by Stuart Woods
“I can’t find Lance,” Rick said, “and he’s not answering his phone.”
Stone and Holly exchanged a glance. “Lance just needs a little downtime,” Holly said. “He’ll turn up.”
“I even called the ambassador’s residence,” Rick said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Stone replied.
“One good thing, though—that van took a beating and came out whole, not even a broken window. It’ll see service again.”
“I’m so happy for it,” Stone said.
“Don’t worry, there’s a new one downstairs.”
“Aren’t you running out of them yet?” Holly asked.
“Soon, but not yet. Lance has the authority to requisition replacements.”
“Swell,” Stone said.
“Did anybody see anything?”
“One of the drivers said the truck driver was dressed in black clothes and wearing heavy boots, like those the police assault teams wear.”
“Yeah, Lance told me his theory about Jacques Chance.”
“I don’t think it’s a theory anymore,” Stone said.
Stone took a swig of his brandy and sighed.
“What?” Holly asked.
“I was just thinking how nice home would feel at this point.”
“Not before we’ve neutralized Jacques Chance,” Rick said.
Holly looked up. “Not before I’ve worn my new dress to the l’Arrington grand opening.”
Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”
“Are you children well?” Lance asked.
“We’re still breathing, and nothing is broken.”
“Quite a lot like last year’s incident, don’t you think?”
“Much too much like it.”
“The van justified its existence, I’m told.”
“It did indeed. How was the rest of your evening, Lance?”
“Stimulating,” Lance replied. “And we’ll say no more about it.”
“As you wish.”
“Rick will be there soon with a new one.”
“He’s already here.”
“I’ve briefed him on the situation with Jacques Chance.”
“We’ve been discussing it.”
“Quite soon, now, M’sieur Chance will have his hands full with new problems, and he will be unlikely to be further concerned with you.”
“That would be a welcome relief,” Stone said.
“And you may get some good news from home. Good night. Read the papers tomorrow morning.”
“After I’ve slept for twelve hours,” Stone said, but Lance was already gone. He hung up. “Well, Rick, Lance seems as pleased as punch about how things have gone.”
“Lance is a little twisted that way,” Rick replied. “I’ll say good night. It’s unlikely that you two will be assaulted again before morning.”
“Only until morning?” Holly asked. “Can’t you do better than that?”
“Sweet dreams,” Rick said, letting himself out.
Holly came and took Stone’s empty glass from him, led him to the bed, undressed him, and tucked him in. “Tell me,” she said, adjusting the covers, “do you often have these déjà vu/premonition things?”
“Déjà vu, yes. Doesn’t everybody? But premonitions, no. My first time.”
“Next time, try to have it a bit earlier, like, before we get into the van.”
“I’ll work on that,” Stone said, stroking her hair. “Are you really all right?”
“If I attack you in the morning, then I’m all right. Ask me then.”
“I’ll be sure and do that,” Stone said, drifting off.
37
The International New York Times arrived with breakfast. Stone searched the front page for news of Jacques Chance, but there was nothing.
Holly bit into a croissant. “Maybe the Times closes early,” she said. “Let’s try the French newspapers.”
Stone called down for the papers, and they arrived as they were finishing their coffee.
“Here we go,” Holly said, holding up a paper.
SCANDALE!
ASSASSIN! CORRUPTION! ESPIONNAGE RUSSE!
EN HAUT LIEU!
“Now, that’s more like it,” Holly said.
“May I have a translation, please?”
“Here you go: ‘Scandal! Murder! Corruption! Russian Spying!’ And all of it ‘in High Places!’ Or maybe ‘Instead of High Places!’”
“That’s pretty comprehensive, except that last one doesn’t sound quite right.”
“My French isn’t all that hot,” Holly admitted, “but what more could we—correction, Lance—ask for? Look, there’s even a mention of Howard Axelrod, a couple of paragraphs down. Apparently, it broke on his website.”
Stone scanned the front page and, alarmingly, saw his name mentioned, along with Axelrod, in a box. “What does this say?”
Holly read it a couple of times. “I can’t make much sense of it, but they use the word ‘excuses.’”
“Axelrod is making excuses for something?” Stone’s cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“Good morning,” Lance said with enthusiasm. “Seen the papers?”
“Yes, we’re looking at them right now. I think we figured out the headlines, but the text is rough going for us, with Holly’s French.”
“Have you got the Times?”
“Yes.”
“Page six, bottom half. They didn’t play it quite as big.”
The headline read “Blogger ‘Howard Axelrod’ looses salvo in the French Press.” Then, in smaller letters, “Apologizes for false rumor about Democratic nominee Katharine Lee.’” Stone read quickly. “Howard Axelrod, as he styles himself, added to his French story an apology to Katharine Lee for a rumor he published claiming that she was pregnant by a man not her husband, New York attorney Stone Barrington. Said Axelrod, ‘I relied on a source who turned out to be unreliable. In fact, he has been revealed to be a Republican provocateur who has been instrumental in airing other falsehoods about Mrs. Lee. I apologize, unreservedly, for any distress I have caused both Katharine Lee and her friend Stone Barrington by the publication of this scurrilous fabrication. Neither I nor anyone else has presented the slightest evidence that her child was fathered by anyone but her husband, the president.’”
“How does that sound, Stone?”
“It sounds just wonderful.”
“I know you must be relieved.”
“I certainly am.”
“There is, however, one more step that has to be taken to fully clear your name.”
“What’s that?”
“We need a news story by a credible, well-placed journalist.”
“And how do we do that?”
“Do you remember meeting Carla Fontana last evening? She’s the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times.”
“Yes, of course.”
“She has expressed a desire to have dinner with you this evening and interview you about this experience.”
“I can see how that could be advantageous.”
“However, she doesn’t want to be seen interviewing you, so dinner will have to be in your suite at l’Arrington. Must you ask Holly’s permission?”
“Hang on.” He covered the phone and turned to Holly. “Lance wants me to have dinner with Carla Fontana, of the Times, tonight. He thinks she will help to further clear the air.” Holly shrugged. “Also, he says I have to see her here—she doesn’t want to be seen doing this in public.”
Holly’s eyebrows shot up. “Aha! Lance wants to get you laid!”
“I don’t think that’s what he has in mind,” Stone said, and went back to the phone. “Okay, Lance, Holly doesn’t have a problem with that. What time?”
“She will present herself there at seven P.M. And if sex raises its ugly
head, it can’t hurt.”
“Thanks, Lance, I’ll see her then.” He hung up.
“You see, he wants to get you into bed with Carla Fontana,” Holly said.
“He wants nothing of the sort, and please remember that this was Lance’s idea and not mine.”
“Okay, I’ll clear out for the night. I can bunk at our embassy station. But you wait, I’ll bet La Carla is in on it, too.”
“Lance says I have to do this to put an end to the story.”
“Yeah, sure,” Holly said.
38
Stone was waiting for Carla Fontana to arrive when his cell rang. “Hello?”
“Hey!”
“Hey, Ann, how are you?”
“I am just fine,” she said. “Never better, in fact. You are all over the American media, and this time, it’s a good thing.”
“I read the story in the International New York Times.”
“It made the front page here, and just about every other front page, too. Kate is delighted, and a flash poll wipes out the earlier losses after Axelrod published the rumor. And you didn’t have to take a DNA test on national television!”
“I would have done so, if I’d had to.”
“I’ll tell Kate you said that. In fact, hold on.”
“Stone?”
“Kate? How are you?”
“Ever so much better, thanks. I don’t know how you did it, but the apology from Axelrod worked wonders.”
“I didn’t do it, Lance did.”
“Thank him for me.”
“Will do. He’s also arranged for an interview with Carla Fontana, from the Times, so that she can do a story. I’m giving her dinner tonight.”
“Excellent. She’s a credible reporter, and we have a cordial relationship. However, if you’re not careful, Carla will be carrying your baby. Take precautions.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Stone said. “How’s Will?”
“Much, much better since the paternity issue was so neatly solved. He was getting very tired of the questions.”
“I can imagine.”
“When are you coming home?”
“In a few days. I have to get the grand opening of l’Arrington out of the way, then I’m free to return.”
“Oh, good, you’ll be here for election night. I’d like for you to join us at the White House that evening.”
“What a wonderful invitation. I’ll call the Hay-Adams and book a suite.”
“The town will be sold out that night—you’re staying with us. How’s the Lincoln Bedroom?”
“If you’re sure Abe won’t mind.”
“Believe me, he won’t. Is Holly there?”
“She’s at the Agency station at the embassy, if you want to reach her.”
“No, just tell her I send my love.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll let you go. Your interview must be soon.”
“Momentarily.”
“Until election night,” Kate said, then hung up.
Stone glanced at his watch, then found the room service menu and ordered a sumptuous dinner for two. Then the doorbell rang.
He answered it to find the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times, clad in a clinging black dress that revealed an enticing amount of décolletage.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” she said.
He ushered her in. “Good evening, Ms. Fontana, and I hope that will be the last time we use that form of address.”
“Agreed.”
“May I get you something to drink? I have a very nice bottle of Krug on ice.”
“That would be perfect.” She strolled around the suite’s living room and had a peek into the bedroom while he opened the bottle. “This is very impressive,” she said. “Do you live this well in all hotels?”
“Just Arringtons,” he replied, handing her a fizzing flute.
“That’s right, you have a business connection, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be here for the grand opening. I have to fly back to New York tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, then breathed a sigh of relief that she and Holly wouldn’t be in the same room for the event. “Please have a seat.”
She arranged herself becomingly on the sofa and took a sip of her Krug. “Very nice,” she said. “I’ll enjoy it more after our interview. Why don’t we get that out of the way?”
“As you wish.”
She removed a small recording device and set it on the sofa table behind them, equidistant from their lips. “Now, background?”
“Born and raised in Greenwich Village, attended P.S. Six, NYU, and NYU Law School.”
“How did you get sidetracked into the NYPD?”
“As part of a law school program I rode with a squad car for a few days, and the bug bit. I took the exam, passed, and entered the Academy right after graduation.”
“Without taking the bar?”
“After my ride with the NYPD I couldn’t imagine ever practicing law. I thought I would be a career police officer.”
“And that’s where you met our beloved police commissioner?”
“We both made detective in the same class and our captain put us together. We were partners until I left the force ten years later.”
“I haven’t been able to get the straight story on why you left the NYPD. The official word was a knee injury?”
“That was a convenience for the department. I had made an irritant of myself on a case Dino and I were working, and when I opposed my superiors’ views, it became clear I had no future in the department. A police doctor made it official, and I was unceremoniously retired.”
“With a seventy-five percent pension, tax-free?”
“That is the reward for being invalided out for a line-of-duty injury. Mine was a gunshot to the knee, from which I had pretty well recovered.”
“So you were at loose ends, then?”
“I was doing a renovation job on the town house a great-aunt, my grandmother’s sister, had willed to me, so that kept me busy, but I was getting deeper into debt, and my pension wasn’t enough. Then I ran into an old classmate from law school . . .”
“That would be William Eggers, managing partner of Woodman & Weld?”
“Correct. Bill suggested that if I would take a cram course for the bar and pass, then he could find some work for me. I did, and I became ‘of counsel’ to Woodman & Weld.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let’s go off the record here. In my case, it meant that I was assigned the cases that Woodman & Weld didn’t want to deal with and wanted to go away.”
“Such as?”
“Such as a client’s son who was accused of date rape, a client’s wife who while driving intoxicated struck another car and injured someone, or, perhaps hiring a private investigator to help on a difficult divorce. I stress that all these cases are hypothetical.”
“I see, and that’s how you got something of a reputation as a fixer?”
“All lawyers are fixers—some do it in court, some at the negotiation table, some in other ways.”
“And how did you come to have such a reputation with women?”
“I beg your pardon? What kind of reputation are we talking about?”
“A swordsman’s reputation, to put it politely. My researcher was able to connect you to more than a dozen women, among them Ann Keaton, a deputy campaign manager for Kate Lee.”
“I’ve spent most of my adult life as a single man,” Stone said, “and I have never had any inclination toward celibacy.”
She smiled. “An excellent answer. May we talk about how you became a father?”
“Not on the record. My son doesn’t need to be reading about that. Perhap
s later, off the record and when your recorder isn’t operating.”
The doorbell rang. “That must be our dinner. I took the liberty of ordering for you.”
“Thank you. We can finish our discussion later.”
Stone let the waiter in, who set the table and lit the candles.
“Come,” Stone said, taking her hand. “Don’t let it get cold.”
“Nothing will get cold,” she said, “I assure you.”
39
They began with fresh foie gras, then transitioned to a duck, and another bottle of the Krug was uncorked along the way. Dessert was crème brûlée, and then they were on espresso, which they had on the sofa.
They went back on the record.
“How did you become involved with the Arrington hotels?”
“I had married, and, as I’m sure your researcher has noted, my wife was murdered by a former lover. She was the widow of the actor Vance Calder, and inherited his estate, which included a large plot of land in Bel-Air, Los Angeles. The site seemed ideal for a fine hotel, a corporation was formed and funded, and we opened last year. Then Marcel duBois, whose name I’m sure you know . . .”
“France’s Warren Buffett?”
“I’ve heard him described as such. Marcel contacted me, looking to buy the Bel-Air property, but instead, we went into business together. He already owned the Paris property, which underwent a complete renovation, the result of which you’ve seen tonight. I came over for the opening.”
“My sources tell me that your life has been in danger while you’re in Paris.”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss that for fear of making things worse.”
“All right. How did you and Will and Kate Lee become friends?”
“I was able to be helpful to them on a couple of occasions, and we got along very well. They stayed at the Bel-Air Arrington during the convention last summer.”
“And I hear that you were involved in the nominating process?”
“Only in a peripheral way.”
“More than one of my sources tell me that you and Ed Eagle were instrumental in Kate’s winning the nomination.”
“That is a great exaggeration. Please see that I don’t get any credit for it in your article.”
