by Stuart Woods
“I’ll fend them off, get my calls screened—”
“No! That’ll make you look guilty. Don’t run from them, just answer the question.”
“I hate doing that.”
“I hate your having to do it. I’ll call you when I’ve heard more.” She hung up.
Five seconds after she did, Stone’s phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID: Associated Press. He groaned.
27
Stone pressed the button. “Hello?”
“Stone Barrington?”
“Yes?”
“Is this Mr. Stone Barrington, an attorney at Woodman & Weld?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Mr. Barrington, this is Jim Wardell, from the Associated Press.”
“What can I do for you, Jim?”
“I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Are you acquainted with a Dr. Samuel Wharton of New York?”
“I am.”
“Have you ever seen him as a patient?”
“Yes, about three weeks ago.”
“May I ask, did you have a medical complaint?”
“No, I had a need for a new medical certificate as a pilot.”
“Did you say ‘pilot’? As in an airplane?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you need a new medical certificate?”
“Because my old one expires at the end of this month. All are required to have a medical exam every two years, in order to maintain their flying privileges. Airline pilots have to have one every six months.”
“I see. Did you, as part of this medical exam, offer any bodily fluids for examination?”
“Well, I peed into a cup, if that’s what you mean.”
“Was this, ah, fluid sent to a lab for analysis?”
“I believe the way it’s done is, you pee into the cup, the doctor dunks some sort of test strip in it, and if the strip turns the correct color, you’re good, and they flush the rest.”
“What color should it turn?”
“I’ve no idea. I think it’s something to do with your blood sugar, and they want to know if you’re diabetic. What’s this about?”
“Do you know if Dr. Wharton is acquainted with Mrs. Katharine Lee?”
“Nope.”
“Nope, she isn’t?”
“Nope, I don’t know if she is or isn’t.”
“Are you aware that Dr. Wharton is an ob-gyn?”
“Yes, I saw a certificate on his office wall.”
“Then why were you seeing an ob-gyn for an aviation medical exam?”
“It’s like this: the Federal Aviation Agency appoints doctors in every city as Aviation Medical Examiners, in order to ensure that pilots are healthy enough to fly safely. My former AME retired, so I needed a new one. I went to the AOPA website—”
“AO what?”
“The Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association.”
“Right.”
“They have a list of all the AMEs in various cities, and I picked Dr. Wharton because he was the nearest to my home.”
“Did Katharine Lee recommend Dr. Wharton?”
“I just told you how I picked him. Are you having hearing problems?”
“No, I can hear you just fine.”
“Then stop asking me questions I’ve already answered—it’s annoying. Now I’m going to ask you just one more time: What’s this call about? And if I don’t get a straight answer, I’m hanging up.”
“Mr. Barrington, are you aware of a contention from an Internet blogger named Howard Axelrod that you are the father of the baby that Mrs. Katharine Lee is carrying?”
“What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Are you, sir?”
“Am I what? Did you say you’re from the Associated Press? Because I’m beginning to get the feeling you’re from the Drudge Report.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Barrington.”
“What question?”
“About the baby.”
“Oh, that question. Let me spell it out for you: I am not the father of any baby that any woman on earth is carrying. Does that clear it up for you?”
“Does that include Katharine Lee’s baby?”
“Didn’t you hear me say ‘any woman on earth’?”
“Yes, but—”
“But my ass, or rather, bite my ass. And don’t call me again with stupid questions about something you came across on the Internet.” Stone ended the call. Immediately, the phone rang again. He punched the button. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, this is Joe Jerkison from the Drudge Report.”
“Hi, there, got a pencil?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then write this down: I, Stone Barrington, am not the father of any baby carried by any woman on earth. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Bye-bye.” He hung up. The phone began ringing again. This time Stone found a paper clip, inserted it into the hole in the iPhone that opened the case, and disconnected the battery.
Peace!
Then the phone on his bedside table rang. Stone picked up the handset, punched line two, and called the operator.
“How may I help you, Mr. Barrington?”
“I’d like the operator to screen all my calls before putting them through.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here is a list of names of people from whom I will accept calls.” He rattled off a dozen names. “Anyone else who calls is to be told that I am not available and that it is not known when or if I will be available. Is that clear?”
“And what if the person calling insists on speaking to you?”
“Then hang up.”
“Yes, sir. For how long shall your calls be screened?”
“Until I check out of the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone hung up.
28
Stone replaced the battery in his iPhone and rerecorded his answering message to reflect the statement he had given to the AP and the Drudge guy, then he called his office. Busy signal. He reflected on the fact that he had four lines, then he called the cell number of his secretary, Joan.
“Hello, goddammit.”
“Joan?”
“Stone, is that you?”
“It is. Did you confuse me with our Maker?”
“I’m sorry, but the phones have gone nuts here.”
“Same here. Get your steno pad.” She did, and he dictated his statement. “Put that in as the recording on our answering system, then stop answering the phones, until they stop ringing.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“You know what I mean. Have I had any calls from people I actually know?”
“Who knows? I stopped answering half an hour ago.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to hear from anyone who doesn’t have my cell number. Do you have any idea how the Associated Press and the Drudge Report got my cell number?”
“Those people have ways of getting anybody’s number.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone I’m in Paris, or they’ll start knocking on my door here.” Someone started knocking on the door to his suite, then it got louder. “I’m here, if you need me,” Stone said, then hung up and went to the door.
He checked the peephole and found Holly waiting. “Who is it?”
“Eet ees zee sexual crimes deeveesion of zee Paree gendarmes!”
Stone opened the door. “In that case, come right in.”
Holly came in. “Sorry, I forgot my key card. What’s going on? You look a little frazzled.”
Stone closed the door. “I’m being pursued by multiple members of the media.”
“Maddening!
”
“You bet your sweet ass. Some blogger jerk named Howard Axelrod has blogged that Kate Lee is carrying my baby.”
“Well, congratulations to both of you! And to her husband, too, for being so broad-minded.”
“Stop it, you know it isn’t true. Or even possible.”
“I know no such thing,” Holly replied, “and given your nature, it’s certainly possible.”
“I’ve never even been alone with Kate.”
“I believe the standard line is ‘We are just good friends.’”
“Yeah, I’ll try that on the next reporter who calls.”
“You know,” Holly said, “for someone who is being pursued by multiple members of the media, your phones are oddly silent.”
“I’ve had the hotel screen my calls, and—so far, at least—only two of the multiple members of the media have learned my cell number.”
“You know who Howard Axelrod is, don’t you?”
“I do not.”
“That’s okay, neither does anybody else. People have been trying to track him down for months.”
“Why?”
“Because he keeps reporting breaking news before anybody else. I expect Matt Drudge is contemplating suicide by now. The bad news is, Mr. Axelrod is always right.”
“Not anymore, he isn’t.”
“I believe that makes you the exception that proves the rule.”
“That line has never made any sense.”
“Every schoolteacher I’ve ever had has spouted it.”
Stone’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and found two lines drawn across the screen and showed it to Holly. “Should I answer it?”
“Sure, and put it on speaker—I could use some entertainment.”
Stone pressed the button. “Yes?”
“It’s me,” Lance drawled.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Stone, I’ve just had some wonderful news: Kate Lee is carrying your baby!”
Holly broke up.
“I’m so happy for both of you,” Lance said.
“Go fuck yourself, Lance.”
“As much fun as that might be, I’d like to speak to Holly instead. Don’t bother telling me she’s not there—I can hear her chortling.”
Holly took the phone from Stone. “I don’t chortle, Lance, I chuckle.”
“Ah, there you are, Holly. Have you and your two colleagues come up with any decisive information in the matter of John, no middle initial, Simpson?”
“We have not.”
“You haven’t learned how he disposed of the body of the Russian gentleman?”
“We have not. We have no usable information.”
“That is not quite correct,” Lance said. “We know that the Russian combine has a spy inside the Paris police.”
“Well, we know that someone inside the Paris police believes that strongly enough to have someone tortured to learn the alleged spy’s identity.”
“It offends me that that person has used my personnel to try and solve his own problem,” Lance said. “It’s time we put a stop to that sort of thing.”
“And how do we do that?” Holly asked.
“We don’t, really—Stone does.”
“Stone does what?” Stone asked.
“Stone calls his petit bijou, Mirabelle, and tells her that her father might like to know that there’s a Russian combine spy in his prefecture.”
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Stone said.
“Why not?”
“Her father appears to have a low opinion of Americans, in general, and those connected to the CIA, in particular. He considers me an American spy and is unlikely to attach any credence to any information originating from me.”
“Then how about her brother?”
“What about her brother?”
“Would you seem a more credible source to him?”
“I’ve met him only once, and in a circumstance unlikely to add to my credibility.”
“Still, in the past Jacques has been able to set personal considerations aside, when it is in his interests to do so.”
“Surely there is a better way to communicate with Jacques Chance than through his sister.”
“If there were a better way, Stone, I would have thought of it. Come along, now, it’s time to do something for your country.”
Stone sighed. “Oh, all right. What do you want me to tell her?”
“Everything you know would do nicely.”
“I don’t know all that much.”
“Just so. Tell her that. Bye-bye.” Lance hung up.
“How did I get mixed up in all this?” Stone said to Holly.
“By fucking the daughter and sister of highly placed French policemen?” Holly suggested.
Stone couldn’t argue with that.
29
Stone picked up the phone. “Now listen,” he said to Holly, “you have to keep your mouth shut while I’m on the phone with Mirabelle, do you understand?”
“Not a word,” Holly said.
Stone chose Mirabelle’s number from his list of Favorites, and it began ringing. Finally she picked up. “Ah, it’s the American spy!” she said. “To what do I owe this invasion?”
“I’m sorry if I’m invading,” Stone said, “but I have to talk with you about your brother.”
“What could you possibly say to me about my brother? You don’t even know him.”
“Let’s just say that I know people who know him—and respect him—and I have some information for him that he might find very interesting.”
“And you want me to give him this information?”
“If you could pass it along, I’m sure he and I would both be very grateful.”
“Is this police business?”
“Sort of, I guess.”
“Then it would be better if a policeman spoke to him. He has contempt for people who are not policemen.”
“That’s a very large group of people,” Stone said.
“Nevertheless.”
“Nevertheless what?”
“Nevertheless, he has contempt for non-policemen.”
“Tell you what: if we can arrange a meeting, I will supply a bona fide policeman with whom he can speak, while ignoring all non-policemen.”
“I am having a drink with him at six o’clock this evening. You may join us at a lovely sidewalk café near the Boulevard Saint-Germain.”
“I’m afraid that the security arrangements that have been made for me preclude exposing my person to the evening air. How about if you both come to l’Arrington for a drink in my suite, at six o’clock.”
“Who will be there?”
“A policeman and, if he wishes, a member of our intelligence services.”
“All right, I will arrange it. Be sure to have pastis—that is all he drinks. Au revoir.” She hung up.
“Were you referring to me?” Holly asked.
“I was.”
“Oh, good. I want to get a good look at her.”
“Holly . . .”
“Didn’t I behave myself while you were on the phone with her?”
“Well, yes . . .”
“I will behave myself while in the same room with her, as well.”
“All right,” he said, “but I will unceremoniously throw you out if you let your worse nature get the better of you.”
“Fair enough. And, by the way, don’t you think you’d better inform the policeman in question that his services are required?”
“Right you are.” Stone called Dino.
“Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“Exiting a dull meeting.”
“Can you be here at six—you and Viv—for a drink with a
Paris cop?”
“Sure, I guess. Who is he?”
“One Jacques Chance.”
“I shook his hand yesterday.”
“Good, that will help. Be here at a quarter to six. I have to brief you on what to say.”
“What do I have to say?”
“I’ll tell you at a quarter to six.”
“Okay.”
Stone hung up, called room service and asked for a bottle of pastis.
“What is pastis?” Holly asked.
“Some sort of French booze. It’s all Chance drinks, apparently.”
The waiter arrived in record time, clutching a bottle.
Stone invited him in. “How do I prepare a drink with this?”
“You just add cool water,” the man said. “Four or five to one of the pastis.”
“Got it.”
“Or you might offer your guests a small pitcher—such as the one in your bar—filled with water, and let them decide how much.”
Stone slipped the man a fifty-euro note. “I’m grateful to you,” he said. The man left, very happy.
Holly opened the bottle and took a small swig, then screwed up her face. “Holy shit!”
“He said to mix it with four or five parts of water.”
“I didn’t hear that part.”
“That’s what you get for drinking from the bottle.”
“It’s how I was brought up,” she said.
30
Dino and Viv let themselves into the sitting room from their adjoining bedroom on time, and Stone sat them down and gave them a drink while he briefed Dino on what to say.
“Got it,” Dino said, sounding bored.
“Why does Dino have to do this, instead of you?” Viv asked.
“Because Chance, to put it in the words of his sister, ‘has contempt for non-policemen.’”
“That’s a little stiff, isn’t it?”
“Nevertheless,” Stone said, quoting Mirabelle further.
At precisely six o’clock there was a sharp rap on the door; Stone answered it and ushered in his guests. “M’sieur Prefect,” he said, “may I present the police commissioner of the city of New York, Dino Bacchetti? Commissioner, this is Prefect Jacques Chance, of the Paris police.”
“We met yesterday,” Chance said, with a small smile as he shook Dino’s hand.
