by Stuart Woods
Stone bit her on a nipple.
“Ow!”
“You loved that.”
“I loved what?” Rick asked.
“Never mind. May I suggest that you stop concentrating on defense and switch to offense. It’s time to stop screwing with this guy and put him permanently out of business.”
“There are more where he came from.”
“If they keep losing management, they’ll eventually get discouraged and look for somebody else’s hotels to steal.”
“I don’t know about that, they’ve been remarkably persistent.”
“Tell me about it—that’s why I want it ended, and I don’t care if the gutters of Paris run red with their blood.”
“I also have to keep your blood out of the gutters. Going to war with these people won’t fix it.”
“Cutting the head off the snake might.”
Rick made a strangled noise. “I’ll talk to Lance.”
“You do that. Bye.” Stone hung up.
“I guess we’re hunkering down here,” Holly said.
He kissed a nipple. “And we hunker so well, don’t we?”
His phone rang again. “Hello?”
“It’s Herb Fisher.”
“Hey, Herb, how are you?”
“I’m just fine, thanks. What’s this about your moving to Paris?”
“Nobody said anything about moving here—I just found a place I liked, so I bought it.”
“I spoke to an Yves Carrier in our Paris office, and he’s on it. He’s doubtful about as quick a transaction as you want.”
“I just want to get Lance Cabot’s signature on a suitable document and to pay him before he has second thoughts.”
“We can do that, but there may be other formalities that will have to be dealt with before you’ll own it in the eyes of the French. They have a large bureaucracy there, and they have to give them work to do.”
“Tell M’sieur Carrier to take as long as it takes for that stuff—just the transaction done in the eyes of the CIA. Joan’s already getting a cashier’s check that will be on his desk when he gets the e-mailed document. All he has to do is print it and sign it, then deposit the check, and we’re done, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Are you still at l’Arrington?”
“No, I’m in the house, but keep that to yourself. I had to leave l’Arrington because people were looking for me there, so tell M’sieur Carrier to keep his lip buttoned.”
“Okay. When are you coming back?”
“Later this week, after the grand opening of the hotel.”
“See you then.”
They both hung up.
“What are we doing about dinner?” Stone asked.
“I stopped by Fauchon on the way here and got us some prepared dishes. All we have to do is nuke them.”
Stone got a leg over. “First, I have to nuke you.”
49
Ann Keaton called the unruly meeting to order. “Hey! Shut up!” Reluctantly, they did. “And cut those phones off and put them away!” Resentfully, they did.
“We’ve got a new poll, and Tom Alpert is here to explain it.” There was a collective groan.
Tom Alpert was a skinny man in a black suit; he looked like an undertaker. “I’ve been told I look like an undertaker,” he said. “That may be appropriate for this meeting.”
Now everybody was really, really quiet and attentive.
“I want to stress that this wasn’t done on the fly. We have a sample of twelve thousand independent, likely voters in seventeen swing states, and here’s how it breaks down: if the election were held today, fifty-four percent of them would vote for Honk, excuse me, Henry Carson. Forty-four percent would vote for Kate Lee, with two percent undecided. That is a very small number of undecideds at this stage. If Kate won all of them, we could lose the election by as much as eight points.”
There were expressions around the table ranging from disbelief to near tears.
“Wait a minute,” somebody said. “Between Democrats and Republicans we’re holding at fifty-five percent Dems to forty-six percent Reps, aren’t we?”
“Not anymore,” Alpert said. “The numbers won’t be in until the day after tomorrow, but we know the margin is narrowing. What I’m saying is, we’re on the knife’s edge of losing, and the personal conduct of the candidates could throw it either way. If either of them does or says something stupid in the next few days, it could make the difference.”
Ann spoke up. “Kate is not known for making stupid statements or behaving stupidly,” she said. “Honk, on the other hand . . .”
“Don’t count on that happening this week,” Alpert said. “Honk won’t say a word that isn’t typed in great big letters into a teleprompter—you may count on that.” He cleared his throat. “I would advise Kate to do the same.”
“Kate hates prompters,” Ann said, “and she’s very good on her feet.”
“Maybe we can find a way to slip a blunder into Honk’s prompter,” somebody said.
“Don’t you even think about doing that,” Ann said. “First of all, Kate would fire you if you tried, and second of all, getting caught at it could throw the election to Honk, and then you’d have to go to a place where I could never find you.”
“I have an aunt in darkest Mexico,” the prankster responded.
“Do yourself a favor, and leave now.”
The woman raised both hands. “Just kidding.”
“Stop kidding and get to work. We’ve got to make these last days the smoothest and most credible of the campaign,” Ann said. “Keep it high-minded and keep it straight: no missteps, no pranks, and thus, no backfires. And above all, not a single leak to the press about this poll! Everybody clear on that? If this leaks, I’ll find out who did it and personally kill that person!”
There was a murmur in the room, and the group began to disperse.
“Good, now let’s get to work.” Her cell phone rang, and she recognized Stone’s number, stepped into her office, closed the door behind her, and drew the shades, signaling to the staff that she wished to be left alone. “Hi,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
“You sound as though you’re trying to sound cheerful,” Stone said. “And you aren’t making it.”
“Oh, God,” Ann said, her voice quavering, “I’ve got the most awful feeling we’re going to lose this thing, and I can’t tell anyone but you.”
“What’s gone wrong?”
“Nothing has gone wrong, that’s what worries me.”
“You’re worried about nothing going wrong?”
“Not exactly. We just got a new private poll, a big one that cost us a lot of money, and we’re trailing Honk among independent likely voters by eight points, with only two percent undecided, and we can’t figure out why. Kate has been brilliant, but for some reason, the very people we’re counting on are drifting away from her. Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody!”
“Certainly not. This sounds like a bad poll to me. They must have made some sort of mistake in the sampling, or something.”
“From your lips to God’s ear,” Ann said. “Tell me some good news.”
“I bought a house in Paris.”
“That is good news! I’ll have somewhere to hide from the world next week!”
“You’re not going to need a hideout, but if you did, you’d like this one. It has a little mews all to itself, in the seventh arrondissement, just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It’s walled off from the world, but Paris is just outside the gates.”
“It sounds heavenly. Can I come right now? I won’t even pack, I’ll just go straight to the airport and disappear forever.”
“No, you won’t, you’ll go to work as if that poll didn’t exist, and you’ll win it.”
“When are you coming home?”
&nb
sp; “The grand opening gala is later this week. I’m getting on the Strategic Services jet immediately afterward and heading straight for Washington. Kate has offered me the Lincoln Bedroom for election night.”
“I know about that, I’ll be there, too, but down the hall.”
“Then you can sneak in and sleep with me in Abe’s bed.”
“I’d sleep with you in anybody’s bed.”
“I’ll count on that.”
“I’ve gotta run. I have three thousand things to do.”
“Then go do them. I’ll see you soon.”
—
STONE HUNG UP and sighed. That poll sounded like very bad news for Kate.
“You ready for dinner?”
“Yes!” he called back.
“Upstairs or downstairs?”
“I’ll meet you in the study!” He got into a robe and trotted down the stairs, fear for Kate replacing hunger in the pit of his stomach.
50
Stone bounded out of bed, shaved, showered, dressed, and bounded down the stairs, ready for breakfast.
“You slept well,” Holly said, dishing up eggs and bacon.
“You exhausted me,” Stone said.
“That’s a good reason.” She kissed the top of his head. “I’ve gotta run—a meeting about you at the station.”
“I’m flattered, but I don’t believe it for a moment.”
“Believe it—there’s already an office pool on whether you’ll make it as far as the grand opening of l’Arrington.”
“How are you betting?”
“I haven’t decided yet—maybe after the meeting.” She kissed him, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door. “Oh, by the way,” she called over her shoulder, “the pistol Rick loaned you is in your sock drawer.”
“Thanks!”
Stone finished his breakfast alone, then went into the living room, his sense of well-being evaporating. He picked up a book and tried to read; no use. He played some Jerome Kern on the piano; no effect. Cabin fever began to set in.
He got up and paced a bit, then, seeking fresh air, he opened the front door and stepped out into the mews. His guards were, apparently, on the boulevard side of the big doors. He walked carefully around the cobblestoned area in front of the house, then inspected the flowers growing in the center turnaround but quickly ran out of walking space. He heard the phone ring inside the house and ran back indoors to answer it, but when he picked it up, the caller had already hung up.
He collapsed into one of his new/old armchairs and wondered what to do next. Then there was a tapping on the window behind him. He looked around to see one of his guards peering inside.
“Good morning,” the man said when he opened his door. “There’s a man who shouldn’t know where you are, asking to see you, and he has a woman with him.” He handed Stone a card that read “Yves Carrier, Woodman & Weld.”
“It’s okay, you can let him in,” Stone said. “He’s from the Paris office of my law firm.”
“Right you are,” the man replied. He went to the big doors, opened the small inset door, and waved in a man and a woman. The man was young and fashionably dressed; the woman was middle-aged and motherly-looking.
Stone ushered them into the house and offered them chairs.
“I’ve brought some documents for your signature, with regard to the purchase of . . . this house, I presume?”
“You presume correctly, M’sieur Carrier.”
“Please call me Yves,” he said. “Madame Roche has come along to attest to your identity and signature. Is your passport handy?”
“I’ll get it.” Stone went upstairs and rummaged through his things until he found the passport. He also found the gun in his sock drawer and dropped it into his pocket, not that he thought Monsieur Carrier and Madame Roche represented a threat. He ran down the stairs and handed the passport to the woman, then took a seat.
She looked at him, then at the passport, then did it again. “D’accord,” she said.
Carrier began handing Stone documents; he signed them and handed them to Madame Roche, who stamped and signed them. Stone tried to read one, but it was in French.
“I must say,” Carrier said, looking around, “that you have got yourself a very good buy here. Properties of this sort in this neighborhood are going at much higher prices than you are paying.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone said, signing the last of the stack of documents and handing it to Madame Roche. “I love a bargain.”
“And this is a very beautiful room,” Carrier said.
“You should have seen it the day before yesterday,” Stone said.
“Pardon?”
“I’ve done a bit of redecorating.”
“Ah.”
“Is there anything else I need to do?” Stone asked.
“No, we’ll e-mail these to Mr. Cabot right away for his signature. Assuming he signs, the house is yours. And there’s a car, too?”
“Yes, in the garage, but I haven’t bothered to look at it yet.”
“Let’s go and check it for a registration,” Carrier said. He followed Stone to the garage, and they approached the lump under a tarp in one of the two bays. Stone pulled the cover away to reveal a Mercedes four-door sedan of the late seventies or early eighties. Except for some dust, it looked almost new. A pair of wires ran from under the hood to a receptacle in the garage wall: a battery charger, apparently.
He opened the driver’s door and inspected the creamy leather, which was in excellent condition. He sat down, found the key in the ignition, and turned it. The car started instantly. He switched it off quickly, not wishing to be found dead of asphyxiation.
“Do you see a registration anywhere?”
Stone rummaged in an envelope and handed Carrier some papers.
Carrier inspected them, then went to the rear of the car and had a look at the license plate. He came back and handed Stone the documents. “It’s registered to a name at the American Embassy,” he said, “and it has diplomatic tags. Park anywhere you like.”
“I like the sound of that,” Stone said, pocketing the keys and following Carrier back inside the house.
“Well, I hope you’ll be very happy here,” Carrier said. Hands were shaken, and he and his notary left.
Stone found himself again alone with himself. Curious, now, he went through the kitchen into the garage and, using his house key, let himself into the staff flat. It was a small but comfortably furnished suite with bedroom, bath, and kitchenette. He went back into the house and took the elevator to the top floor, where he inspected two en suite bedrooms with a common sitting room between them. One floor down, he found a large bedroom with a sofa and two chairs in front of the fireplace, much like the master. He walked downstairs, found his book again, and sat down beside the fire. He had been there for only a moment when he heard two loud pops from the direction of the boulevard. That brought him to attention, but after a moment he dismissed the noise as a vehicle backfiring and went back to his book.
Before long he rested his head against the chair and dozed off.
51
Stone was dreaming of Election Day in the United States. He was in a large hall with a movie-theater-sized television screen, and Kate Lee was making a gracious, very affecting concession speech. “In the end,” she was saying, “it was all the fault of someone named Stone Barrington, who I had never heard of until last week. . . .”
Stone tried to speak, but someone put tape over his mouth and something black over his eyes, and his hands were taped to the arms of his chair.
“There,” a man’s voice said. “He will be most comfortable.”
Stone, still half in his dream, tried to protest that Kate’s loss was not his fault, but he stopped himself. This part with the tape and the blindfold and the chair was no dream. He reoriented to the extent t
hat he could. First, he wondered if he had been drugged, but he decided that was impossible, since the only thing he had eaten or drunk since yesterday had been given to him by Holly.
“Mmmph!” he said, wanting to speak.
“Just rest quietly, my friend,” a soothing voice said, in an accent that was not British or American but was otherwise not immediately identifiable. “He will be here soon, and then you will know everything.”
Stone was not looking forward to knowing everything, beyond the point where he had been so rudely awakened. He wondered if Holly really had drugged him, and if this event were part of what had been discussed at her meeting at the Paris station. He was still drowsy, and gradually he nodded off again, surprised at how relaxed he was.
He was awakened by a woman’s voice, speaking in French, apparently coming from another room. There was protest in her words, whatever they were.
Then someone untied the blindfold, and Stone blinked in the unaccustomed light. A man stood in front of him; he had a very good look at a silver belt buckle before the tape was ripped from his face. “Shit!” he said.
“Sorry, Mr. Barrington, it was the most humane method,” the belt buckle said. Then the man backed away from him and sat down in the chair opposite Stone’s. He slowly recognized Jacques Chance, prefect of Paris police, brother of Mirabelle.
“Thank you for your humanity,” Stone said.
“Jacques!” the woman in the next room said insistently.
“Silence, ma chère,” Jacques replied. “We will be done here soon.”
“Done with what?” Stone asked, honestly curious.
“That remains to be seen, Mr. Barrington. If you are cooperative, you will autograph some papers for me, and then I will be gone, and you will still be alive.”
Stone didn’t like what he imagined as the alternative. “Let me guess,” he said: “You want me to sign over my interests in the Arrington hotels?”
“Quite right,” Jacques replied. “But you will be handsomely compensated. I have in my possession a banker’s check for thirty million euros, with your name on it. I should think that would be a very happy alternative to what the Russian gentleman would have me subject you to, should you fail to sign.”
