by Stuart Woods
“Did I see anybody in my office?”
“No.”
“Did anybody call that you didn’t know?”
“No, but I was in the ladies’ when the afternoon call came, and you picked up.”
“Can you think of anything else? What did I do in the evenings?”
“Like I said, you didn’t have anybody to play with, so I guess you dined at home alone.”
“Thanks, we’ll talk again later.” Stone hung up and went back to the sofa. “Not much help, huh?”
“Rose Ann,” Douglas said, “find out who called Stone’s office in the afternoon day before yesterday.”
Stone gave her his business card, and she went to the phone on Douglas’s desk, then returned. “They’ll have it in a few minutes,” she said.
The phone rang, and Douglas picked it up and listened, then hung up. “You’re booked into the Plaza Athénée. They were expecting you yesterday. We got you an upgrade.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “There’s something missing.”
“What?”
“My briefcase. I always travel with a briefcase.”
Douglas got up. “Oh, I forgot.” He walked behind his desk, came back with Stone’s briefcase, and handed it to him. “We couldn’t open it. Three zeros didn’t work.”
“The CIA couldn’t get into a briefcase?” Stone said. “What’s the world coming to?” He unlocked the briefcase and opened it. “Euros,” he said, holding up a thick envelope containing a stack of notes secured by a rubber band.
“That reminds me,” Douglas said. “We gave the cabdriver a hundred.”
Stone extracted a hundred-euro note from the stack, handed it to him, then put the rest into his inside pocket with his passport. “Nothing unusual in the case,” he said. “My iPad and charger, some stationery, no business papers.” He closed the briefcase.
“Well, we won’t keep you,” Douglas said, rising.
Stone got to his feet and shook hands with everybody.
“We’d like to know if and what you start remembering,” Douglas said, handing him a card. “That’s my direct line and cell number. Doc, will you walk him to our side entrance? There’s a car and driver waiting for you there, Stone.”
“Thank you, Whit, and I thank all of you for taking me in.”
Keeler led him on a short walk to an exterior door and opened it for him. “The car’s through there,” he said, waving Stone through the door and pointing at the walkway to a wrought-iron gate. “Right down the garden path. Call me if there’s anything I can do for you.”
3
The driver delivered Stone into the hands of a doorman at the Plaza Athénée who directed him to the front desk, where a man in a dark suit greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “We were concerned about you when you didn’t turn up yesterday.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Stone said. “I was unavoidably detained, and I couldn’t call.”
The man nodded and handed Stone an International Herald Tribune. “Would you like a paper delivered every day?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And how long will you be with us?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to let you know.”
“That will be fine. Your suite is ready.”
Stone followed the bellman, who carried his briefcase, to the elevator, then to the top floor. The suite was larger than he needed and filled with sunlight. There were French doors leading to a terrace.
The bellman handed him his briefcase. “You have no other luggage, sir?”
“It’s being sent from the airport,” Stone said.
“We’ll see that it’s delivered immediately upon arrival.”
The doorbell rang, and Stone opened it. Another bellman stood there with his two cases on a luggage cart. Stone directed him to the dressing room.
“Would you like anything pressed?” the man asked as he set down the bags.
“Let me see.” Stone opened the two large cases and found that everything had been removed, then stuffed in haphazardly. “Please have everything pressed but the underwear and socks,” Stone said, removing suits. He noted that he was traveling with a dinner jacket, something he only did if some event at his destination would require it.
“We’ll have everything back as soon as possible,” the man said. Stone tipped both bellmen and closed the door behind them, then he got his charger from his briefcase and plugged in his iPhone. He sat down and had a look through the Trib; all the news was fresh to him. He called the front desk and asked if they had any old Tribs and was told no. He had just sat down again when his phone buzzed. He went to the desk, picked it up, and sat down. He didn’t recognize the calling number.
“Hello?”
“Stone? It’s Holly.”
“Oh, hello. I was told you were at a retreat and couldn’t be reached.”
“I’m at a conference of department heads, at our training facility, the Farm,” she said. “They made us turn in our cell phones, but somebody brought me a message from Whit Douglas in Paris, and he told me what had happened to you.”
“Good, that saves me from having to explain it again,” Stone said. “I’m afraid I don’t know any more than he told you.”
“No memories have returned?”
“Not yet. Can you help?”
“No. When I left you that morning I went straight to my apartment and left my luggage, then went to my office and was summoned to Fort Peary, in Virginia.”
“Wait a minute, you moved your things into your apartment? Did we have a fight or something?”
“No, but it was intimated to me from the top that Langley would feel more comfortable if I weren’t shacking up with you.”
“That was very narrow-minded of them.”
“Well, we’re getting a lot of attention from the press since the thwarted bombing, and they didn’t want photographs of me arriving at or leaving your house at odd hours.”
“What’s happened in that regard since I last saw you?”
“Well, all hell broke loose in the press,” Holly said. “I only escaped the reporters because I ran back to the office immediately after Viv and I dealt with the perps, so she got all the attention, which was just fine with me and with Langley, too. They don’t like our names appearing in the press under such circumstances. They’re giving me the Intelligence Star medal, but then I have to give it right back. The Agency calls these decorations ‘jockstrap medals’ because we never get to wear them.”
“Congratulations.”
“How are you feeling after your ordeal?”
“I don’t remember an ordeal, so I guess I feel okay.”
“When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know. Before I do, I’d like to at least know why I’m here.”
“We’d like to know that, too. We don’t like people associated with the Agency being drugged. I don’t know how you escaped being interrogated by somebody, or even tortured.”
“Now, there’s a pleasant thought—that somebody might want to torture me.”
“Well, maybe not, since they didn’t. This whole thing is baffling.”
“Tell me about it,” Stone said wryly.
“Listen, I’ve got to get to my first meeting of the day. Oh, by the way, the president has made the appointment of Lance Cabot to succeed Kate Lee. Hearings start tomorrow.”
“I’ll look for them on TV.”
“Don’t bother. They’ll be public only long enough for the press to get some shots. Everything else will be in closed sessions.”
“Okay, I won’t bother.”
“You’re sure you don’t remember anything yet?”
“Not yet. Oh, when I opened my luggage I found a tuxedo, which I thought was odd, since I don’t travel with one unless I know I’ll need it.”
/> “I guess you must have missed the party, then. Gotta run. I’ll be back in the office in a couple of days if you need to reach me.”
They said goodbye and hung up. Stone sat at the desk, staring into his briefcase. He didn’t know what to do; he had no business to conduct in Paris; he had no social events to attend; he didn’t know anybody in Paris, except the people he’d met at the embassy earlier. He was hungry, though, so he ordered a sandwich from room service, then he phoned Woodman & Weld’s managing partner, Bill Eggers, with whom he was supposed to have met three or four days ago. Maybe Bill could shed some light on why he was in Paris.
“Mr. Eggers’s office,” the secretary said.
“Hi, it’s Stone. Is he in yet?”
“No, and he won’t be.”
“Can I reach him on his cell?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s fishing or shooting moose or something in the wilds of northern Maine and can’t be reached.”
“I’m in Paris. Ask him to call me when he returns.”
“That won’t be until the end of next week.”
“Never mind, then.” Stone hung up.
He was eating forty-five minutes later when he heard the doorbell, and an envelope was slid under his door. He put down the sandwich, opened the door—nobody there—then closed it and picked up the envelope. His name was written on it in beautiful calligraphy, but there was no return address. He opened it and extracted a card.
Dinner is at eight o’clock this evening, black tie. A car will call for you at your hotel at seven-forty-five. The same calligraphy, but it was unsigned. The paper appeared to be expensive.
Stone went back to his sandwich, but the phone rang, and he had to get up again. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Amanda Hurley. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.” Who the hell was Amanda Hurley?
“From the plane, remember?”
“Of course.”
“Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ve booked a table for us at Lasserre, on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. Do you know it?”
“I went there once some years ago.”
“Is that all right, then?”
“Yes, fine.”
“I’ve got to go somewhere for drinks first, so I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty.”
“Good.”
“The table is in your name. See you then.” She hung up.
Stone went back to his sandwich, reflecting that he was now attending a dinner party at an unknown place with unknown people, then having dinner with a woman he couldn’t remember.
His calendar was filling up.
4
Stone tied his black bow tie and began filling his pockets with the detritus that travels with every man: wallet, cash, keys, cell phone, linen handkerchief, comb—the works. He stopped when he picked up the envelope containing the stack of euros from his briefcase, took them out and counted them. Apart from the €100 used to pay his taxi from the airport, it was mostly €200 and €500 notes. It came to €20,000, less the €100 for the cabdriver. He was shocked; he would never travel with that much cash; what were credit cards for? He locked the stack in the safe in his closet and got into his jacket.
Ten minutes later he was standing in front of the hotel when a black Maybach, the Mercedes-built limousine, glided to a halt. The doorman tapped on the passenger-side window. “For Mr. Barrington?” He got his answer, then opened the rear door for Stone.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the driver said.
“Good evening.” He didn’t ask where they were going or who his host might be; after all, he was supposed to know. The car moved silently down the street, and he made himself comfortable in the large, reclining seat.
Nearly half an hour later the car was in the Bois de Boulogne, the forested park on the outskirts of Paris, more than twice the size of New York’s Central Park. They passed a couple of women standing next to parked cars.
“Damsels in distress?” Stone asked the driver.
“Hardly, sir, they are prostitutes, what you call in America ‘hookers.’ The authorities keep trying to root them out, but they always spring up again, like weeds.”
“Ah,” Stone said, not knowing what else to say.
Shortly, they turned into a drive lined with flower beds on each side, and a couple of hundred yards later drew to a halt before a large, handsome, and well-lit house. A servant, dressed as an eighteenth-century footman, opened Stone’s door and showed him into the house.
A butler greeted him. “Mr. Barrington, I presume?”
“Yes,” Stone replied.
“One moment, please.” The butler let himself through a set of double doors, leaving Stone alone for a moment.
A stack of mail rested on a hall table, and Stone took the opportunity to glance at it. Everything was addressed to M. Marcel duBois.
The butler returned. “This way, please, Mr. Barrington.” He led the way down the hall to another set of doors and preceded Stone into the room. “Mr. Stone Barrington,” he announced to the group of a dozen or so people arrayed about a large, two-story, richly paneled library.
A handsome, white-haired man of sixty-something broke away from the pack and came toward Stone, his hand extended.
“Ah, Stone,” the man said, grasping his hand warmly. “So good to have you in my home.”
“Thank you for having me, M’sieur duBois,” Stone said.
“Please, it’s Marcel. We are all on a first-name basis here.”
“Thank you, Marcel.”
DuBois clapped his hands for silence. “Everyone,” he said, “this is M’sieur Stone Barrington, who is visiting from New York.” DuBois led him around to various groups, introducing him. It was an international group—French, Italian, British, and one or two accents Stone couldn’t place, and he couldn’t register all the names, except one. She had nearly white-blond hair and was a very tall woman in her high heels, taller than Stone, who was six-two. Her name was Helga Becker, and he was determined to remember that. She was wearing a strapless black dress, and Stone tried to pry his eyes from her décolletage.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Stone,” Helga said. “I’ve heard so much about you.” German, he figured, from her name and accent.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Helga,” he replied, “and I hope you’ve not heard too much.”
She laughed, a low sound, and flashed perfect teeth. “Not nearly enough,” she said.
Stone now noticed that all the women were dressed in black, though not all in the same style. Somehow they and the men, who were in black, as well, gave the elegant surroundings even more elegance. “Did you and all the other women collaborate on your evening wear?” he asked.
“Ha. No, our invitations specified black. Every woman has a black dress, after all.”
“Do women not see that as an infringement by their host on their right to choose their own colors?”
“With any other host, perhaps, but not with Marcel. He is in every other way too kind. You are a New Yorker, Marcel said. What is your business there?”
“I am an attorney-at-law,” Stone said. “Pretty boring.”
“That depends on how you practice the law,” she said. “I shall not judge you too harshly until I know you better.”
“I’ll look forward to your judgment,” Stone said.
“Have you seen the car yet?”
Stone nearly asked her what car but caught himself. “Not yet.”
“I have a feeling we may have a look at the Blaise before the evening is over.”
A tiny bell rang in Stone’s head. He had read about this car but not seen any pictures. It was the creation of a wealthy Frenchman who had racing teams, and that must be his host.
Stone chatted idly with ot
her guests but contrived to stay near Helga. She seemed comfortable with that.
“Are you here alone?” Stone asked her when he got the chance.
“No, I am with you,” Helga replied. “I believe that Marcel has . . . how do you say? ‘Fixed us up.’”
“How very kind of Marcel,” Stone said.
She gave him her most dazzling smile. “Yes,” she said, “how very kind of him.”
A man taller than both Helga and Stone, Mediterranean-looking, with black, slicked-back hair, approached them. “Buona sera,” he said. “Good evening.”
Italian, Stone assumed, and he watched as the man expertly began to divert Helga’s attention from Stone to him. Helga did not respond as he perhaps would have liked and pointedly included Stone in their conversation. Soon, he wandered in search of more amenable prey.
“Italians!” Helga said with a snort. “Unstoppable!”
“And yet,” Stone said, “you stopped him.”
“Discouraged, perhaps,” she replied. “I think you will be better company.”
“I’ll do my best,” Stone replied.
Then from behind him the butler announced half a dozen other people, and for Stone, one name stood out, one he had heard earlier in the day.
“M’sieur Richard LaRose,” the butler said.
5
LaRose’s eyes passed slowly over the crowd, not pausing to recognize Stone. His appearance was distinctly different from the other men in the room: his tuxedo was not custom-made, but perhaps rented, draped on his thin frame as if on a hanger; his shirt collar was half an inch too big; his bow tie a clip-on; and his haircut of barber-college quality. Still, he seemed oddly at ease in the group, chatting easily with whoever came to hand.
Stone took LaRose’s lack of attention to him as deliberate and did not go out of his way to greet the man. He thought he must surely be here in his professional capacity.
