looks like the facial recognition software is some kind of back door to some sequestered records,” Holly said. “Anyway, we didn’t get his sequestered record, just his old service record.”
“That should have been sequestered, too,” Rick said. “Somebody must have fucked up.”
“Oh, that never happens at the Agency,” Holly said, restraining herself to a slight sneer.
Rick sat, staring into his fizzy water.
“What’s the matter, Rick? Are you seeing some sort of problem here?”
“Come on, Rick,” Stone said, “cough it up.”
“Cough what up?”
“You’re the station chief, Rick. If this guy’s Agency, you would know all about him, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know a fucking thing about him,” Rick said, “and I very much doubt that he’s Agency.”
“So what was he doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked.
Rick didn’t have an answer for that.
“Why don’t you call Lance and ask him to retrieve the guy’s sequestered service record?” Stone asked innocently.
“I’ll do that immediately after hell freezes over,” Rick said. He looked at Holly. “Can you imagine what kind of can of worms that could open?”
“All hell could break loose,” Holly replied.
“I imagine we’re going to run out of metaphors in a minute,” Stone said. “Not to mention clichés. What are we going to actually do?”
20
Rick pointed a finger at Holly. “You call Lance,” he said.
“Don’t point that thing at me,” Holly replied, “I’m just a visitor here. I’m on vacation, sort of.”
“You started this.”
“Nope. We’re on your turf, here, Rick. You’re new at this, but you’re going to have to learn what a station chief does.”
Rick looked at his watch. “It’s six A.M. at Langley,” he said. “Lance won’t be in the office yet.”
“The Lance I know gets in at seven,” Holly said.
“I’ll e-mail him,” Rick said, getting out his phone.
“Is that phone encrypted?”
“It is.”
“All right, e-mail him. He’ll get it when he arrives at his office, in an hour, or maybe he’ll get it at breakfast. I expect he’s used to getting e-mails at breakfast.”
Rick typed a short message. “Done.”
“That was brief. What did you say?”
“‘Request sequestered service record of John, NMI, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army.’ That’s all he needs.”
“Would you like some breakfast while we await a reply, Rick?” Stone asked.
“I’ve already had breakfast. I could use some lunch, though.”
Stone looked at his watch. “By the time room service delivers, it will be lunchtime.”
“I’ll have a lobster club sandwich on rye toast, and a Heineken.”
“Holly?”
“Corned beef on whole grain with mayo, and a diet Coke.”
Stone ordered the food and a roast beef sandwich for himself, then hung up. “Half an hour or sooner.”
“What’ll we do until then?” Rick asked
“Anybody got a deck of cards?” Holly asked.
“What do you want to play?” Stone asked, rummaging through the wet bar snacks.
“I don’t play cards, but I know a card trick.”
Stone stopped looking.
“So,” Rick said, “did the ambassador grab your crotch at dinner?”
Stone rolled his eyes.
“I rescued him,” Holly said.
“Was he any safer with you?”
“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Stone said.
“Tell us something juicy from your station, Rick,” Holly said. “We all have top secret clearances here.”
“Juicy?”
“Juicy.”
“Well, let’s see: we caught a pickpocket who stole one of our officers’ cell phones and was trying to sell it at the Paris Flea Market.”
“That’s what you call juicy?”
“All right, the ambassador grabbed Stone’s crotch at dinner last night. That juicy enough?”
“We already know about that: surprise us.”
Rick took a breath to say something, and his cell phone made a musical noise. “That’s an e-mail,” Rick said, digging the phone from its holster. He pressed a button. “It’s from Lance,” he said. “Message is as follows: ‘NO FILE EXISTS.’” He stuffed the phone back in its holster.
“You’re being stonewalled,” Holly said.
“Maybe there’s no such file,” Stone said.
“We already know there’s a file, we’ve read half of it.”
“But not the good half.”
“I’ll give you that. What’s your next move, Rick?”
“What’s my next move? Why is it my move?”
“It’s your station, so Simpson is your guy.”
“He’s not my guy—I never saw him before last night.”
“Have you put any people on this?”
“Why should I put my valuable people on it? It’s the Paris police’s case, not mine.”
“Don’t you want to know what the guy was doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked. “Before the Paris police find out?”
“My bailiwick doesn’t extend to Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”
“Then what were you doing there last night?” Holly asked.
Rick pointed at Stone. “He called me.”
“You’re pointing again, Rick,” Stone said. “When I called you, you came. Why?”
“I’m supposed to take reasonable steps to keep you alive,” Rick said.
“Reasonable steps? That’s all my life is worth to the Agency? What about extraordinary steps?”
“Getting me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night is an extraordinary step. I
answered the call, and look where it got me. The Paris police think John, NMI, Simpson is my guy, and now they know you’re my guy.”
“They didn’t know that before?”
“Not to my knowledge. Well, there was that incident last year when we thought somebody was trying to kill Lance, but they were really trying to kill you. They can remember that far back, I guess.”
“So you lost nothing by coming to Mirabelle’s kitchen?”
“I didn’t gain anything, either.” Rick’s cell phone made the e-mail noise again, and he looked at it. “Oh, shit,” he said.
“Now what?” Holly asked.
“Bad news: Lance wants me on a secure video conference at the station in an hour.”
“Oh, goody!” Holly laughed.
“The good news is, he wants you there, too.”
“Not me?” Stone asked. “I feel left out.”
“Oh, all right, you can come, too. Where’s my sandwich?”
21
An hour later, lunched, hunched over a conference table, and nicely groomed, they sat and stared at a large blank screen in a double-soundproofed, double-doored room.
“He’s six minutes late,” Stone said, consulting his watch. “How does this go?”
“It goes when Lance gets around to it,” Rick said.
The screen suddenly came to life, and Lance Cabot sat, glowering at them. “I heard that, Rick,” he said.
“Only joking, boss,” Rick replied quickly.
“What the hell is going on over there?” Lance demanded.
“Where would you like me to start?” Rick asked.
“Start with the John, no middle initial, Simpson part.”
“Well,” Rick said, “late last night—or perhaps more accurately, in the middle of the night—Mr. Simpson took a shotgun round to the chest from a weapon held by Mirabelle Chance. It happened in her kitchen, and Stone was a proximate witness.”
“And what was Stone doing in the kitchen of the daughter of the prefect of police in the middle of the night?”
“Stone?” Rick said. “You want to take that one?”
“Lance,” Stone said, “you have a fevered imagination—use it.” Stone, as a non-Agency employee, felt no need to kowtow to Lance Cabot.
“Jesus God,” Lance said. “Is there no woman you won’t take to bed?”
