Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  Throughout the recounting of all this to Longmire, Norman stumbled drunkenly over words, slurred entire sentences together, digressed and often repeated himself. Longmire listened with moderate interest but heard nothing that would, as Norman had said, knock him on his State Department ass.

  Norman changed verbal gears with a couple of gulps of Wild Turkey and went on.

  He told Longmire about his father and his father's so-called reminder stone. Told of how yesterday his brother, Phillip, had come down from New York bringing along the stone and stories of its power to heal. Norman gave a secondhand account of what the stone had ostensibly done for Janet and Libby. He told Lx)ngmire how, merely patronizing his brother, he had intimated possible interest and kept the stone. Honest to God, he'd had no other motive.

  As soon as Phillip left Norman's office, Norman had hurried back to Bethesda. The President's condition was the same. Inevitably the electrical system of his heart would go haywire and there wouldn't be any more beats. For the moment he was sedated, his pain masked. Nothing Norman could do but wait.

  In the adjoining room he lay on the bed and thought about his medical impotence. When it came down to the mortal bedrock, he was as useless as this stone.

  He took it from his shirt pocket, looked at it indifferently. He had no intention of trying it at that point, although it must have been then that his mind, or whatever, had made such a suggestion.

  Chalk it up to fatigue, but it was almost as though another person went into the President's room and, making sure the President was sleeping and no one else was there, taped the stone to the President's left side, up near the armpit where it wouldn't be easily noticed. He then returned to his own room and bed.

  Fell asleep.

  Awoke four or so hours later and went in to the President.

  The first thing he noticed was the President's heartbeat. A steady, strong 70 a minute. The EKG readout indicated a drastic change. For the better. Normal Q waves; the ST segment wasn't elevated, nor were the T waves inverted. He was looking at the EKG of a healthy heart. It wasn't possible.

  He drew blood.

  The laboratory results showed all serum enzyme levels within normal range. The muscle tissue of the President's heart was no longer being damaged.

  Just like that.

  Norman had to be certain. He performed another angiogram, repeated all the procedures, and exposed a lot of film to cover every angle. While going through the various steps, Norman felt his anxiety growing, his hope pulling him on. No time for skepticism or questioning.

  The developed film showed a highly efficient functioning heart and arterial

  system. The lumen diameter of the coronary arteries was more than sufficient for full force circulation of blood. Even more amazing, wherever the heart muscle had been damaged there was now no sign of that, not even any scarring. It was as though something had cleared out the arteries and made everything right within the heart.

  That morning the President sat up on the side of his bed and had a large breakfast. He was lauded for his recuperative powers, was told the diagnosis had been evasive, extremely tricky, but had turned out to be not what was feared, not serious at all. He was most willing to believe that. He remarked that later in the day he thought he would walk around the wards and shake some hands, which was customary for him. He glanced at Norman for an objection.

  Norman saw no reason why he shouldn't.

  Longmire chuckled.

  So did Norman.

  Longmire asked if Norman had spoken of this to anyone, McDermott or anyone?

  No.

  Had Norman removed the stone from where it was taped on the President's side?

  Of course.

  Unseen?

  Naturally.

  So where now was this remarkable stone?

  Norman told him.

  Longmire, caring friend that he was, said Norman had had quite a time of it over the past several days, must be pooped. Why didn't he crawl up on the couch there and get some well-deserved sleep?

  Norman took the suggestion.

  Longmire waited until Norman was sleeping deeply before he went to the stereo and removed the cassette. When Norman had gotten to the truly interesting part of his monologue, Longmire had casually gone over and pressed the proper switches. All of what Norman had said about the stone and its effect on the President was recorded over Liszt's Piano Concerto No. 1.

  Longmire went downstairs to the kitchen. Put on some fresh coffee and sat at the kitchen table. He imagined the impact of such a stone as Norman had described, the influence it would have over certain instrumental people, people in power whom we wanted to have see things our way. What a persuasive side benefit it would be to any agreement. And you will have access to our stone would be the offer. Our entire approach to international diplomacy

  STONE 588 B3

  would be changed. Hell, our entire foreign policy. A stone with such power would be the most prized thing in the world.

  Later, Longmire would set up an off-the-record meeting with George Gurney, head of State Department Intelligence. Gurney was a former CIA man, but in his present position with State he resented having to answer to the CIA. Like the heads of the other intelligence branches, the DIA, National Security Agency, and others, Gurney was caught up in the intramural competitiveness of the U.S. intelligence community.

  He'd go to any extreme to gain an edge such as this.

  o

  "Is it Madame or Mademoiselle?"

  "Neither," Audrey replied, just to be perverse.

  That stopped the stall owner, a short, narrow-shouldered man with a florid face. He lowered his chin and, over his glasses, studied what sort of person this customer was. He knew for a fact that at least half the more beautiful prostitutes who worked the boulevards around the fitoile were depilated young men in dresses, believably chic down to their enameled toenails. And adept at doing what they did, too. But this, he decided, was not one of those. "I assure you"—he went on selling—"this painting is seventeenth-century Flemish, early seventeenth century. Regardez." He exhibited the painting's back side. Its canvas did indeed appear to be old enough, and the wood of its stretchers was shot with worm holes.

  "Who do you say was the artist?" Audrey asked neutrally.

  "Jan van Ravenstyn."

  "Never heard of him."

  "A contemporary of Rembrandt. They drank together. It is said that Rembrandt learned much from van Ravenstyn. The similarity of technique is quite obvious, n'est-ce pas?"

  The painting was medium in size, a dark-grounded portrait of a plump woman up to her neck in an overly wide starched white collar edged with

  lace. It was an exceptionally fine copy. The stall owner had sold two like it each year for the past eight years.

  "How much are you asking for it?"

  "Asking?" the stall owner said with average French condescension. "The price is an inflexible eighty thousand francs."

  Audrey reached into her sling carryall.

  The stall owner's palms itched. Again his philosophy, chose qui plait c'est demi vendu, a thing that pleases is half sold, had proved to be true.

  Audrey brought out her pendulum. Unraveled the twine that had the large emerald bead on one end, the chunk of ivory on the other. She instructed the stall owner to place the painting face up on the floor. He complied reluctantly and watched with dismay as Audrey held the pendulum above the painting. The emerald bead went from a standstill to a rather energetic left-to-right swinging motion.

  A madwoman, the stall owner thought. But she appeared to be a well-off madwoman. He would not yet ask her to leave.

  Audrey gathered up her pendulum and dismissed the painting on the floor by stepping over it.

  "May I hang this back in place?" the stall owner asked.

  "By all means."

  The stall was on allee number 1 in the Vemaison section of the Marche aux Puces. Audrey and Springer had eye-shopped nearly all the allees and cross-connecting passageways that w
ere lined with stalls offering for sale everything from odd pieces of chipped faience to chateau-quality chandeliers, potholder scraps of seventeenth-century needlepoint to massive architectural remnants.

  Neither Audrey nor Springer had bought anything, hadn't even touched. They'd noticed and commented on how the tourists, numerous on this pleasant summery day, compulsively fingered whatever object their eyes caught upon, as though in that there was a gratuitous satisfaction. Audrey had seen a few things that sparked ideas for future Bergdorf windows. Springer saw nothing he wanted.

  His mind was too involved with stall 39 there on allee number 1. Both times they'd passed by, that stall had been closed. Springer hoped there hadn't been a mix-up. Drumgold had said stall 39 Tuesday afternoon. Springer was certain of that. Drumgold's contact in Antwerp might have gotten signals crossed. No special time in the afternoon had been mentioned. If he had to. Springer would wait it out until the flea market closed, then call Drumgold in London to find out what went viTong. Drumgold had gone to a lot of trouble to line up the deal. During the week, he'd made quick trips to Antwerp and Moscow, picked up a couple of his longtime personal due bills,

  B6 GERALD A. BROWNE

  and, no doubt, squeezed through some very narrow openings. He downplayed it, said it was all in the run of business.

  Of course it wasn't. This deal required sneaky discretion. They couldn't just descend on Antwerp and put out word that a dozen twenty-five carat round-cut flawless Russian stones were wanted. That would have caused troublesome attention from the dealers of Pelikaanstraat. Once given the scent they would scurry to show their better, more expensive merchandise, and, although some of it would have been Russian, it was highly unlikely that twelve stones of that size would be gleaned.

  Then, with the word out, within a half day Almazjuvelirexport, the Soviet diamond selling office, would arbitrarily raise the asking price of its larger goods as much as 20 percent. At the same time or sooner. The System in London would hear about the pending transaction and put their security people on it. The way The System had its network of informants organized, there would be no way to keep it from learning that Springer was involved. Needless to say. The System would take a dark view of the matter. For going around The System and encouraging the Soviet's direct selling of diamonds, Springer would be struck from the list of the chosen. There'd be no more sights, no more boxes of rough. Like Drumgold, Springer would be an outcast.

  Still, Springer had thought Antwerp would be where the deal would be made. Not Paris. Paris wasn't particularly a diamond city. Which was probably what made it ideal in this instance.

  Springer stood just inside the entrance of stall 38 and looked across to stall 39. He overheard fragments of Audrey's exchanges with the stall owner. Compared to most others the stall was large. It sold only paintings. They were hung on every vertical surface, floor to ceiling.

  Audrey now considered one that was hung disadvantageously low near a comer. Not even framed, a small painting about 7 by 10 inches, frayed where it was crudely tacked to its stretcher.

  "What's this?" she asked.

  "C'est rien."

  A landscape so dulled with dirt and years it was difficult to tell which way was up.

  Audrey placed it on the counter and held her pendulum above it. The emerald bead on the end of the twine swung to and fro. "How much for this?" Audrey asked.

  "Please, cest un objet de rebut. I have been meaning to throw it out. It is not worthy of consideration by a person of your taste."

  "How much?" Audrey insisted.

  The stall owner grudgingly accepted that he'd misjudged this customer. "Five hundred francs."

  "Will you take three hundred?"

  "Three hundred," he agreed accommodatingly. He would have let it go for half that. The small satisfaction of such profit turned to pain when he caught a glimpse of the thick sheaf of brand-new thousand-franc notes from which Audrey plucked one.

  At that moment Springer saw across the way a woman unlock the entrance to stall 39. A middle-aged woman with an inverted nest of hair dyed a carrot color. She switched on the lights inside the stall and carried out a display table that had a glass-enclosed compartment. She placed the table to one side of the entrance and arranged various items in it. She was not the sort of person Springer had expected. He hadn't been given a name, merely the stall number, and for some reason it was set in his mind that he'd be meeting a man—certainly not this dumpy woman in a cheap faded yellow dress and baby-blue rundown sneakers.

  She was done with the display case. She locked it and went back into the stall.

  Springer crossed the allee and entered.

  It was one of the smaller stalls. Its specialty was jewelry, mostly gold-plated costume stuff, a lot of garish, faceted paste. The woman and her merchandise were well suited.

  Springer pretended he was earnestly looking around.

  "Monsieur?" the woman asked.

  Eyes to eyes. Springer told her, "I'm interested in some unusual buttons."

  "Small or large?"

  "Large."

  "Perhaps you will find what you want among these." The woman brought up a shoe box containing hundreds of odd buttons, placed it on the counter. Springer rummaged through them and finally found what he was required to find: a cut paste button about the diameter of a quarter. He held it up, told the woman, "Twelve of these."

  "Twelve, you say?"

  "Yes."

  "I do not have that many on hand. In fact I doubt that I have even another like this."

  Springer wondered if the woman was telling him the deal was impossible. Her expression had not changed throughout. He couldn't read her.

  "I might, however, be able to locate what you want and send them to your hotel," she said.

  "I'm not staying at a hotel."

  "No matter. Leave me your address and I'll see what I can do." She offered Springer a stub of pencil and a tear of brown bag paper. He wrote the address. The woman looked at it and handed it back to Springer. She would rely on her memory.

  "When?" Springer asked.

  The woman smiled. Every line in her face deepened. "Tomorrow or the following day." She turned off the smile and in place of goodbye said curtly, "Merci, monsieur."

  Springer and Audrey went home in a recklessly driven taxi that badly needed new shock absorbers. For quite a while after the long, chattering ride over Paris cobblestones they felt as though their bodies were still vibrating. Even tightly hugging one another didn't help. Springer recalled having once experienced a similar sensation after operating the old tractor all day on the family place in Sherman.

  Audrey was delighted with herself because of the little painting she'd purchased. She propped it on the bidet so she might look at it while she took a bath. In Springer's unexpressed opinion the stall owner had been right. The painting was a murky globbed-on attempt worth about forty dollars less than the forty she'd paid for it.

  Springer undressed down to his undershorts and sat before the open French windows on the fourth floor. He was glad now he hadn't insisted on staying at a hotel. It was the peak of the tourist season, and when, from London, he'd called the Crillon and gotten a brusque turndown, Audrey hadn't let him try elsewhere. Why should they bother when Libby's place on the lie St. Louis was so convenient?

  Libby's place was a five-story, twenty-room private townhouse, the sort the French call a hotel particulier. Located on the Quai d'Orleans, it gave a splendid view of Notre-Dame and the Seine. The house dated back to the sixteen hundreds and, according to Audrey, had at times belonged to various full-fledged and near members of nobility. They were most remembered for their extreme libidinal ways. Perhaps, she suggested, they found the proximity of Notre-Dame ideal—all the swifter to get to daily confession and afterward resume their indulgences with a clean slate.

  When Libby bought the place she'd had it done over, cleaned up, and repaired. The interior designer she hired had installed modem conveniences with minimal sacrifice of old elegance
. As well, nothing had been done to chase the spirits of the former inhabitants, Audrey claimed. The essences of their salacious souls permeated every inch of the place, occupied the very air, got breathed in. Didn't Springer sense their influence?

  It seemed he did.

  Since he and Audrey arrived the previous afternoon they had made lengthy assorted love four times.

  Now, seated alone before open windows, Springer watched the barges plying up and down river, took in the spires of Notre-Dame that appeared ethereal in the way the late sun backlighted and wrapped rays around them. From the traffic congested on the Pont d'Arcole it seemed the inhabitants of the Left and Right Banks were struggling to exchange banks. Directly below on the quai. Springer saw two very pretty girls strolling hand in hand. That, he thought, was seldom seen in the States: grown girls, close friends, walking together with hands held. It represented a more mature, less self-conscious attitude toward such platonic relationships. The girls were sharing a cassette player. Springer noticed; both had on head sets like little orange earmuffs. They stopped abruptly, turned to each other, and also shared a long, passionate kiss.

  Springer decided not to mention the incident to Audrey when she came into the room wearing one of her loose silk kimonos and carrying a tray of things to eat. She placed the tray on the Savonnerie carpet and sprawled down next to it.

  There was a tarte aux quetsches, a wreath-shaped loaf of crunchy crusted bread called couronne d epines, a creme renversee, two bottles of chilled Normandy cider, and an economy-sized jar of Jiffy peanut butter with a silver spreading knife jabbed down into it.

  An average, substantial Audrey meal. Springer thought. He joined her on the floor. She was already tearing at the bread, slathering it with JiflFy. 'I'm so pleased with my painting," she said.

  "Where did you get the peanut butter?"

  "Fouchon carries it. Ten dollars a jar. And worth every penny when you're over here sick to death of pots-au-feu, quenelles, rotis, and all that stuff."