Unintended Consequences

by Stuart Woods

  • • •

  When Stone left an hour and a half later his suit had been pressed and his shoes dried, and so were his trench coat and his hat. He entered Marcel’s car under shelter and drove to his hotel. As he returned the doorman’s umbrella, the man seemed surprised to see him perfectly warm and dry.

  As he walked into the hotel something caused him to turn and look back into the street. A black Mercedes sat, idling, and Stone had the odd feeling that it had followed him from Marcel’s building. He went upstairs to phone New York and make arrangements to receive Marcel duBois, thinking he was glad to be leaving Paris.

  31

  Stone stood in front of the Plaza Athénée, having paid his bill with Marcel’s expense money, and watched the Maybach glide to a stop a yard away. He made sure that all his bags and his briefcase were put into the trunk and had a look at the street before sliding into the rear seat next to Marcel. He saw two vehicles, a black Mercedes sedan and a gray van, double-parked across the street. The van had steel beams where the bumpers usually were.

  “Good morning, Stone.”

  “Good morning, Marcel. I see from the weather report that we have a good day for flying.”

  “Yes, the storm has moved off to the south. I believe that Lyon is feeling it by now.” The car pulled away.

  “I spoke to Rick LaRose last night,” Stone said, “and told him of our conversation regarding communication with our friend in Virginia.”

  “Ah, good. I suppose when I return I will have to communicate through Mr. LaRose.”

  “You may if you wish, but if you phone me on the cell phone that Lance gave you, our conversations will be scrambled, since I have the same phone.” He wrote the number on his business card and gave Marcel his personal card, as well. “This is my address and various phone numbers in New York. Please feel free to give them to anyone who wishes to contact you while you’re with us.”

  “Thank you,” Marcel said, and tucked the card into his wallet.

  They drove north along the Seine for a time, chatting idly. Marcel was making a phone call when Stone looked across the car and out the window to see a black Mercedes drawing up beside them and a rear window coming down. The morning sun glinted on the barrel of an automatic weapon as it was pointed through the open window by a man wearing a dark balaclava helmet, obscuring his face. Stone was about to pull Marcel onto the floor of the car when there was a loud crash, and the Mercedes rocketed forward.

  The gray van was behind the black car, and it accelerated again, slamming its bolted-on steel beam against the rear bumper of the Mercedes. Marcel’s driver had slowed to remain clear of the two vehicles, and they watched as the van continued to assault the car. Then the van moved alongside the Mercedes and slammed, broadside, into the vehicle. The car hit the low railing and tipped over the edge, falling off the elevated roadway.

  Stone looked over his shoulder in time to see the Mercedes ricochet off the lower level, ten feet down, then topple into the Seine. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to the driver.

  Marcel sat rigid in his seat, his face drained of color, staring straight ahead. He said something in French that sounded to Stone like an oath, then he switched to English. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Someone was about to fire a weapon at us from the black Mercedes, but a van struck it from behind repeatedly and dumped it into the Seine.” He patted Marcel’s arm. “It’s all right now. Rick LaRose is driving the van, and he is behind us.”

  “How did someone know where to find us?” Marcel asked.

  “The Mercedes followed me from your building to the hotel yesterday afternoon. Rick and I had a conversation about it last evening, and he told me he would take precautions for our drive to Le Bourget.”

  “You know,” Marcel said, “I believe I have chosen the correct moment to leave Paris for a while.”

  • • •

  On their arrival at Le Bourget, they drove through a guarded gate and drew up next to a Gulfstream 650 business jet, which already had one engine running, on the opposite side of the aircraft.

  Stone got out of the car and found Rick LaRose waiting for him. “Nice driving,” he said. “Is the ambassador going to have to have another chat with the prefect of police?”

  “I think I can handle this one on my own,” Rick said. “Enjoy your flight, and let me hear from you sometime.”

  Stone gave him his card, they shook hands, then Rick got into the van and drove away. Men appeared to take their luggage, and as soon as they had climbed the stairs and stepped into the airplane, the steps were taken away and the second engine started. A moment later, they were taxiing.

  A uniformed young Frenchwoman showed them to seats at the rear of the airplane, an area arranged to look more like a comfortable study than ordinary airplane seating. Shortly after that the airplane accelerated, then they were off the ground and climbing steeply. The stewardess appeared with champagne and orange juice, and Stone had some of each.

  “You know,” Marcel said, “that was really quite a performance with the van and the Mercedes. I suddenly feel more kindly disposed toward your friends at the CIA.”

  “There are times when it’s good to have friends,” Stone said, picking up a phone on the table in front of him. “I’ll see that we’re met at the other end.” He called Mike Freeman.

  • • •

  A couple of hours later, after reading the New York and Paris papers, they were served a good lunch, then Stone went forward to a reclining seat and had a nap. The stewardess awakened him as they were descending over Long Island toward Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, and five minutes later they were on the ground.

  A car from Strategic Services pulled up to the airplane and received Stone and Marcel and their luggage, and another car followed as they were driven into Manhattan. Thirty minutes later, they pulled up to Stone’s house. Two watchful men stood by the car as they got out and went inside, where Stone’s secretary, Joan Robertson, and his housekeeper and cook, Helene, and her elder brother, Philip, waited. Philip was a retired butler and driver engaged for the occasion, and he showed Marcel upstairs to his room.

  “I thought Philip could be useful during Mr. duBois’s stay,” Joan said.

  “A great idea,” Stone replied.

  “Mike Freeman and Bill Eggers have arranged a dinner at the Four Seasons at nine o’clock,” she said, “and Dino wants you to call him.” She handed him a card. “He has a new office number.”

  Stone looked at the card, which announced that Dino Bacchetti was the new chief of detectives of the NYPD. “He didn’t waste any time getting started after the honeymoon, did he?” Stone said.

  “And Mrs. Bacchetti has already started her new job at Strategic Services. They’ll be at the dinner tonight.”

  “It’s good to be home,” Stone said. He went upstairs to unpack and call Dino.

  32

  At eight o’clock, Stone rapped on Marcel’s door. His guest was occupying the guest suite overlooking the garden, immediately below Stone’s bedroom. Stone led him down to the study and offered him a drink.

  “What is that you are drinking?” Marcel asked.

  “Knob Creek, a small-batch bourbon. Knob Creek is where Abraham Lincoln was born in a log cabin, in Kentucky.”

  “I’ll try it, then,” Marcel said.

  Stone poured the drinks and handed one to him. “You may find it peculiar at first, but the second one goes down more smoothly.”

  Marcel took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “Interesting,” he said. He looked around the study. “You have a great deal of very fine woodwork in your house,” he said.

  “Thank you. All of it was made by my father.”

  “He was a designer?”

  “A woodworker who later became a designer.”

  “Tell me about him,” Marcel said.

  “My parents were from
old families in western Massachusetts, to the north, in New England. My father had been enrolled at Yale, following in his father’s footsteps, but he had always enjoyed working with wood, and he wanted to make a career of it. He and my mother were in love, contemplating marriage by this time.

  “My grandfather was outraged that, instead of his son’s following him into the family business, a woolen mill, he wanted to enter a trade. He also disliked my father’s and mother’s left-wing politics. Both sets of parents forbade them to marry, and when they eloped, they were disowned. My mother was a painter, and they settled in the Village, where my father earned a meager living, wandering the Village with a toolbox, knocking on doors and offering to do odd jobs. In the meantime, he was drawing the sort of things he wanted to build.

  “My great-aunt Matilda, for whom my mother was named, was the only family member who would still speak to them. She built this house and engaged my father to do all the woodwork—paneling, library, doors—everything. The commission kept them alive for three years, and when it was done, all of Aunt Matilda’s friends wanted my father’s work. He became well known in New York, and my mother became a very fine painter. The picture there is one of hers.” He indicated the painting over the sofa.

  “She was very good indeed,” Marcel said. “A lovely style.”

  “She has work hanging in the Metropolitan Museum.”

  “I’m not surprised. Who are the other people we’re dining with tonight?”

  “You’ve met Bill Eggers,” Stone said. “He has been very important in my life. When I was in law school I worked in a summer program with the New York Police Department, and when I graduated I joined the police, instead of practicing law. I did that for fourteen years, then the department and I had a disagreement, and I lost. I had inherited this house from Aunt Matilda, and I was renovating it in my spare time, with a little help from outside contractors. I found myself unemployed with only a police pension for income and a big loan on the house.

  “Then I ran into Bill Eggers, who had been a good friend when we were in law school together. He suggested I study for the bar examination, then come to work for Woodman & Weld. I did so, and I’ve been happy there ever since.”

  “And Michael Freeman?”

  “Mike has a mysterious background in the world of intelligence. The founder of Strategic Services, Jim Hackett, also found Mike, and he became the number two man in the business. When Jim died, Mike succeeded him, and he has quadrupled the size of the company since then, to the point where they are the second-largest security firm in the world.”

  “And the other couple?”

  “Dino Bacchetti and I were partners for many years when we were both policemen. He is still with the department and was recently promoted to chief of detectives, a very important position. His wife, Vivian, or Viv, as she’s called, was also a detective. She retired from the department when they married, a few weeks ago, and has just joined Strategic Services. And those are our dinner companions.”

  The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up, listened for a moment, then hung up. “My car is waiting for us outside,” he said.

  “Then I will have my second Knob Creek at the restaurant,” Marcel said, rising. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Four Seasons,” Stone replied. “It’s only a few blocks away.”

  They entered the Four Seasons from East Fifty-second Street and climbed the broad staircase, emerging in the bar, where the others in their party awaited. Stone gave Dino and Viv a hug, then made the introductions; then they moved into the main dining room, often called the “Pool Room” because of the large pool at its center. They were seated at a round table, and Stone placed Marcel between himself and Mike Freeman. Drinks were ordered.

  “Marcel,” Bill Eggers said when their drinks had arrived, “I see Stone has recruited you to bourbon.”

  “This is my second one,” Marcel said, “and I’m enjoying it more and more.” He turned to Freeman. “Mike, I would like to thank you for arranging our security at the airport,” he said. “You’ve made me feel very secure in New York, something I had recently not felt in Paris.”

  “Stone told me about that,” Mike replied, “and I was happy to help.”

  They ordered dinner, and the conversation flowed.

  • • •

  After dinner Stone’s car, driven by Philip, returned them to his house. “Would you like a nightcap?” he asked Marcel.

  “If you will forgive me, I think the time change is catching up with me, so I will retire. It is very late in Paris.”

  Stone put him on the elevator, then went to his study, poured himself a cognac, and called Mike Freeman.

  “I liked your guest,” Mike said.

  “And he liked you, I could tell.”

  “I’ve done a little looking into him, as is my wont, and I think he makes an ideal investor for us in the States, and an ideal gateway to Europe for us, too.”

  “Surely that isn’t all you’ve found out.”

  “All right, he’s worth something in the neighborhood of thirty billion euros, which puts him well up in the Forbes 100. The comparison to Warren Buffett is a perfectly valid one. Their careers and investing methods are similar, but not their lifestyles.”

  “Yes, I’ve experienced Marcel’s lifestyle, and let me tell you, it is spectacular.”

  Stone’s other line rang. “Hang on a minute, Mike.” He pressed the hold button, then the second line. “Hello?”

  “Stone?” A woman’s voice, familiar. “It’s Helga.”

  “Hold on, Helga.” He pressed line one. “Mike, I’m going to have to talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, then.”

  33

  Stone returned to his second line. “Helga, are you all right?”

  “Yes, at last,” she replied.

  “The Paris police woke me in the middle of the night to question me, but they refused to let me see you, so I called Rick LaRose.”

  “Rick was wonderful,” she said. “I hadn’t had any sleep, and the police asked me the same questions over and over, and I was exhausted by the time Rick turned up. He got me released and sent me directly to Le Bourget, where there was an airplane waiting to take me home to Sweden. I’m now at my house out in the archipelago, and it’s very beautiful here, but lonely.”

  “I think I can fix that,” Stone said. “Why don’t you come to New York for a while? None of the Paris complications will bother you here. Marcel is already here, asleep in my guest suite.”

  “Marcel in New York? He almost never goes to America.”

  “It seemed a good time to get him out of Paris.” Stone told her about the attack on them along the Seine.

  “I’m glad you’re out—those people are very dangerous.”

  “Who are they?” Stone asked.

  “A bunch of crazy Russians and East Germans left over from the Cold War days. They’re working for a Russian oligarch named Vishinski. It’s said that he’s close to the Russian leadership. Vishinski is making business inroads into Europe, with Paris as his main target, and he seems to want what Marcel has.”

  “What happened with Aldo Saachi?”

  “He was waiting in my suite when I got there.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “He must have bribed a hotel staffer. He made advances, and I punched him in the nose, but he tore my dress on his way down. When he stood up he had a knife in his hand, so I shot him.”

  “Did the police find the knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, that will help clear your name.”

  “That won’t be a problem. According to Rick, all records of my questioning will disappear, and they will think of some explanation for Aldo’s death, so for all practical purposes, I am not involved.”

  “I’m relieved that you’re all right. When can you come to New Y
ork?”

  “Give me a few days to work on that. I’ll need to get Lance’s permission to come to the U.S.”

  “I’ll have a word with Lance and let you know what he says. What’s your phone number?”

  “I have the same cell, the one that Lance gave me. We can talk on that without anyone hearing us.”

  “Then I’ll be in touch.”

  “Please give Marcel my best.”

  “I will.” They both hung up, and Stone went upstairs and to bed.

  • • •

  The following morning he had breakfast with Marcel in the kitchen, then went to his office, where he found a large stack of paperwork on his desk. He called Lance at Langley and left a message for him, then went to work answering mail and returning phone calls.

  Just before noon Joan buzzed him. “Lance Cabot on one.”

  Stone pressed the button. “Good morning, Lance.”

  “Good morning, Stone. Did you have a pleasant flight?”

  “We did indeed, except for the unpleasantness on the way to Le Bourget. Rick saved our bacon.”

  “A good man, Rick. He’s destined for greater things.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “How is Marcel liking New York?”

  “He’s very happy here. He’s staying with me, and we had dinner with Mike Freeman last night. Mike is going to help him with his personal security situation.”

  “He certainly needs help,” Lance agreed.

  “After Rick’s intervention, Marcel’s feelings toward the Agency have warmed considerably. I think you’ll find him more cooperative.”

  “I’m extremely glad to hear that,” Lance said.

  “Lance, I’ve invited Helga Becker to visit me in New York. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”

  “Do you think you can avoid having her photographed in your company while she’s there? I don’t want her to turn up on Page Six—at least, not until everything has quieted down in Paris. Our two presidents have had discussions about the Aldo incident, and word has reached me that Aldo’s friends are extremely angry.”