by Stuart Woods
“Holy shit. Did he make an offer?”
“He said he’d give you one in writing when you came to Paris. Has he?”
“No, but I’ve seen him only once, at a dinner party at his house. I’m having lunch with him in less than an hour.”
“Well, expect to hear a lot of zeros thrown around.”
“Okay. Did I do anything for him while he was in New York?”
“Do anything? What do you mean?”
“I mean favors.”
“You mean like getting him laid?”
“No, no. Did I introduce him to anybody of consequence?”
“Well, there was me.”
“Besides you?”
“Not that I know of. Listen, the firm wants his business for everything he does in the States, so sell him the fucking hotel, will you?”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. Does Mike Freeman know anything about this?”
“I don’t know. Did you tell him about it?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call him after lunch.”
“Great. Now, can I give this pilot his satphone and go back to sleep?”
“Sure, Bill, and thanks for bringing me up to date.”
“Oh, Stone?”
“Yes?”
“There was one other thing about our meeting.”
“What?”
“I can’t remember. I’m drawing a blank.”
“Has somebody drugged you, too?”
“No, I’m just having a senior moment, okay?”
“Take your time.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t remember what it was. I’ll have to call you later.”
“How are you going to do that without a satphone?”
“You have a point.”
“Tell the pilot you’re keeping it and that you’ll send it to Lance when you get back to New York.”
“Good idea!”
“Go back to sleep, Bill.”
“I’ll never get back to sleep now.”
“Well, go moosing, or something.” But Eggers had already hung up.
19
Marcel’s car was waiting for Stone when he arrived downstairs, and on the way to lunch he thought a lot. The pieces of his four lost days were falling into place, but he knew only what others had told him. He still remembered nothing, and he was beginning to think he never would.
They arrived in front of a traditional building of twelve stories or so on a broad avenue. They drove through a gate and into an inner courtyard, where Stone departed the car and was directed to a door. Behind that sat a uniformed security guard.
“M’sieur Barrington?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Please travel in this elevator,” he said, pointing to one of three.
“Which floor?”
“There is one button only,” the guard replied.
Stone pressed the only button, and the car rose for half a minute, and the doors opened into a vestibule. A man in a white jacket and black trousers with highly polished shoes greeted him and led him into a living room that Stone estimated to be fifty feet in length, furnished with sofas and chairs in groups, scattered about the room. Stone thought it must be a perfect room for a very large party. They continued toward the rear of the building into a large, paneled library, where a spiral staircase led up to a second level that carried the circumference of the room. A table was set for two in the center of the room, and Marcel duBois sat at a desk at the end before large windows, speaking German into a telephone. He waved a hand, indicating that Stone should sit on a sofa.
Stone did. While duBois finished his conversation Stone looked at the beautifully bound volumes, perhaps two thousand, he thought, perhaps three, lining the room, and there was still room for a dozen or so large paintings—old masters, mostly.
DuBois hung up, navigated around the desk, and came to Stone’s sofa. Stone stood and greeted him, and they sat down.
“Are you well, Stone?”
“I am very well, thank you.”
“Have you seen more of the lovely Helga?”
“I have, and with much pleasure. Last night she made me a very good offer to become her kept man—an apartment, clothes, the works.”
DuBois threw back his head and laughed. “You must really have impressed her, because that is the exact opposite of her usual operating technique. How did you respond?”
“With an old American aphorism which says ‘Why buy a cow when milk is so cheap?’ She was buying dinner, and I told her that was reward enough.”
DuBois laughed again. “Wonderful, wonderful.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “Forgive me if I dispense with business before lunch.”
“Of course.”
DuBois handed Stone the envelope. “This is my offer for The Arrington.”
Stone opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. Typed on it was a number: one billion dollars.
“What do you think?” duBois asked.
“I think it’s low,” Stone replied. “I know what the land is worth, and I know how much we spent on construction, landscaping, and staffing.”
“Forgive me, my offer does not include the land. I would continue to lease it from you on favorable terms.”
“Then your offer is a serious one,” Stone said, “but I’m not inclined to accept it. Please let me explain.”
“Please do.”
“This is the first business I have ever been involved in that I and my investors built from the ground up. Therefore, I am very attached to it, and the property includes the house where my son grew up.”
“I see,” duBois said, looking at the ceiling. “Perhaps I can make the offer more attractive.”
“Please don’t,” Stone said. “Let me suggest another alternative.”
“I am all ears,” duBois said.
“We would like to build more Arringtons—we thought in the United States. But building some in Europe might be a good idea, too.”
“That was my fallback position,” duBois said. “As it happens, I inherited a chain of hotels from my father—nothing fancy, meant for commercial travelers and tourists on a budget. There are forty-odd of them, all pedestrian and beginning to decay, but perhaps a dozen of them are built on spacious plots of land in neighborhoods that began gentrifying a decade ago and that are ripe for razing and redevelopment.”
“Very interesting,” Stone said. “We could provide design and decorating services, in line with the look of the Bel-Air property, and train staff to our standards. And, although I and my investors are not in your class of capitalists, we would also be able to offer investment in the group.”
“Shall we get specific, then?” duBois asked.
“Oh, please, no. I do not fancy myself negotiating a business deal with you. I am not equipped for that. If we agree in principle, then I will send representatives to work out a concrete arrangement.”
“I agree in principle,” duBois said. “How about you?”
“I, too, agree in principle.”
“Then,” duBois said, rising, “let’s talk no more of it and enjoy our lunch.” He led Stone to the table, where their first course, a slab of terrine, awaited them. A waiter held Stone’s chair and poured the wine.
“You know,” duBois said, “I have never done business in America, though I have, of course, dealt with many Americans in Europe. I like their straightforward attitude. They are, or seem to be, guileless. Of course, one must, as you say, dot i’s and cross t’s as in any business arrangement.”
“I hope to see you do a lot of business in the States,” Stone said, “and speaking for Woodman & Weld, we would be very pleased to represent you in any venture you might undertake.”
“Thank you, Stone. I have already done my due diligence on your firm, and I would very much like yo
u to represent me.”
“Thank you, Marcel.”
“I also admire the American fashion of governing, and I just read a very interesting new book by a former CIA officer. I was very impressed with some of the operations the Agency conducted.”
Stone had an inspiration. “You’re interested in intelligence work, then?” he asked.
“Intelligence is half of business,” duBois said, smiling. “I could not survive without it.”
“Perhaps you have read in the papers that our director of Central Intelligence is retiring.”
“I have, and I understand you are acquainted with Mrs. Lee and the president. Do you know who will succeed Mrs. Lee at the CIA?”
“I do. His name is Lance Cabot, and he has recently been testifying before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. I believe he will be confirmed within a matter of days.”
“Is he a good man?”
“The best for the job, I think. As it happens, he is in Paris at the moment. Would you like to meet him?”
DuBois’s face lit up. “I would like very much to do so.”
“It would have to be on short notice. He’ll be returning to the States shortly.”
“I am available at all times,” duBois said.
“Perhaps I can reach him now.”
“Please do.”
“Excuse me for a moment.” Stone rose and walked to a corner of the room and got out his cell phone. He called the number that Lance had programmed into the new phone.
“Yes?” Lance said.
“It’s Stone.”
“Good day.”
“Good day. Would you like to meet Marcel duBois?”
“Yes! When?”
“In an hour?”
“Yes, good!”
Stone gave him the address, hung up, and returned to the table. “He will be here in one hour,” he said to duBois.
“Astonishing! You are full of surprises, Stone.”
“Merely a happy coincidence,” Stone said. And one, he thought, that would get him off the hook with Lance. Now the man could recruit his own asset, and Stone could avoid further entanglements with the Agency.
20
Stone and Marcel were having coffee when Lance was shown into the library. He appeared to have recovered from his jet lag and was beautifully dressed in a dark, chalk-striped suit. Stone made the introductions.
“I am so pleased to welcome you to Paris, Mr. Cabot,” Marcel said.
“It’s Lance, and thank you.”
“I am Marcel. And may I congratulate you on your appointment?”
Lance smiled. “It’s a little early for that, so thank you again.”
“I’m sure that must be a very great responsibility,” Marcel said.
“It is, but I believe I’m prepared for it.”
The conversation continued, with Marcel asking pointed questions and, Stone thought, Lance giving him remarkably straight answers.
They had been at it for an hour when Lance’s tone became more serious. “Marcel,” he said, “one of my Agency’s great strengths has always been the friends we have in the world, people like you, who are attuned to the activities of business, the professions, and the arts—who can help us understand the tenor of the times in their part of the world.”
“I can see how that might be very helpful to you,” Marcel replied. He obviously knew what was coming, and he seemed to relax as Lance went on.
“I would very much like to think of you as our friend and colleague,” he said, “and to hear from you directly from time to time.”
“Are you inviting me to become a spy for the CIA?” Marcel asked, amusement in his voice.
“Certainly not,” Lance replied smoothly, “just a friend and colleague. I’m sure that, in your daily dealings, you hear things that might be of interest to us, indeed things that might be of great help to us as we try to help make the world a better and safer place.”
“Oh, is that what you do?” Marcel replied, chuckling. “Make the world a better place.”
“Making the world safer for free men makes it a better place, does it not?”
“I suppose it does.”
“I would never ask you to take any position against the interests of your own country or your business affairs.”
Stone spoke for the first time. “Marcel has told me that intelligence is half of what he does.”
Lance smiled. “The sharing of even a fraction of that intelligence could make a difference for France, Europe, and the United States.”
“I believe I understand you,” Marcel said. “What sort of arrangement do you envision?”
“Whatever sort you would feel comfortable with. I will give you a secure means of communicating directly with me, and I will have one of our best men, serving locally, available at all times to assist you in any way he can.”
“Would that man be Mr. Richard LaRose?” Marcel asked. “The commercial attaché?”
Lance laughed. “That’s right, you and Rick have met, haven’t you?”
“He was a guest in my home at the suggestion of a friend of mine, Helga Becker. Is she a friend of your Agency’s, too?”
“Helga moves in interesting circles. From time to time, she hears something I might like to hear. It’s no more than that.”
“If you expect Mr. LaRose to continue representing himself as a diplomat, you should take him shopping,” Marcel said.
Lance smiled. “That has already been accomplished,” he said, “with the assistance of Stone. I had a word with the managing director at Charvet to hurry along Rick’s order. Now we must wait only for his hair to grow.”
Marcel laughed out loud.
“I assure you, Rick is most accomplished in his work and, once made more presentable, will blend in beautifully. He is, among other things, a brilliant linguist, fluent in the better part of a dozen languages. It’s how he originally came to our attention, when he was very young.”
“I must say, I was impressed to hear him speaking Swedish with Helga,” Marcel said. “It made me nearly overlook the dreadful suit he was wearing.”
“Would you like to see the new Rick LaRose?” Lance asked. “He’s waiting downstairs in my car.”
“By all means,” Marcel replied. “Invite him up.”
Lance produced an iPhone and pressed a single button, then put it away. Marcel picked up a phone and spoke a few words, then hung up.
No more than a minute had passed when Rick entered the room. Stone was impressed. He wore a dark gray flannel suit, a striped shirt, and a beautiful necktie and carried a handsome briefcase. His hair wasn’t much longer than when Stone had last seen him, but it was much better cut. Stone made the reintroduction and Marcel invited him to sit.
Marcel spoke a couple of sentences of what sounded to Stone like Russian, and Rick replied smoothly in the same language. Marcel repeated in German and Italian, and Rick responded with ease and what sounded like perfect accents.
“How old are you, Rick?” Marcel asked in English.
“I’m thirty-two,” Rick replied.
“I would very much like you to leave your current employment and come to work for me,” Marcel said.
Rick laughed. “My current employer frowns on resignations,” he said, “but I thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Perhaps I can loan you Rick from time to time,” Lance said. “As an interpreter or in whatever role you prefer.”
“That might be interesting,” Marcel said.
“But you must promise not to abscond with him,” Lance said. “I would miss Rick terribly.”
“We shall see,” Marcel replied. “All right, Lance, I will be a friend to your Agency, at least for a while. We’ll see how it goes.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
“Please remember,�
� Marcel said, “that our channel must flow in both directions. I expect I’ll hear from you, at times, with information that might interest me.”
“Of course,” Lance said. “I think you will find our friendship beneficial.” Lance looked at his watch, then held out a hand. Rick placed the handle of his briefcase in it. “In the hope that we might reach an accommodation, I have brought you two gifts,” Lance said, opening the case. He removed an iPhone and handed it to Marcel. “This operates as any other, but when you call one of our phones at the numbers listed on the favorites page, our conversation will be encoded in both directions. With anyone else, it will be an ordinary cell phone call. I am listed among your favorites as Jacques, and Rick is listed as Pierre.”
“I see,” Marcel replied, checking the page.
Lance removed a Mac Air laptop from the case. “Again, this computer operates as any other, except that when you e-mail either Jacques or Pierre, your message will be encrypted, as will our replies.”
“It’s all very simple,” Marcel said.
“We look forward to hearing from you,” Lance said, rising and offering his hand. “And now Rick and I must go. Stone, may we give you a lift?”
Stone felt this was more than an invitation. “Thank you, Lance, yes.” He thanked Marcel for the lunch.
“Stone,” Marcel said, “the Paris Auto Show begins tomorrow, and I will be introducing the Blaise to the world. I hope you will attend as my guest and stay for lunch, too. Lance, Rick, perhaps you can come, as well?”
“I fear I must fly home this afternoon,” Lance said, “but I’m sure Rick would be delighted. He loves cars.”
“I certainly do,” Rick said.
“I will send a car to the Plaza Athénée for you tomorrow at ten,” Marcel said to Stone. “And Rick, perhaps you can hitch a ride with him.”
“Perfect,” Rick said.
The three of them made their goodbyes and rode down in the elevator together.
“Stone,” Lance said when they were secure in his car, with the glass partition rolled up to seal off the driver, “you have done very well.”
