Unintended Consequences
Page 11
“So, no time for me, then?”
“No time for anybody,” Holly said with finality. “I love ya, Stone, but I love my work more, and I can’t keep you both happy.”
Stone sighed. “I can’t say that I like it, but I understand it, so all I can do is wish you well and stay out of the way.”
“Thanks for that, baby.”
He sensed that their conversation was over. “Take care of yourself, and good luck in the job, for all our sakes.”
“Thanks. Bye-bye.” She hung up.
Stone lay back on the bed and realized that there was now a big hole in his life where there hadn’t been one before. He closed his eyes and tried to let go.
• • •
Dinner was back in Montmartre, at an outdoor table next to the park. It was simple: roast chicken, potatoes, and haricots verts, with a bottle of Beaujolais.
“Feeling better?” Helga asked when he was done.
“Much,” he said. “One more three-star dinner and I would have exploded.”
“You seem a little preoccupied this evening. Anything wrong?”
“I said goodbye to a friend this afternoon,” he said.
“How good a friend?”
“A very good one.”
“So you were dumped?”
Stone laughed. “I was dumped. The competition was too tough.”
“I can’t imagine you losing that kind of competition,” she said.
“I wasn’t competing with another man, just with her job, which is overwhelming her at the moment and probably will for a long time to come.”
“Good,” Helga said. “More time for me.”
“All you want,” he replied. “Let’s take a walk.”
They walked to the top of the hill, then down the side street where Stone and Rick had followed Majorov that afternoon.
“Are we going anyplace special?” Helga asked.
“How about to a gallery opening?”
“That sounds like fun.”
He found the Ulyanov Gallery. It was brightly lit, and there was a crowd inside, some of them spilling out onto the sidewalk, holding plastic cups of wine.
“Russian paintings?” Helga asked. “Are they good?”
“Sometimes. I have a couple in New York.” They got some wine and began to look at the pictures. Stone stole glances around the room, looking for Majorov, and he was relieved to find him not there. Someone else was, though.
“Look at the tall man in the back,” Stone said to Helga. “Wasn’t he talking to you at Marcel’s party? The one where we met? I think he’s Italian.”
Helga looked at the man. “Oh, yes. He’s . . . let me see, Aldo something or other. He’s not Italian, though, he just pretends to be.”
“What is he?”
“Albanian. He’s said to be a nephew of Hoxha, the longtime dictator, now deposed and dead.”
“Then why is Aldo running around loose?”
“The rumor is he had some important post with the intelligence service or the police, if there was any difference. They say he got out of the country with a lot of cash before the regime came tumbling down—euros, not whatever used to be cash in Albania. Now he flits around Paris in expensive clothes with no visible means of support, so he must have stashed the cash.”
Stone stopped in front of a painting of a castle by a river. “Nice,” he said.
“Are you going to buy it?”
“No, I don’t think I want this gallery to have my name and address.”
“I’ll buy it for you. I don’t care if they have mine.”
“I don’t want them to have yours, either.”
“Excuse me,” a voice behind them said. They turned to find the mysterious Aldo standing behind them. “I believe we met at Marcel duBois’s house recently. I’m Aldo Saachi.”
“Of course,” Stone said, offering his hand but not his name.
“Yes,” Helga said, and shook it, too.
“What brings you two to this opening?” Aldo asked.
“We had dinner in the neighborhood and went for a walk,” Stone replied. “We saw the poster and thought we’d have a look.”
“Seen anything you like?” Aldo asked.
“No, we haven’t,” Stone said, “and if you’ll excuse us, we were just about to leave.”
“Can I offer you a drink somewhere nearby?” Aldo asked, gazing at Helga’s cleavage.
“Perhaps another time,” Stone said. “Good night.” He took Helga’s elbow and steered her toward the door.
Outside, Stone hailed a taxi.
“Why did you want to leave?” Helga asked.
“I think maybe it was a mistake to go there,” Stone said. “I thought we’d gotten away with it, then Aldo showed up.”
“He’s inoffensive,” she replied.
“He’s dangerous,” Stone said. “On the advice of a friend, I’m going to be suspicious of him.”
27
The following morning Stone sat at the breakfast table in Helga’s suite and glanced through the Paris papers. Marcel’s Blaise had been chosen best in show, and there were multiple photos of him in and out of the car. He was quoted in the International Herald Tribune as saying, “On to New York!”
“It looks as though Marcel has a major success on his hands,” Helga said, reading over Stone’s shoulder while massaging his neck.
“I’m sure it’s not his first,” Stone said, “but it must be very satisfying for him.”
Helga’s phone rang, and she picked it up. “Yes? Good morning.” She listened for a moment. “That’s very kind of you. Please hold for a moment.” She turned toward Stone. “It’s the ambassador’s secretary at the Russian Embassy. They are giving an impromptu party for Marcel this evening, and we are on a list that he gave them to invite. Do you want to go?”
Stone shrugged. “If you do.”
She turned back to the phone. “Yes, I’d love to, and you may check Mr. Barrington off your list. He’d like to come, too.” She hung up. “Well, that’s very interesting.”
“How so?”
“Why would the Russian ambassador give a party for Marcel?”
“Perhaps he does some business in Russia,” Stone said.
• • •
Stone spent his day calling Joan and dictating letters, then working out a framework for a deal with Marcel. Late in the afternoon Rick LaRose called.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Pretending to work,” Stone replied.
“Want to go to a party tonight?”
“I can’t. Helga and I are going to the Russian Embassy.”
Rick laughed. “So am I.”
“You want to be seen by the opposition?”
“I’m accompanying the ambassador as the commercial attaché. Marcel has very large business interests in Russia, so many of the guests will be business types in town for the auto show.”
“You make it sound dull.”
“I hope it won’t be,” Rick said. “About an hour after you arrive, we’ll bump into each other, and I’ll point out the players to you.”
“Will that keep me awake?”
“I didn’t promise you excitement. See you there.” Rick hung up.
• • •
They took a taxi, and when they arrived at the Russian Embassy, they found a Blaise parked in the forecourt, on display. Both gull-wing doors and the hood were open, and a photographer was shooting it from every angle.
Inside there was a formal reception line, and they had to work their way through that; then there was caviar, chilled vodka, and Russian champagne on offer. By the time they got to Marcel, Stone had a vodka buzz going.
“Did you see the photographer outside?” Marcel asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“The R
ussians are photographing the Blaise because they want to copy it.”
“That seems like a stupid idea,” Stone said.
“They have a history of this,” Marcel said. “Do you know that during World War Two an American B-17 bomber made a forced landing in Siberia, and the Russians—or should I say, the Soviets—dismantled it, copied every part of it, and when they assembled their new airplane, it was so heavy they couldn’t get it off the ground?”
“Then let’s wish them the same success with copying the Blaise,” Stone said, raising his glass.
“Stone, have you given any thought as to how you would like to proceed with our Arrington business?”
“I have, and I’d like to get together with you to discuss it.”
“Lunch tomorrow at my home, then?”
“Yes, fine.”
“I’ll send the car for you at noon.”
“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll get a taxi.”
“I’ll send you home in the car, then,” Marcel said.
Stone looked across the room and saw Aldo Saachi, né Hoxha, talking with someone. While he talked he stared at Stone and Marcel.
“Marcel, do you know Aldo Saachi well?”
“Not very well. Why do you ask?”
“Helga and I met him at a gallery opening last night—the Ulyanov Gallery, in Montmartre.”
“Ah, yes, I had an invitation but declined. It is a very odd gallery, no?”
“How do you mean?”
“First of all, ‘Ulyanov’ is the real name of Vladimir Lenin. An odd reference for a Russian art gallery in their time of democracy, yes?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And it is operated by a former citizen of Albania, who is close to Aldo.”
“Oh?”
“Wheels within wheels. I think the business of this gallery is not art but something else. Perhaps something our friend who works in Virginia would like to know about?”
“A good opportunity to enlighten him,” Stone said. “Then make him tell you something.”
“Good advice.”
Stone saw Rick enter with the American ambassador, waited a few minutes, then sidled over to him.
“Good evening,” Rick said. He was wearing another of his new suits. He introduced Stone to the ambassador.
“Ah, yes,” the ambassador said. “Mr. Barrington, you’re one of Lance’s, aren’t you?”
“I’m a consultant to the Agency,” Stone replied.
“Yes, of course,” the ambassador said with a knowing wink. He turned to speak to someone else.
Stone turned back to Rick. “When you get a moment, will you kindly explain to the ambassador that I’m not one of you?”
“I would, but it would only confuse him,” Rick replied.
Stone sighed. “All right, but now please, make this evening exciting for me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Rick said. “This event is a hotbed of spies of all sorts—political and industrial. You see the short, heavy man over there with the Russian ambassador’s wife? That’s the German intelligence service’s man in Paris. And over there is the Italian ambassador with a man from Ferrari, who is probably here just to sneer at the Blaise. And then there’s Aldo Saachi. Remember him?”
“Yes, I do.” Stone told him of the events of last evening.
“I wish you hadn’t gone there,” Rick said, “but now I don’t suppose it matters because everybody in town has seen us together here. You will now be known by everyone as Agency, and there’s nothing you can do about it, short of slugging me and walking out.”
“Is that what you suggest?”
“No, no. The ambassador would have a cow. Just learn to live with it. And with the consequences.”
“Consequences?”
“There will be some probing, I expect.”
“I think I should just conclude my business in Paris and get back to New York,” Stone said.
“I was going to suggest that, but I didn’t think you’d go for it.”
“I’m having lunch with Marcel tomorrow. I think after that I will wend my way home.”
“And happy contrails to you,” Rick replied.
28
Stone and Helga arrived back at the Plaza Athénée and got on the elevator.
“Excuse me,” Helga said, pressing both her button and Stone’s, “but I’m tired, and I’d rather sleep alone. Please don’t take offense.”
“Of course not,” Stone said. “That party made me pretty tired, too.” The elevator arrived at his floor; he kissed her, then the doors closed, and she continued up to her floor.
Stone let himself into his suite, got undressed, and fell into bed. He was asleep almost instantly. He began dreaming.
He was back on the Air France flight from New York, sitting in his seat, reading a magazine and sipping a mimosa—orange juice and champagne. Amanda Hurley was across the aisle, and the sixtyish woman in the Chanel suit was making her way down the aisle. He turned and looked over his shoulder: Aldo Saachi was seated directly behind him. Then he looked across the airplane, past Amanda, and saw Majorov across the other aisle. The Chanel woman came closer, then suddenly a chime was ringing. He looked ahead at the sign on the bulkhead, expecting the seat belt light to be turned on, but it was not. The chime seemed to get louder. The Chanel woman came closer and seemed to lose her balance, teetering toward Stone.
He jerked awake, but the chime was still ringing, and someone was knocking loudly on his door. He got out of bed, grabbed a robe, and looked through the peephole. Two men in suits stood outside. “Yes?” he yelled. One of the men held up an identity card, and Stone was able to read the words “Préfecture de Police.” He opened the door. “Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“We must speak with you. May we come in?”
Stone turned on the master light switch, illuminating his sitting room. “Yes, come in.” What the hell could the police want with him?
“Please be seated, Mr. Barrington,” the older of the two, a man in his forties, said. His companion, who was perhaps ten years younger, stood silently and watched, a notebook in his hand.
“Have a seat yourself,” Stone said, and everybody got comfortable. “Now, how may I help you?” He glanced at the digital clock on the desk: 3:40.
“I am Detective Inspector Claire,” the older man said. “Would you kindly account for your actions of earlier this evening?”
“Why? What is this about?”
“Please, Mr. Barrington, indulge us.”
Stone sighed, then recalled that he had spent many an evening of his youth in their position. “I spent the evening at a party at the Russian Embassy,” Stone replied.
“And who at the party can confirm your presence there?” Claire asked.
“Oh, let’s see,” Stone said, staring at the ceiling as if to concentrate. “The American ambassador; the commercial attaché at our embassy, Mr. LaRose; the Russian ambassador; oh, and M’sieur Marcel duBois.”
At the mention of that name the younger detective, who had been writing in his notebook, stopped and looked up at Stone.
“Anything else?” Stone asked.
“Were you in the company of a woman at this party?” Claire asked.
“Yes, I was.”
“And her name?”
“Helga Becker. She lives on the top floor of this hotel.”
“Did you return to the hotel in her company?”
“I did.”
“At what time did you arrive here?”
“I think around ten-thirty.”
“Did you go to her suite with her?”
“No, we took the elevator up together, but I got off at this floor, and she continued upstairs.”
“Mr. Barrington, do you possess a firearm?”
“May I see it, please?”
Stone got up, went to the desk, opened a drawer, and removed the small pistol Lance had given him. He also picked up his passport and slipped it into the pocket of his robe before returning to his seat.
Claire accepted the pistol in its holster. He popped out the magazine and worked the action to be sure it was unloaded, then he smelled the breach and the barrel. “How is it that you, a foreign visitor, would be armed?”
Stone decided to give him a short version: “An official of the American government was concerned for my safety and gave it to me. Earlier that day, an apparent attempt had been made on our lives. A large truck rammed our car about one hundred meters from here.”
“Ah, yes,” Claire said, “I know of this event. Who else was in the car with you?”
“I’m sure you already have their names,” Stone said. “Now, would you please tell me why you are calling on me at this ungodly hour?”
The two detectives exchanged a glance.
“We are investigating a homicide,” Claire replied.
“A homicide where and who?” Stone asked.
“In Ms. Becker’s suite,” Claire replied.
Stone was startled. “Is Ms. Becker all right?” he asked.
“She is quite safe, I assure you,” Claire said. “She is at the headquarters of the Prefecture of Police, helping us with our inquiries.”
“Did she witness the homicide?” Stone asked.
“As far as we know, she was the only person in her suite besides the deceased.”
Stone didn’t like the sound of that. “And who died?”
“Are you acquainted with a person who calls himself Aldo Saachi?”
“Yes, I’ve met him.”