The Debriefing (3 page)

Stone was trained as a street man, but he has had very little opportunity to put to use what he knows. Now he operates on memories of old textbooks with a very limited distribution, and an instinct for the street that caught the eye of his instructors when he started out twenty years before.

Halfway across the Pont des Arts, he stops to watch an unshaven young man at work on all fours. (He is trying to pass
himself off as a poverty-stricken art student, but the Gucci loafers give him away.) He has printed, in large Gothic letters, on the walkway:

LES QUOIQUE SONT DES PARCEQUE MÉCONNUS

M. PROUST

and is illuminating, with bits of colored chalk, the first letter of each word.

Where
, Stone wonders,
does Kiick find them?
Shrugging, he drops a franc onto the chalk drawing of a hat already filled with coins.

“Kiick said you’d be stingy,” the young artist mutters without looking up. His voice is neutral, without tone, without shadings. “In case you’re curious, you’re clean as a whistle.”

“You do that well,” Stone comments, nodding toward the illuminated letters, trying to sound mildly sarcastic.

“I’m a medievalist at heart,” the young man replies seriously.

“Aren’t we all,” moans Stone.

He continues across the bridge, feeling more secure now that he has confirmed he is not being followed. To be on the safe side, he mingles for a while with a large group of German tourists gaping at the Louvre, then doubles back on his tracks, wandering (not so aimlessly) through the park. A church bell is chiming the hour as he enters Palais Royal from the Louvre side.

He spots the two heavies almost immediately; the one he is supposed to notice is sitting on a bench scattering seeds to pigeons that peck around his trousers, which are baggy and have wide frayed cuffs. The other, dressed in clothing he bought in Paris, sits on the edge of a fountain, which has been turned off for the winter, buried in a right-wing French newspaper called
Minute
. The third heavy he learns about from the Gypsy woman (another one of Kiick’s free-lancers) with a baby under her arm (Stone doubts the baby has been thrown in free of charge). “There’s another one in the café,” simpers the Gypsy woman, holding out her hand for a coin. “Crew cut. Blue tie. Also a team photographing from the apartments.”

Stone comes up with a franc for the Gypsy, then strolls across the park toward La Gaudriole, Thro’s hangout when they first came to Paris together. They were drawn to the small café with the white metal tables outside because of the name; Thro was forever telling off-color jokes, which is what
gaudriole
means. Stone, his face tense beneath the mask of beard, approaches the Russian diplomat who is sitting at a table, his feet planted flat, knees apart, a copy of Céline placed conspicuously in front of him. He looks exactly like his passport photograph, Stone thinks: tired, with a grainy complexion; one-dimensional. He is fiftyish, with thick hair brushed straight back without a part, and very ill at ease; he wears black silk stockings that have long since lost their elasticity and sag around his thick ankles. Two tables away, the heavy with the crew cut and the blue tie sizes up Stone; his look is so open, so frank, that Stone has the impression he is soliciting.

“Good day to you,” Stone addresses the diplomat. He speaks French with a slight German accent now. “I invite you to come with me.”

The Russian diplomat, whose name is Boris Gurenko, looks around uncertainly. “I understood the meeting would be here. You specified La Gaudriole. You said nothing about following you elsewhere.”

“The meeting is here,” Stone explains patiently. “The exchange of my documents for your money, if it takes place at all, will take place in an excellent restaurant not very far away.” Stone glances casually at the line of apartment windows overlooking the park. “Here it is too … observable for my tastes.”

The diplomat hesitates, turns questioningly toward the heavy two tables away, who takes another long slow insolent look at Stone before he makes up his mind. He nods once. “All right,” the diplomat says, collecting his copy of Céline. “But I don’t see what you’ll gain. They’ll follow wherever we go.”

Without a word, Stone starts off with the diplomat in tow. The three heavies fan out behind them; two in their wake, the third (the one Stone isn’t supposed to notice) angled off to one side. With Stone leading, this odd procession makes its way to
the entrance of Le Grand Vefour, a three-star restaurant on the far side of Palais Royal, backing onto Rue de Beaujolais.

Inside, Stone—vaguely ill at ease; dining at a three-star restaurant was Mozart’s bright idea of how to ditch the heavies—mumbles a name to the maître d’hôtel, who scans his notebook, confirms the reservation, offers them the last two vacant seats. Behind them at the door, there is a frantic conference as the three heavies (the one in French clothes has dropped all pretense of being there by accident) study the menu posted in a glass case; it is impossible to get out of Le Grand Vefour, a restaurant where the
vin ordinaire
is a reasonably
grand cru
, for less than two hundred francs a head. After an animated discussion, the Russians pool their resources, dispatch the one with the French suit inside—where he is turned away by the maître d’hôtel; one dines at Le Grand Vefour by reservation only.

“That was neatly done,” the Russian diplomat comments, warming to the ambiance, licking his lips at the thought of the
haute cuisine
that he will soon feast on. Outside, two very worried heavies have taken up positions on either side of the entrance to the restaurant; the third has raced off to find a telephone.

“The Americans have a saying,” remarks Stone. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”

The Russian watches intently as the waiter serves lobster in a milky sauce to someone at the next table. “They are only here to protect me,” he explains, “in case you aren’t what you say you are.”

“You have no need of them,” Stone says flatly. “I am what I say I am: Someone who has four single-spaced typed sheets of military information to sell if the price is right.”

The maître d’hôtel approaches. “Would you care for a cocktail?”

“We’ll order immediately,” announces the Russian diplomat. “My friend here has a lean and hungry look.” Gurenko studies the menu as Stone squirms uncomfortably; Le Grand Vefour is not his cup of tea. “We’ll begin with some
gravettes
,” the Russian
instructs the maître d’hôtel. To Stone, he explains:
“Gravettes
are very small sweet oysters from the Arcachon Basin. I always make it a habit to begin a meal eating something with my fingers. It’s very important to touch food, I think.” To the maître d’hôtel, who is visibly impressed: “Then we’ll attack a plate of your young leeks with truffles in olive oil. After that”—Gurenko purses his lips, as he tries to decide—“ah, after that we’ll try your Rouelle de Langouste Bretonne à la Vapeur de Verveine aux Girolles et Chicorée.” To Stone: “You’ll like that. The transparency of the green chicory leaf complements the translucence of the
langouste
. Now, let me give this some thought. Yes, yes, after that we’ll have a salad of white endives and mushrooms—
canaris, lactaires, girolles, charbonniers
and
trompettes de la mort
would make a superb bouquet. Don’t bother with the cheese platter; only bring us a perfect Reblochon. For wine, you’ll have to put up with my unusual tastes. Bring us a bottle of your Mouton Lafitte, 1964. Ha! I can see the choice astonishes you.” The Russian explains to Stone. “I’m one of the very few people who appreciate the ’64. Most people consider it too tart. But it suits me.”

The maître d’hôtel backs off, still scribbling on his pad. The Russian says conversationally, “I’ve always thought the world was divided into two groups—those who prefer a good year of a bad wine, and those who prefer a bad year of a good wine.”

Stone, out of curiosity, asks, “What made you choose Céline as your recognition signal?”

This is the last thing that the diplomat expects to be asked. “I happened to be reading Céline,” he answers carefully—he’s not sure where the question is leading and feels his way. “Many people consider him a great writer.”

“There are many who consider him a great anti-Semite,” retorts Stone.

The sommelier lets Gurenko inspect the label on the wine bottle before he opens it, lays the cork alongside the bottle, tilts Gurenko’s glass and measures out a small amount, swirls it around with a practiced gesture before he offers it to him. The
Russian sips, nods his acceptance. The glasses are half filled. The sommelier withdraws.

“About Céline,” Gurenko says. He thinks he understands why the subject was raised now; the man in front of him with several days’ growth of beard must be a Jew. “There were many great artists who were anti-Semites. That shouldn’t stop us from appreciating the genius beneath—”

“Céline was an anti-Semite at a time when millions were murdered for the crime of being Jewish,” Stone bursts out. There is a passion, a sudden intensity, a sudden bitterness, to the rush of words. The conversation is like a squall; Gurenko is rubbing him the wrong way. “You look past his anti-Semitism to the genius beneath, assuming there is a genius beneath, because you don’t give a goddamn about the killing of the Jews. Oh, intellectually you recognize it as a crime. But you don’t
care
.” Stone catches himself, suppresses the intensity, forces himself to look casually around; he spots Kiick and Mozart and a lady friend across the room, notes that the lady’s oversized handbag is planted on the table and pointing their way. “Céline,” Stone continues more quietly, “isn’t a favorite of mine.”

Gurenko notices the waiter heading their way with a tray full of food, tucks the tip of his napkin into his shirt collar. “I was told you would show me some papers with information about NATO bases in Germany. If the information was … suitable, I was instructed to pay you twenty-five thousand United States dollars.”

“I expected more,” Stone says. “I expected twenty-five thousand.”

Gurenko is confused. “That’s what you’ll get, if the information is worth it.”

The first course—the oysters—is placed before them. Gurenko rubs his palms together in anticipation. Stone studies the assortment of utensils available to him, settles on a small fork.

“No, no, with the fingers,” Gurenko insists.

“I prefer a fork,” says Stone.

They eat in silence, Stone with his head angled down, lifting
his eyes quickly every now and then to study the Russian. Gurenko chews noisily, helps himself to more wine, says with his mouth full, “Why me? Why not someone else at the embassy? This is not my line of work. There are others—”

“I wanted you,” Stone tells him, “precisely because it isn’t your line of work. This is a one-shot affair for me. I don’t want to deal with professionals who will try to find out who I am and come back for more. Which is why I prefer your bodyguards outside.”

“Yes, I see the logic of that,” Gurenko says. “Still, you might change your mind; you might decide to do it again. After all, this”—he gestures to the room full of well-dressed people talking in undertones, to the bouquets of flowers strewn with impeccable attention around the old restaurant, to the waiters hovering discreetly and silently—“this could become a habit. You might change your mind. You might decide to do it again.”

Stone smiles faintly. “I’m not fool enough to risk this twice.”

The table is cleared and the second course—leeks and truffles in olive oil—is laid before them.

“This time you are permitted to use your fork,” the Russian informs Stone with a straight face.

At the next table, a heavily made up American lady raises her voice in mock horror. “Look what we’ve been reduced to,” she complains dramatically to her companion. “Happiness is an empty parking space.”

Gurenko snorts. “She is speaking American,” he whispers to Stone, showing off his linguistic abilities. “She tells that happiness is when you find a vacant parking space. The Americans are a special race, I think.”

They are finishing the endives and mushrooms—the Reblochon has been judged by Gurenko overripe and sent back—when Stone casually pulls a long envelope from his breast pocket and slides it across the table to the Russian diplomat. Across the room Kiick and Mozart stop talking, and their lady friend opens her handbag to look for something.

“At last,” Gurenko says. He pushes away his plate, wipes his
mouth on his napkin, begins to examine the documents. The American lady at the next table explodes in laughter. “Nothing’s sacred,” she tells her table companion.

“If you’ll excuse the intrusion,” Stone addresses the lady directly in slow, accented English, “there are still things that are sacred.”

“Name one,” the American lady challenges.

“The speed of light squared.”

Stone signals for the bill, which is quickly placed before him on a small silver dish. The Russian nods as he reads, then reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a thick brown envelope, which he passes to Stone, who glances at the contents. “Is this all?” he asks, disappointed.

“What did you expect?” the Russian inquires.

“At least twenty-five thousand dollars,” says Stone. “The material I gave you is worth more than ten thousand dollars.”

Gurenko’s eyes narrow. “What ten thousand dollars? There is twenty-five thousand dollars in the envelope. What game are you playing?”

Stone looks again at the contents of the envelope. “I’m a bit confused,” he says vaguely. He pockets the envelope, starts to get up. “Let us hope,” he says, “that we don’t meet again.”

A waiter dashes over to pull back the chair. Stone smiles and gestures with his thumb toward the Russian. “My friend here will take care of the check.”

“You should have seen his face”—Kiick laughs—“when he realized he would have to pay.”

“You should have seen it when he saw the size of the bill,” says Mozart.