Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

  “You need not,” Stone admitted.

  Holly leaned in. “What is Howard Axelrod’s real name, Lance?”

  “Now, now, Holly, if that were revealed, then I would not have the leverage with Mr. Axelrod that I need to ensure his cooperation in this noble effort.”

  “You have a point,” Holly admitted. “But later, I’m going to make you tell me.”

  “Certainly exposing Howard Axelrod for who he is would be great fun,” Lance said, “but not until I have persuaded him to expose Jacques Chance for who he is. Which brings me to a point: Stone, between the time the first story about Jacques begins to circulate, and the time at which the facts have made him harmless to you, there lies a period of as yet undetermined length when Jacques will be made more dangerous than ever to your continued existence. There will come a moment, though, when it will be propitious for you to flee Paris and Europe. I will get word to you when that moment arrives. In the meantime, however, do not travel except in the coach and six provided for you, and make arrangements for an instantaneous departure when the word comes.”

  “You bet your ass,” Stone said with conviction.

  “One thing, Lance,” Holly said.

  “Yes, Holly?”

  “Do not spring Stone from Paris until after the grand opening of l’Arrington.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Stone is taking me, and I have spent a month’s salary on a gown for the occasion. If Stone vanishes, then I will get you.”

  Lance laughed uproariously. “And that would be a fate worse than Stone’s at the hands of Jacques Chance! All right, Holly, I’ll see that you get to wear your gown.”

  33

  Stone got into bed, exhausted, longing for sleep.

  Holly, on the other hand, was brightly awake, sitting up in bed with a book on her lap. She was not reading it. “Stone!” she exploded.

  “Mmmf? What is it?”

  “Who do you think Howard Axelrod really is?”

  Stone turned over, presenting his back to her. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Surely you must be curious. He’s supposed to be a well-known journalist.”

  “I’m not curious, I’m tired.” Stone pulled the covers half over his head.

  “Well, it’s somebody with a bit of wit, anyway. He always makes me laugh. Somehow, I think he’d like me, too.”

  “I hope the two of you will be very happy.” Stone turned onto his back. Then he lifted his head. “Wait a minute,” he said, “you’re talking about the son of a bitch who has besmirched my good name and called Kate’s character into question?”

  “Your name wasn’t all that good before, not with regard to women, anyway, and Kate’s character is beyond reproach. This will pass in a day or two, wait and see.”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “I think Howard Axelrod is in Paris,” Holly said.

  That got Stone’s attention. “Why do you think that?”

  “Well, Lance is awfully sure of his ability to manipulate Axelrod, and that would be easier to do if they’re both in the same city.”

  “Well, if you find out who and where he is, let me know—I’d like to take a swing at the bastard, and no judge would punish me for it.”

  “The gathering of top policemen has drawn top journalists from everywhere to Paris. I’ll bet Howard is among them.”

  “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

  “It was in this morning’s International New York Times.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “Would you really take a swing at him?”

  “You bet your sweet ass I would.” Stone was wide awake now.

  “Do you really think Mirabelle Chance has been sleeping with her brother all these years?”

  “I confess, that came as something of a shock to me when Lance brought it up. I think it’s a horribly damaging rumor, and I don’t believe for a moment that she has that in her character.”

  “I rather liked her this evening. She seemed like a no-bullshit sort of person, very forthright. What is she like in bed? Is she enthusiastic, or does she just lie back and think of France?”

  “Holly, shut up and go to sleep.”

  “I mean, I’m the only woman I know anything about in bed—other women are a mystery to me.”

  “They’re a mystery to me, too,” Stone said. “I mean, you’re in bed with me right now, and you’re talking about how other women perform sex. That is a complete mystery to me.”

  “Don’t you ever wonder how other men perform in bed?”

  “I have never wondered for a moment, and I don’t care.”

  “You have no sexual curiosity, Stone.”

  “Not about that, I don’t. You leave women to me, and I’ll leave other men to you.”

  “Don’t you care if I fuck other men?”

  “It’s none of my business, is it? Have I ever said a word to you on that subject?”

  “I suppose not. Would you like to hear about some of them?”

  “I would not!”

  “Well, there was this one guy—I think you might know him—”

  “Stop it! Not another word!”

  “I wonder what Howard Axelrod is like in the sack.”

  “Incapable, I should think, given his deep interest in other people’s sex lives.”

  “Stone, everybody is interested in other people’s sex lives.”

  “Not I.”

  “Why do you think people go to hot movies and read hot novels? They’re dying to know how other people do it, that’s why.”

  “I don’t read hot novels, and I hardly ever go to the movies, for any reason. I see movies on television, old and new, and TV, the networks, at least, haven’t gotten around to explicit sex, yet.”

  “It’s only a matter of time. Cable and satellite are already way ahead of the networks in that regard. I’ll bet l’Arrington has half a dozen X-rated channels on its television system right now. Where’s the remote control?” She rummaged around under the covers until she came to Stone. She laid a hand on his crotch. “Are you still sleepy?” she breathed into his ear.

  “Not very,” he replied.

  “Oh, good. Let’s make our own X-rated movie.” She brought him erect.

  He rolled over on top of her. “No pictures, please.”

  “Just memories,” she said, guiding him in.

  34

  At ten A.M. the phone at Stone’s bedside rang; Stone turned over and answered before it occurred to him that he had ordered all his calls screened. “Hello?”

  “Sleeping in?” Lance asked.

  “I was.”

  “Put Holly on the extension. I need to speak with you both.”

  “Hang on.” Stone poked Holly’s sleeping ass with a finger, then, getting no response, poked it harder.

  “What?” she said into her pillow.

  “It’s Lance. He wants to speak to both of us.”

  Holly rolled over and picked up the phone on her side. “What, Lance?”

  “Now don’t be grumpy, this is an important call.”

  “I can’t wait to hear it,” she said.

  “There is an exciting event this evening—a dinner for a couple dozen of America’s top journalists, and you and Stone are invited, if you don’t have other plans. If you do have other plans, kindly rearrange them.”

  “We don’t have plans, do we, Stone?”

  Stone shook his head.

  “We’re available. Now can we go back to sleep?”

  “Of course, my dear. Seven-thirty for eight at the United States ambassador’s residence. See you then!” Lance hung up.

  “Did he say the ambassador’s residence?” Stone asked.

  “I believe he did.”

  “Been there, done that
—don’t want to do it again.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve already accepted, and it does sound exciting. I never get to meet journalists in my job. I wonder why Lance wants me there?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll go only if you stand between me and the ambassador at all times.”

  “Didn’t you enjoy being felt up by the lady last time?”

  “No, I did not. I want your solemn word.”

  “Oh, all right, you have it. It’s a good thing you’re not a woman, you know.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because women get groped all the time.”

  “They do? I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “That’s because you’re doing the groping. If you were the gropee, you’d be shocked.”

  “I don’t grope unless invited.”

  “You mean women walk up to you at dinner parties and say, ‘Grope me’?”

  “Not exactly—it’s more subtle than that.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Well, do you remember the party at Dino’s apartment, when you backed into me and wiggled your ass against me? Like that.”

  “Oh, my goodness, I did do that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and it was an invitation to be groped.”

  “And it worked, too!” She put her hand under the covers and drew her nails across his bare ass. “Consider that an invitation,” she said. “R.S.V.P.?”

  —

  STONE SAW TO IT that they arrived at the ambassador’s residence just a little late; he wanted a lot of people there when the ambassador greeted them, and his plan worked.

  “Stone! Holly!” the ambassador crowed. “How nice to see you again.”

  Stone reached around Holly and shook her hand. “Ambassador, you look lovely this evening.” She was wearing a clinging red dress that showed off her well-toned body.

  “Why, thank you!”

  Lance materialized beside her, and before Stone could warn him he saw the ambassador’s hand head for its target. Lance started only a bit. “Come,” he said, “there are people to meet.” He took Holly by the hand and led her away; Stone followed, firmly attached to her other hand.

  In short order, they were introduced to Walter Grimes, a columnist for the Washington Post; Charles Danforth, an editor of the Boston Globe; Helen Frank, the NBC Nightly News anchorwoman; Carla Fontana, the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times; Paul Roberts, the editor of the International New York Times; Tim Bartlett, the Paris correspondent for the Associated Press; and Rod Halliburton, the White House correspondent for Politico.

  Holly was dazzled. “It’s so interesting to put faces to all these names,” she said. Lance towed them around the room, adding another dozen names and faces to the introductions. He seemed to be an old friend of each of them.

  Helen Frank sidled up to Stone at the first opportunity. “Are you the Stone Barrington?” she asked.

  “The only one, as far as I know,” Stone replied cordially.

  “The, ah, friend of Katharine Lee?”

  “The just good friend of same. I’ve already released a statement to that effect, and I have nothing to add.”

  “How disappointing, I was hoping for a scoop,” she said, feigning petulance.

  “Nothing exists to be scooped, I’m afraid.”

  “Tell me,” she said, leaning in close. “Has the ambassador made a move on your crotch this evening? I’ve heard rumors.”

  “Not this evening,” Stone said. “Holly, here, is running interference.”

  “And what a lovely interference she is,” the woman said, drifting away.

  Holly pulled Lance a step away from the others. “Is he here?”

  “Is who here?” Lance asked innocently.

  “Howard Axelrod.”

  “Oh, yes, he is present, and we’ve already had our little chat.”

  “Introduce me.”

  “You may have already met him,” Lance said, then the ambassador pulled him away to meet someone else.

  Shortly, they were called to dinner in a room full of tables of six, and Holly spent the rest of the evening speculating on which of the guests was the dreaded Howard Axelrod.

  As the party broke up, Stone encountered Lance, lingering with a group. “May we offer you a lift?” he asked.

  “Thank you, no,” Lance replied. “I’m staying for a little while to have a brandy with the ambassador.”

  “Watch yourself,” Stone said.

  “I intend to,” Lance said with his little smile.

  “What was that brief conversation with Lance about?” Holly asked, when they were safely in the van.

  “I’m not sure,” Stone replied, “but Lance is either very innocent or very knowing—I’m not sure which.”

  “Probably both,” Holly said.

  35

  The van hummed along for a while then made a turn, heading for a bridge over the Seine. “Oh, God,” Stone said, rubbing his face vigorously.

  “What’s wrong?” Holly asked.

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

  “What’s it about?”

  “I’m driving along like this, Lance and Rick and me, and as we enter this intersection ahead, we’re broadsided by a concrete-mixer truck. That actually happened last year, and I’m reliving it.”

  “Do you survive?” Holly said.

  “Of course, I’m here, right?”

  “It could never happen twice,” she said.

  They stopped for a traffic light. Stone was perspiring and wiping his face with a handkerchief.

  “You don’t look well,” Holly said.

  “I’ll be all right when we’re across the bridge.”

  The light changed, and they entered the intersection with the other traffic and headed for the bridge. Stone quickly looked both ways.

  “All clear,” Holly said. “I checked, and we’re safe on the bridge.”

  “Thank God,” Stone said. “I thought I was going to throw up.”

  The van left the Pont Royal and started across the wide intersection where the Quai Voltaire met the Quai Anatole France. Stone heard an engine revving, and he looked up to see a large mass emblazoned with the name “Aveco” rushing at the van. Then there was an incredibly loud noise and his world turned upside down, then right-side up again, and the van was sliding sideways toward the parapet between the street and the Seine while the vehicle seemed to be peppered with silent fire. The truck was still revving, and the now upright van traveled across the sidewalk, struck the parapet, breaking it, and when it finally came to rest, Stone was staring forward through the windshield into the River Seine, perhaps twenty feet below.

  Holly had been thrown onto the van’s floor, and she struggled back to her feet with a Glock in her hand. “So much for déjà vu!” she shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “No!” came a shout from the driver. “If you get out we’ll go into the river!”

  “Then you get out first!” Holly shouted back. “And be quick about it!”

  The two men up front struggled with their doors. “They’re jammed!” one of them yelled.

  “Then come back here!” Stone shouted.

  The two men climbed uphill into the passenger compartment and Stone began yanking on the sliding door. “Need some help, here!”

  One of the men started kicking the door, and it flew open. The four of them spilled out of the van into a sea of gravel, on the opposite side from the well-aimed truck. Three of them had weapons in their hands and were pointing them in all directions. There was the sound of running boots striking the pavement, away from them, then the sound of approaching sirens. All this seemed to Stone to have happened in seconds.

  “Let’s get out of here,” the driver said, sticking his submachine gun under his coat. “I don’t want to hav
e to explain this to the police.”

  “Which way?” Holly asked.

  “Back across the bridge, away from this mess. Don’t run, walk. Try not to attract attention.”

  “Maybe you should return the Glock to wherever it came from,” Stone suggested.

  Holly shoved it back into her handbag but kept looking around for hostiles. They hurried across the bridge as a group, looking in all directions, while the driver muttered into a handheld radio. He took it away from his lips for a moment. “Check yourselves. Anybody hurt? Any blood? Any broken limbs?”

  “All right here,” Holly said, and Stone said the same.

  “We’ve got a car five minutes out,” the driver said. “Let’s stand behind that bus shelter.” They crossed the Quai des Tuileries and huddled behind the shelter.

  “What’s happening across the river?” Holly asked. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “It was a big dump truck loaded with gravel. That was the noise like bullets striking the van—there’s gravel everywhere.”

  “What the hell would a dump truck be doing out at this time of night?” Holly asked.

  “Looking for us,” Stone said. “Or rather, for me.”

  “Did anybody see the driver?”

  “I saw a man running,” the driver’s companion said. “Big guy, black or dark clothes, heavy boots.”

  “Like the French assault-team cops wear?” Stone asked.

  “Exactly like that,” the man said.

  They continued to huddle behind the bus shelter, waiting for rescue. Holly had the Glock in her hand again.

  36

  The car came, and Stone’s guards shoved him and Holly into the rear seat, while they flagged a cab. “We’ll catch up with you,” his driver said, “but in a new vehicle.”

  —

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, Stone and Holly sat in their suite with brandy glasses in hand, trying to come down. There was a hammering on the door, and when Stone answered it, Rick LaRose walked in and locked the door behind him.

  “Everybody okay?” he asked.

  “Just as soon as we get the brandy down,” Stone said. “Pour yourself one.”