Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Stone said.

  “There seem to be times, Stone, when you don’t think at all.”

  Stone let that one go. “As long as we’ve got you on the . . . line, Lance, who the hell is John, no middle initial, Simpson?”

  “I find,” Lance replied, “somewhat to my consternation, that Mr. Simpson is an employee of this service, attached to the Berlin station as a handyman.”

  “Plumbing and electrical?” Stone asked. “Does he do windows?”

  “All of the above,” Lance replied. “The question is, what the hell was he doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?”

  “He was costumed as a B-movie burglar,” Stone said, “in black, mask and all, and he left a stolen car parked outside. Oh, and he had a loaded Beretta in his hand and an extra magazine in a holster.”

  “Did he make any vocal noises?” Lance asked.

  “He was unable to sing,” Stone said. “Or breathe. He also could not work up a pulse.”

  “And where is Mr. Simpson now?”

  “In a storage locker at the Paris morgue, I presume, or wherever the French deposit unwelcome corpses.”

  “Has a medical report been issued?” Lance asked.

  “It has, Lance,” Rick said. “Cause of death, shotgun wound to the chest. No scars, tattoos, or other identifying marks.”

  “They haven’t ID’d him?”

  “Not unless they have access to sequestered records,” Rick said.

  “Speaking of that,” Lance said, “will one of you kindly tell me how you got to his record?”

  Holly spoke up. “Lance, I ran our recognition software for Stone to have a look at, and Simpson popped up.”

  “Employing what criteria?”

  “Stone’s description of the man, plus indications of ambidexterity.”

  “What indications?”

  “He was wearing his wristwatch on his right hand, yet he pulled his gun with the same hand. There’s a contradiction there—the right-handed commonly wear their watches on their left wrists.”

  “How peculiar of you to think of that, Holly. I’ll bet that little anomaly is what blew you through a back door of the software. Incidentally, the loud noise you just heard was the sound of that back door slamming. That won’t happen again.”

  “Lance,” Holly said, “I expect you’ve already spoken to the Berlin station chief. Was he enlightening?”

  “Enlightening? The man was aware of Mr. Simpson only in name on a list of employees. He’s never spoken to the man, or even seen him. Incidentally, that gentleman is on the way home on a slow cargo aircraft, for consultations.”

  Stone spoke up again. “Underworked handymen sometimes seek additional employment,” he pointed out. “Did the gentleman from Berlin, perhaps, shed any light on whom Mr. Simpson might be doing windows for?”

  “He did not,” Lance said, “being hardly aware of the existence of his minion. His deputy has now, however, been stirred to action, and I expect a report before the day is out.”

  “Shall we await further news from Berlin, then?” Rick asked.

  “Certainly not. Consider yourself stirred to action, as well. I want to know how and why an Agency employee met his end on the kitchen floor of the daughter of the prefect of Paris police, and I expect the prefect does, too. I anticipate a hot call from him momentarily, demanding satisfaction.”

  “Lance,” Rick said, “I don’t think the prefect has any reason to believe that Simpson might be ours, or even Simpson.”

  “The absence of evidence will not affect his assumptions,” Lance said. “Call me when you know more, and you had better know more soon.” The screen went black.

  “Well,” Holly said, “that was as mad as I’ve ever seen Lance, and I’ve seen him mad more often than I like to remember.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Stone said.

  This observation was met with derisive laughter from his companions.

  22

  Stone’s cell phone was ringing as he let himself into his suite at l’Arrington. “Allo,” he said in his best French accent.

  “Allo, yourself,” Mirabelle said.

  “Good morning.”

  “Bonjour. Is Madame Flournoy still there?”

  Stone summoned up some outrage. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Didn’t she follow you home last night? I’ve had reports.”

  “Your intelligence is unreliable. Madame Flournoy slept in her own bed last night, to the best of my knowledge.”

  “So you fucked her in the residence, then left? How caddish.”

  “You are—how do we say in Anglais? Leaping to delusions?

  “I have leapt to all sorts of conclusions,” Mirabelle said. “My reports also include mention of a lady from New York.”

  “She is a civil servant, in town on official business.”

  “So you are now ‘official business’?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “A weak response. You are losing your touch, M’sieur Barrington.”

  “To what do I owe the honor of this call, apart from undue criticism of my motives and actions?”

  “You and I cannot see each other anymore,” she said.

  A wave of relief swept over Stone. He had been unable to think of a way out, but she had saved him the trouble. “I am desolated,” he said.

  “Funny,” she said, “you sound relieved.”

  “Far from it,” he lied.

  “I suppose you would like a reason? You Americans are always looking for reasons, even when there aren’t reasons.”

  “That’s because we know there are always reasons.”

  “I had an unpleasant conversation with my father this morning,” she said.

  “I hope I was not the cause of any unpleasantness between the two of you.”

  “My father has, as you neatly put it, leapt to conclusions, and he has concluded that your presence in my home, along with that of Rick LaRose and an unidentified corpse, are somehow related. He is probably on the phone to Washington as we speak.”

  “Ummm,” Stone replied.

  “I expect you will be hearing from whoever answers the phone.”

  “Does the corpse remain unidentified?” Stone asked, anxious to change the subject.

  “Mystifyingly so, which adds to my father’s suspicions about Americans. He tends to regard any mystifying circumstance as evidence of American meddling in French affairs.”

  “That is ungenerous of him.”

  “In any case, he has decided that my continuing to canoodle—this is the correct word, yes?”

  “As far as it goes.”

  “. . . with an American spy is not in the interests of France.”

  “I never knew that France was interested.”

  “By ‘in the interests of France,’ I mean in my father’s opinion.”

  “Ah.”

  “Where his opinion is involved, he tends to broaden his scope to include the nation.”

  “That is magnanimous of him.”

  “I should say that I do not always strictly follow my father’s wishes.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sometimes my daughterly desires outweigh his fatherly advice. On those occasions you and I may happen to meet.”

  “How will I know when such an occasion arises?”

  “I will communicate this to you.”

  “I will be all ears.”

  “I may not employ your ears in my communication.”

  “I will give deep thought to whatever that means.”

  “Until then, au revoir.” She hung up.

  He had hardly hung up when Holly let herself into the suite. She pecked him on the lips and sank into a chair. “What a morn
ing!” she exhaled.

  “Have you and Rick found a way to meet Lance’s, ah, request for further information on Mr. Simpson?”

  “On reflection,” she said, “Rick and I have decided that the matter of Mr. Simpson is between Lance and the Berlin station chief. Lance was just using us as whipping boys, until he could get his hands on the poor son of a bitch.”

  “Did you and Rick express these thoughts to Lance?”

  “Certainly not. Do you think we’re crazy?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I simply lent Rick the wisdom of my long experience with Lance and his temper, and he seemed to appreciate my advice.”

  “I’m sure Rick is smart enough to appear that he is hanging on Lance’s every word.”

  “We’ll see,” Holly said.

  “I expect we shall.”

  “Tell me,” she said, “I’ve been told that this city is a place where a girl can find a frock to wear to a party.”

  “I’ve heard that myself. I hope the party you’re referring to is the grand opening of l’Arrington and that you are accompanying me.”

  “I was hoping you were hoping that. Where should I start the hunt?”

  “Google ‘party frock, Paris,’ and a world will open up to you.”

  “No personal recommendations?”

  “Chanel? Armani? Ralph Lauren? I believe they all do business here, along with several dozen other designers. Shall I arrange a hotel Bentley for you?”

  “That would be gallant of you.”

  “How about a personal shopper?”

  “What a good idea! Would you like to act in that capacity?”

  “I fear that I am a poor judge, until I actually see the frock worn at a party. I can’t stay awake in fancy shops.” He picked up the phone and spoke to the concierge. “There,” he said, hanging up. “Your car and your shopper will be ready in an hour. How may I entertain you until then?”

  Holly stood up, unzipped her skirt, and let it fall to the floor, exhibiting a garter belt and stockings, but no knickers, then she sank into her chair and parted her legs, revealing a fresh Brazilian. “Improvise,” she said.

  And he did.

  23

  Holly sat back in the comfortable rear seat of the Bentley Mulsanne and sighed deeply. During the past months she had achieved a new high in unrequited randiness, something she had always relied on Stone to relieve, and he had never disappointed. She was alone in the rear seat; the driver and her personal shopper, Monique, occupied the front.

  “Where would you like to go first?” Monique asked.

  “You choose,” Holly replied. “And please excuse me, but I must make a phone call.” She found the switch that raised the glass panel between them and dialed a number on her cell.

  “Research, this is Brian.”

  “Brian, this is Holly Barker. Why aren’t you working?”

  “Oh, I ah, I mean, I am working, Ms. Barker.”

  “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

  “Oh, all right. How may I help you, Ms. Barker?”

  “You can begin by calling me Holly, like everybody else but you.”

  “All right. Holly.”

  “Write down this name: John, no middle initial, Simpson.”

  “Got it.”

  “This man is an ex–Army NCO, currently assigned as a handyman in our Berlin station, at least, currently until last night, when he died. I managed to get a look at his army service record, which should have been and by now is sequestered, so you can’t call it up. However sequestered it may be, it does not contain every fact of the man’s life, and that is what I want to know.”

  “Every fact of the man’s life?”

  “That is only slightly hyperbolic. I want to know everything that can be found in a few hours. I want to know about his years in grade school, in high school, his church, if he had one, his hometown newspaper, and his school annual. I want to know about his academics and his athletics. I want to know who he lost his virginity with and if he knocked her up, and if so, what he did about it. I want to know everything his friends know about him, and his teachers and coaches, too.”

  “How long do I have?” Brian asked.

  “What time is it there?”

  “Nine twenty-one.”

  “You have until nine twenty-one tomorrow. I want it all e-mailed to me, and I may call you for more. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Have a good time.” She hung up and lowered the glass partition. “Sorry about that, Monique. Where are we headed?”

  “To Chanel, in the Avenue Montaigne. There are a number of other fine shops in the same street.”

  “Is Ralph Lauren there?”

  “No, his store is in the Boulevard Saint-Germain.”

  “Let’s be sure and go there after Chanel. His stuff is gorgeous, and it fits me.”

  “D’accord.”

  —

  CHANEL WAS A BUST; the fabrics seemed heavy, and things hung on her body like shrouds. She was shocked to find that a simple party top was €7000! Holly was not short of money, but she wasn’t short of good sense. “On to Boulevard Saint-Germain,” she said to the front seat of the Bentley.

  —

  AT RALPH LAUREN, everything fell into place. She found a green dress that went with her auburn hair and gave her very nice breasts a free rein, and she found a white double-breasted dress that you could see coming a block away and never forget. She didn’t ask the prices, and she signed the credit card chit without looking at it. She also found some sensational fuck-me shoes, a knockout coat, and a new piece of luggage to hold all the things she was going to take back to New York. What would the folks at the New York station say if they could see her with all this stuff? They thought she was a grubby, workaholic nerd—which, of course, she was—but she harbored an inner babe that had to get out once in a while, and Paris was an awfully good place to cut her loose. She rode back to l’Arrington a happy girl.

  —

  STONE WASN’T THERE when she returned. She put away her purchases and checked her e-mail. Brian, bless his heart, had been on the job. He summarized:

  “Johnny Simps, as he was called, was born and raised in a small Georgia town called Delano, and he was, from all accounts, a nasty little shit from the time he could toddle. He tortured small furry animals and any kid who was smaller than he was, which was most. In high school he was strikingly handsome—see the yearbook photo—but I talked to half a dozen of his schoolmates, and nobody had a good word to say about him. He was a pretty good high school quarterback—not good enough for college—who loved to play dirty and cheat, if he could. I don’t know how you figured it out, but he did get a girl pregnant in high school: she said it was rape, he said, consensual, and he got two older girls to beat her up. A judge ordered him to join the military or go to prison.

  “According to a friend of hers, the girl lost the baby but got herself together, got a scholarship to college, and was salutatorian of her class. She did a cosmetic start-up during her twenties, and sold the business for a hundred and twenty million dollars in her thirties, and she’s now running her own business software company.

  “Her friend swears she hired three guys to beat the shit out of Johnny Simps, and he arrived at basic training pre-wounded. Weirdly, he found a home in the army and straightened himself out. He had leadership skills and was promoted. He was also a crack shot with all sorts of weapons, and when he applied for Special Forces he got in and did well. An Agency officer spotted him in Afghanistan and encouraged him to apply, and he was accepted quickly. We don’t have a record, of course, because that’s sequestered, but the guy who recruited him said he did well at the Farm and afterward, even though he had a cruel streak, which his superiors overlooked. Says he was smart and street-smart and could run a team. His big fault was he was bad at languages, which
, along with his lack of higher education, kept him at low-level tasks. He had no compunctions about wet work.

  “I could spend more time on this, but I don’t think it would be productive. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Holly wrote back: “Brian, you done good, and it’s enough. See you in a couple of weeks.” She logged on to the Agency mainframe, called up Brian’s record, and wrote a glowing addendum, resolving to promote him when she got back.

  She called Rick LaRose. “You got anything new on John, no middle initial, Simpson?”

  “Uh, something came up. I haven’t even started.”

  “Never mind, I think I’ve got enough to tell you that he was a tough piece of work who didn’t give a shit for anybody but himself. He did low-level wet work because it was all he was suited for, and he probably kept out of his station chief’s way. I suppose he could have been freelancing for anybody who came along, but he knew how the system worked, and I don’t think he would have left Berlin for Paris, except for somebody he knew and had probably worked with or for. You know anybody in Berlin?”

  “Yeah, I know a guy in that station. He was fairly senior in Paris when I first got here.”

  “You trust him?”

  “I know he’s not a bad guy.”

  “Can he keep his mouth shut?”

  “Yeah, I believe he can.”

  “Then get ahold of him, and the two of you find out who Simpson was working for and what he was sent here to do. I’m forwarding you an e-mail from one of my research people in New York that will give you some early background on the guy. It’s not pretty. You and your buddy fill in the time since.”

  “I’m on it,” Rick said.

  24

  Ron Spencer got off the C17 at Andrews Air Force Base and pulled the plugs from his ears, which were still ringing. He had reposed on web seating for the ten hours from Berlin, and his back ached almost as much as his ears. There was a car, or rather a ratty van, waiting for him. He threw his duffel into the rear seat and was driven directly to Langley.

  “No time for a shave and a shower?” he asked his driver.