Dishonorable Intentions (16 page)

S
tone and Gala received Felicity Devonshire in the library on Friday evening. It was raining outside, and she entered shaking water from her luxuriant red hair.

“My goodness,” Felicity said, “you'd think we were in England.”

“I like England in the rain,” Stone said.

“Ah, that's the secret for an American to feel at home in this country—he has to learn to enjoy the rainy days. Of course, it doesn't matter if a man's hair gets wet.”

“Your hair looks lovely,” Gala said. “Even wet.”

Geoffrey brought her a brandy and soda, she raised it to her hosts, and they all drank. “Now,” Felicity said, “more information has come my way about our recent lack of success in dealing with your Russian acquaintance.”

Gala looked at Stone. “I knew you were mixed up in that business, but, Felicity, I had no idea you were.”

“I was merely a supplier of commonly held information,” she replied. “Nothing that might fall under the Official Secrets Act.” She looked around. “Stone, are there any recording devices present in your home?”

“There are none,” Stone said firmly. “Neither audio nor visual.”

“Thank God for that,” she said. “I really should have inquired earlier, but I trusted you.”

“I hope you still do.”

“I do, and you, too, Gala, that's why I can continue to speak about this without fear of disclosure. This information, if inference were taken to the extreme, would most certainly fall under the Act, and neither of you must ever say to anyone what I am about to say to you.”

“Understood,” Stone replied, and Gala nodded.

Geoffrey entered the room. “Dinner is ready to be served whenever you wish.”

“Give us a few minutes, please, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey closed the door behind him.

Felicity waited a moment, then continued. “I now know how your Russian acquaintance wriggled out of his deportation order.”

“I would certainly be interested in knowing that,” Stone said.

“Information, from a source I cannot disclose, has made me aware that, earlier this week, a telephone conversation took place between himself and a very high Russian official.”

“I thought there was supposed to be an estrangement between them,” Stone said.

“Apparently, the relationship warmed just enough for your acquaintance to plead for the disappearance of the record of the charge against him.”

“Ah.”

“Which raises the question—what did the official require of him in return?”

“I have a feeling you are going to tell us,” Stone said.

Felicity smiled a foxy smile. “I am. The official asked if his former friend were acquainted with a certain Hollywood actress, whose new film is premiering in Moscow tomorrow evening. When he replied in the affirmative, the official requested that he arrange for the actress to join him in his quarters for dinner. Apparently, your acquaintance was able to secure the woman for that purpose.”

“I know who the actress is,” Gala said. “I read in one of the trades online that the female star is Nathalie Dumont, who is a friend of mine.”

“You are correct,” Felicity replied. “Is she likely to accept such an obvious setup?”

“Not to help Boris, she isn't—she despises him.”

“Then perhaps he worked through a third party—someone at her studio?” Stone suggested.

“That makes sense—it's the sort of thing Boris would think of.”

“You didn't answer my question,” Felicity pointed out. “And I'm dying to know. Would Ms. Dumont be agreeable to the assignation?”

Gala thought about that. “Not as a matter of course, I think,
but if there were something important in it for her, then probably.”

“Oh good!” Felicity cried, clapping her hands. “It's not often I get something this juicy crossing my desk.”

“Suppose,” Stone said, “that Ms. Dumont learned of the origin of the request?”

“She would not react well if she knew that it was Boris who desired it. In fact, I think she would take pleasure in refusing, if she thought it might cause him difficulties.”

“Are you in touch with her?”

“I have her cell number,” Gala replied. “Do you think it would work in Moscow?”

“They seem to work everywhere these days,” Felicity said.

Gala reached into her bag for her phone. “What should I say to her?”

“Just that the dinner was arranged surreptitiously through Tirov, and that he's getting something important in return.”

“All right.” Gala went to her contacts and pressed the button. She turned on the speakerphone.

The number rang a few times, then a robovoice message played. Gala shrugged. “Nathalie, it's Gala. When you get this, please give me a call.” She hung up and looked at her watch. “Felicity, did you say that the assignation was for tonight?”

“That was my information.”

“It's an hour or two later in Moscow.”

“Three hours later.”

“Then she's probably at the Kremlin right now.”

“Oh, well, there goes her virtue,” Felicity said, “in a manner of speaking.”

—

A
s they were going upstairs after dinner, Gala leaned close to Stone. “What was all that business about the Official Secrets Act?”

“It would seem,” Stone said quietly, “that MI6 has somehow placed a recording device either in President Petrov's office or on his phone lines. Or both.”

“Oh.”

N
athalie Dumond stood in front of a three-way mirror in her hotel suite and gazed at herself in the dress she had chosen. He hair was piled high upon her head, and her dress was tight and strapless, exposing breasts of which she was proud, since they were her own and very beautiful. Her heels were high, bringing her total height to five feet, ten inches. Her only piece of jewelry was a choker of large diamonds, a relic of a former relationship with a billionaire boyfriend. She draped a black mink cape around her shoulders and secured it at the throat with a jeweled clasp. Perfection.

Her doorbell rang, and she opened it to find Howard Fine waiting for her. “I'll walk you down to the car,” he said.

“Thank you, Howard.”

They emerged from the elevator to find a brigade of TV cameramen and flash photographers lining a red carpet that had
been laid from the lift to the curb outside, where awaited a large limousine of a type Nathalie had never seen before.

“It's a ZIL,” Howard said to her. “No high-up Russian would be seen in anything else.”

The hotel doorman held open the car door, and Nathalie got in and arranged herself on the plush velvet seat. Howard leaned in and said, “Knock 'im dead,” and closed the door.

The car pulled smoothly away, and the cabin was nearly silent. The ZIL drove directly across Red Square, in a blatant contravention of the traffic rules, and drove up an ornate ramp and into the Kremlin itself, and thence to an entranceway guarded by two tightly uniformed soldiers. A man in a black suit emerged from the building, held open the car door, and assisted her. She took the proffered arm and was escorted into a marble hallway and after a short walk, into an elevator. The man pressed a button, then left the car. “You will be met,” he said.

The elevator rose to the top floor, and when the doors opened, the president of the Russian Federation, Viktor Petrov, stood waiting for her, encased in a finely tailored tuxedo. He was an imposing man of about fifty, perhaps six-two or -three, and more than two hundred pounds of firm muscle. His hair was iron gray, cut in a short military style. He made a good first impression.

“Good evening, and welcome to my home,” Petrov said in lightly accented English. “I hope your drive here was not too tiring.”

She laughed; the ride had been less than three minutes, and
she had not expected him to be funny. “Hardly, and I'm very pleased to be here, Mr. President.”

He offered her an arm and guided her into a large library of dark wood, gilt, and many leather-bound volumes. A small sofa awaited them, with a table set before it with vodka, other liquids, a mound of Beluga caviar, running to about a kilogram, she reckoned, with chopped onion and other condiments set beside it. He sat her down. “What do you wish to drink?”

“Vodka, please.”

“He poured them both a glass from a frosty bottle and sat down beside her, thigh to thigh. “May I serve you caviar?”

“Thank you, yes.”

He spooned a heap onto a crystal dish, added condiments and a small spoon, no blinis or biscuits. They raised their glasses and drained them, then dug into the caviar.

“And how is your visit to Moscow so far?” he asked.

“It's a beautiful city. I had hoped to see some of the countryside, but they have me on a tight schedule of interviews.”

“Perhaps on another visit you may come to my dacha, in the country. It is quite beautiful and restful there.”

She felt the first flush of the alcohol and resolved to sip from here on in. “Perhaps, who knows?”

“I have seen a number of your films,” he said, “and I have always been much impressed with your performances.”

“Thank you very much.”

His eyes rested on her breasts. “That is a very lovely dress,” he said. “It suits you.”

She smiled broadly. “Thank you, that is a very nice compliment.”

They lowered the level of the caviar and the vodka, as well, then a uniformed butler entered and announced dinner. They followed him to a small dining room with a terrace with a spectacular view of Red Square. They were served four courses of haute cuisine and three wines, chatting all the way. He was charming, witty, and sexy all at once, she thought. After dinner, she excused herself to freshen up, and when she returned, found that he had left the room as well.

She stood at the entrance to the terrace and let the night air play on her bare shoulders, very pleasantly tipsy. She heard a door open and close behind her, and felt him move toward her and kiss her on the back of the neck. She gave a little shiver, then felt the long zipper of her dress move down to the crack of her buttocks. The dress fell into a pool at her feet, exposing her only other clothing, a pair of black fishnet stockings, held up by a lace garter belt.

She felt him move back, and she turned around.

Petrov stood there, clad in only a pair of black socks, and sporting the largest penis she had ever seen outside a porno film.

Nathalie would later reflect that they were both appropriately dressed for the occasion.

S
tone, Felicity, and Gala lay on his bed, spent, enjoying the afterglow. Gala's phone rang, and she reached for it on the bedside table. “It's Nathalie Dumont,” she said.

“Oh,” Felicity said, “put it on speaker.”

Gala did so. “Hello?”

“Gala? It's Nathalie.” She sounded breathless. “How did you find me in Moscow?”

“Apparently, cell phones work everywhere these days. I read online that you had quite a dinner date.”

“Oh, God, did I!”

“And how did that go?”

“It was a combination of the best dinner and the best sex I've ever had!”

“Well, congratulations on both counts.”

“That is the most amazing man! He's coming to the premiere of my movie tomorrow night as my date!”

“I'm sure the studio will be very happy about that.”

“I thought Howard Fine was going to have a stroke when I told him, and I've already had an enormous bouquet of roses from Marvin Milestone. He says this is something new in the history of Hollywood.”

“So, Howard Fine arranged your dinner?”

“He did. I don't know how the man does it, and he's what, seventy-five?”

“Could be. Howard has forgotten more than the young publicists know.”

“Oh, and I'm staying over a few days after the premiere so that I can visit Viktor's dacha in the country.”

“I hope you have the stamina for it.”

“Don't you worry about that, Gala. Oh, I'm a little sore here and there, but after tonight, I'm up for anything! I don't want to go into much detail on a cell phone, but when I see you I'll give you a blow by blow. Are you in Santa Fe?”

“No, I'm in the south of England, visiting a friend who has a country house here.”

“Oh, that sounds nice.”

“It certainly is. I'd better let you go. I'm sure you're exhausted.”

“Exhilarated,” she replied. “Bye-bye.” She hung up.

“You didn't tell her about Boris's involvement,” Stone said.

“She was so excited, I didn't want to ruin it for her. Let's let Howard Fine take all the credit.”

“Now we're back to square one, and Boris doesn't have a mark on him.”

“You two will just have to think of something else,” Felicity said. “Preferably something that doesn't involve me.”

“You've been very kind, Felicity,” Gala said.

“Yes, you have,” Stone echoed. “I won't impose on your good nature any further.”

“It's not that I didn't enjoy it, mind you. A tidbit for my memoirs when I'm a very old lady.”

“What about the Official Secrets Act?”

“Then perhaps immediately after I die. I don't believe the Act survives death.”

—

S
tone was having breakfast in bed with Gala the following morning when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It's Lance.” Stone immediately tensed; a call from Lance was not always good news.

“Hello, Lance, how are you?”

“I'm quite well, thank you, considering the state of the world. That weighs heavily on my shoulders, but otherwise, I'm rather lighthearted.”

“I'm so glad.”

“I find I am going to be in your neighborhood today, and I'd love to see your house.”

“Of course. I'll give you lunch.”

“Is one o'clock all right? I have to make one other stop.”

“That will be fine. Would you like to stay on a night or two?”

“What a nice invitation. Let me see what I can do with my schedule. See you at one.”

Stone hung up.

“That was odd,” Gala said.

“What was odd?”

“The tone of your voice—there was a wariness in it.”

“I hadn't noticed, but I suppose I'm always a little wary where Lance Cabot is concerned.”

“The CIA head?”

“One and the same. He's coming for lunch today and may stay the night.”

“Why are you wary of him?”

“Lance always has an agenda, usually hidden, sometimes more than one. I expect he wants more than to see the house.”

“Will I meet him?”

“Of course—you'll join us for lunch.”

“I'll excuse myself if it seems he wants to be alone with you.”

“That's very discreet of you, and don't worry, he'll find a way to let you know.”