Paris Match

by Stuart Woods

  “As you wish.” She switched off her recorder. “And now I must go. I have a nine o’clock flight in the morning, and I have to get up very early to make it.” She stood.

  Stone stood with her and walked her to the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” he said.

  “I come to New York now and then, for work. Perhaps I’ll see you there.” She handed him her business card.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Stone replied, and gave her his own card.

  She slipped out the door and was gone.

  —

  HE SLEPT until late morning, then had lunch in the suite, then he turned to his e-mail. He found Carla’s column among his e-mails, and she had treated him kindly. He scanned the other messages and found one labeled “Axelrod.” He opened it and read:

  This will be my last blog. I am deeply humiliated by the furor caused by my column about Katharine Lee, and as a result, I have decided to discontinue my blog and end my life. One parting note: I’ve done some digging into the origins of the story: my source, as it turns out, is a lover of Gordon Glenn, a highly placed member of Henry “Honk” Carson’s campaign, whose marriage is ending. I think you may draw your own conclusions.

  Howard Axelrod

  —

  STONE’S cell phone began ringing. “Hello?”

  “It’s Ann. Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  She read him the Axelrod blog. “It made the Times this morning. Can you believe it?”

  “I suppose I have to believe it.”

  “Gordon Glenn’s life will be hell for a few days,” she said, “and he deserves it. It’s only six A.M. here, but I expect that by nine there’ll be a statement from Honk, deploring Glenn’s actions and accepting his resignation.”

  “Have you talked to Kate? Does she know about it?”

  “She doesn’t get up until seven, and by then it will be all over the morning TV shows, and I’ll be releasing a statement saying that she will have no further comment.”

  “You think this is the end of it, then?”

  “How could it not be?”

  “You think Axelrod will really kill himself?”

  “I think he meant that he was ending Axelrod’s life, not his own.”

  “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “By the way, Carla Fontana’s column about you in the same edition was highly favorable.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I’ve gotta run, but I wanted you to know about the column. I wish I knew who Axelrod was.”

  Stone hung up. He thought he knew.

  40

  Shortly after he had received Carla’s and Axelrod’s columns, Stone’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Rick.”

  “Where the hell have you been? You missed a good dinner with Lance.”

  “In Berlin, talking to people at our station.”

  “Lance hasn’t said a word about the newly wrecked van.”

  “He’s too happy with the story in the French papers to think about anything else.”

  “Has anyone heard anything from Jacques Chance?”

  “He’s gone to ground. My journalist friends tell me they haven’t been able to get any comment from him, his sister, his father, or the police.”

  “I can understand why,” Stone said. “What do you think of Lance’s theory that Jacques is behind the attempts on me?”

  “I think it’s insane, but probably true.”

  “Do you think his being exposed will put a stop to the attempts on me?”

  “Don’t count on it—the people he was acting for are still there and in business. Have you made any arrangements for getting out of town after the shindig at l’Arrington?”

  “Not yet, but I will. Will you give Holly a message for me?”

  “She’s right here—deliver it yourself.”

  “Good morning,” she said.

  “Afternoon.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I just wanted to tell you, the coast is clear.”

  “When did it clear?”

  “Not too late last night,” he lied. “She had an early flight to New York.”

  “Have you heard about the Howard Axelrod blog?”

  “Yes, somebody in New York read it to me.”

  “And Fontana’s column?”

  “I hear it’s favorable.”

  “You must have been a good interview.”

  “I did my best.”

  “And your best, as we all know, is pretty good.”

  “Aren’t you kind. Will you be back this evening?”

  “I’ll be there around five. Dinner?”

  “Sure. You want to go out?”

  “Not really.”

  “We’ll dine in, then.”

  “See ya.” She hung up.

  Stone called Mike Freeman at his Paris office.

  “Afternoon, Stone. How are you keeping?”

  “Fairly busy. You must be, too.”

  “Yeah, the security arrangements for the l’Arrington opening had to be rethought, in light of all the vehicles you’ve been losing.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  “I can just see Lance explaining it to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not necessary. Surely the Senate doesn’t want to hear about every fender bender in the CIA budget.”

  “I’m sure that’s the position he’ll take, should it come up. Are you going to need a ride back to New York?”

  “I’d like that very much, and Lance would like it, too. He’s advised me to decamp.”

  “I have to be back in New York for a big meeting the day after the opening, so we’re planning wheels up afterward, at one A.M. That do you?”

  “That do me fine, thanks. Is there room for Holly, should she want to decamp, too?”

  “Sure. Leave your packed bags in your suite, and someone will collect them and put them on the airplane. You may want a bag in the cabin so that you can change out of your evening clothes.”

  “We’ll mark one for that.”

  “If you see Lance, tell him there’s room for him, too.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Stone, it’s important for my security arrangements that neither you nor Marcel step outside the hotel at any time that evening, not even the courtyard where the cars arrive.”

  “I will cooperate.”

  “Something else: Marcel had sent invitations to the Chance family, and they R.S.V.P.’d this morning: the old man won’t be there, but Jacques and Mirabelle accepted.”

  “You astonish me.”

  “It astonished me, too. Part of my rethinking of the security arrangements is concerned with protecting you from Jacques.”

  “Do your arrangements involve a metal detector?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I don’t think I’ll have anything to worry about.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “See you there.” Mike hung up.

  41

  Holly breezed in a little after six. “Hey, there!” she said, giving him a wet kiss.

  “You’re late,” Stone said. “I was about to start without you.”

  “Then I would have had you liquidated, beating the Russians to it.”

  “Martini?”

  “How’d you guess? Hurry up!”

  Stone hurried, then handed her the chilled glass and poured himself a Knob Creek.

  Holly sank into the living room sofa and kicked off her shoes. Her skirt was up around her thighs, and Stone pretended not to notice.

  “I’m bushed,” Holly said.

  “That is not my recollection,” Stone replied.

 
Holly laughed. “Touché,” she said.

  “I have a very good memory for these things.”

  “It remembers you, too,” she said.

  His hand drifted to her thigh.

  “Careful,” she said. “You don’t want me to spill my martini.”

  “That’s your problem,” Stone said, raising his sights.

  She gave a little gasp. “Touché again!”

  “How is it you are already wet?”

  “I was thinking about you in the car.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I was remembering something, from about a year ago.”

  “What was it?”

  She told him.

  “Ah, yes, I remember it well.”

  “Isn’t that a Lerner and Loewe song?”

  “It is. It’s also a very pleasant memory.”

  “That’s why I’m wet. Right there, please, that’s the spot.”

  “Do you want me to do that thing again?”

  “Yes, but not until after dinner, when we’re in bed.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “So will I,” she said, then she grabbed his arm and made noises of delight.

  “That didn’t take long,” he said.

  “Since we have so much time on our hands, do it again.”

  Stone complied, sipping his bourbon with his other hand. Holly went limp, nearly spilling her martini. “That was fabulous,” she said, “and I still didn’t spill a drop.”

  “You are to be commended for your delicate balance.”

  “And you are to be commended for your delicate fingers. Do you play the piano?”

  “Not for many years.”

  “You should do it more often,” she said. “It would keep you in shape for doing that.”

  “It was more fun than practicing scales.”

  “I’m glad it was fun for you, too.”

  “Entertaining you is always fun.”

  “‘Entertaining.’ That’s a good way to look at it. It was certainly very that.”

  “What else can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Talk to me, feed me, then we’ll start over.”

  “What would you like to talk about?”

  “Is Kate Lee carrying your baby?”

  Stone choked on his bourbon. “You’ve been reading the gutter press,” he said.

  “The gutter Internet.”

  “You haven’t read the latest.”

  “What’s that? Did I miss something?”

  “Howard Axelrod has apologized and committed suicide.”

  “Shut up!”

  Stone got his laptop and showed her the column.

  “Well, I’ll be damned, and so, I believe, will Axelrod be. Did he really off himself?”

  “I think he offed his character.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The man is a mystery to me.”

  “I’m glad that episode is over. Let’s eat.”

  “What would you like?”

  “Shall we have a look at the room service menu?”

  “Just think of something—I’ll force them to prepare it.”

  “I’d like a New York strip steak rare, some fried onion rings, some sugar snap peas, and a great California Cabernet. I like it better than the French stuff.”

  Stone picked up the phone and ordered.

  “While we’re waiting, some business,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “My New York station has suddenly discovered that I can speak, even when I’m out of town, so they’ve been on the phone all day.”

  “Anything you can tell me about?”

  “My friend Scott, over at the NSA, has been surfing the metadata for Russian mob stuff, and your name came up.”

  “In what regard?”

  “In what regard do you think?”

  “Something to do with my demise, no doubt.”

  “Bingo!”

  “Anything specific?”

  “The word ‘gala’ was mentioned. Or whatever the Russian for ‘gala’ is.”

  “I’m scheduled for only one gala,” Stone said.

  “I know, and since I plan to accompany you, wearing my new dress, I’m going to take particular care to see that you end the evening in the same condition as you start it.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Mike Freeman has similar intentions.”

  “Not quite the same as mine,” she said.

  “By the way, the Strategic Services Gulfstream 650 departs Le Bourget at one A.M., after the gala. Mike says both you and Lance are welcome to bum a ride.”

  “There’s a bed on that airplane, isn’t there?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes.”

  “I’ll be there,” she said.

  42

  Stone’s cell phone rang a little after eight. Holly was still sleeping soundly. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Barrington?” A woman’s voice. “I’m calling for Marcel duBois.”

  “Yes?”

  “He would be very pleased if you would join him for breakfast at his home. He has something important to discuss with you.”

  Stone checked the bedside clock. “Of course. What time?”

  “As soon as you can be here.”

  “Give me half an hour,” he said. He tiptoed out of the room, shaved, showered, and dressed, then went downstairs. The courtyard was empty of his usual transport. He thought of calling Rick LaRose, then thought better of it and got into a cab. Ten minutes later he was deposited in the courtyard of the duBois building. Two security types loitered near the door, but neither was dressed in the usual body armor. One of them gave him a little salute as he approached the door, then held it open for him. Stone had a good memory for faces, but he didn’t recognize the guard.

  He rode the elevator upstairs and got off at the top level, where Marcel’s apartment was. “Marcel?” he called.

  “In here,” duBois responded.

  Stone walked through the living room and into Marcel’s study. The Frenchman sat in an armchair next to a man Stone didn’t recognize. He heard a small noise behind him and turned to find two hefty men sporting bulges under their arms.

  “Stone Barrington,” Marcel said, “this is Yevgeny Majorov.” He nodded at his other guest.

  “How do you do?” Stone asked, thinking fast. He was out of options at the moment.

  “I do very well, Mr. Barrington,” Majorov said. “Please have a seat. I’m told breakfast will be ready in a moment.” His accent was more British than Russian.

  As he spoke, a uniformed butler wheeled a large table into the room and uncovered several dishes.

  “It’s a buffet,” Majorov said.

  “I recognized it,” Stone replied.

  The three men served their plates and sat down at a table already set for them.

  “How did they get in?” Stone asked Marcel.

  “I don’t know,” the Frenchman replied.

  “Fear not, Mr. Barrington,” Majorov said, “I’m unarmed and not here to harm you.”

  “What about your two minions?” Stone asked, jerking a thumb toward the men.

  “They harm only those who attempt to harm me.”

  “That’s benevolent of them. How many people did you harm getting into the building?”

  “It was done quickly and quietly,” Majorov said, “and without serious injury to any person.”

  Stone didn’t believe that for a moment.

  They ate quietly for a bit, then Majorov spoke up. “I’m here on business,” he said.

  “What sort of business?”

  “I know that, in the past, you have rejected offers from my organization.”

  “Quite true. Why do you think anything has changed
?”

  “Because the leadership of my organization has changed.”

  “In what respect?”

  “I am now its chief executive, instead of my late brother.”

  “I fail to see the difference.”

  “My brother tended toward bluntness in business and relied on violence instead of negotiation to achieve his ends.”

  “I’m acquainted with his techniques.”

  “My brother also tended toward the lowball offer when seeking new assets.”

  “Yes.”

  “When I took charge of the organization I began a top-to-bottom reorganization, eliminating a number of older members who relied on my brother’s techniques to achieve success. The Neanderthals are gone.”

  “Leaving what?”

  “Civilized men, like myself, who wish to conduct our affairs in a more straightforward manner.”

  “Like the two—no, three recent attempts on my life?”

  “I wish to apologize for that. We had previously relied on a French national who tended to overstep.”

  “That would be Jacques Chance?”

  “Regrettably, yes. I should mention that his actions were exacerbated by your attentions to his sister. As a result, we have severed all ties to him. He was a holdover from my brother’s regime, and even so, we regard his actions as business, not personal.”

  Stone ignored the Mafia-esque reference. “Frankly, after Jacques’s sudden disappearance from public life, I was surprised to hear that he was still alive.”

  “You may put that down to regime change,” Majorov said. “I hope his absence from the scene will clear the air between us and allow us to do business on a more normal basis.”

  “You can hope.”

  Marcel suppressed a laugh. “Perhaps, Stone, we can hear out Mr. Majorov, then discuss it between us.”

  “As you wish, Marcel.”

  “First of all,” Majorov said, “I am willing to put aside your involvement in the death of my brother.”

  “I had no such involvement,” Stone said, “in spite of his repeated attempts on my life and that of my son and his friends.”

  “I have good reason to attach the involvement of an associate of yours to my brother’s death,” Majorov said, sounding angry for the first time.

  “And whom would that be?”

  “A fugitive from American justice named Theodore Fay, I believe.”