Undercover (8 page)

“No worries,” Marshall e-mailed him, “I don't have either one. No wife, no child.”

“You can have a dog,” he e-mailed back.

“Don't have a dog either.”

“I'll put it in the lease,” he offered, “in case you change your mind. It's close to the park, good for a dog.”

Marshall agreed to wire the money, and three days later the deal was done. He had an apartment in Paris, and he notified the DEA that he was leaving the Georgetown apartment at the end of the month. And he e-mailed Bill Carter to say that he was going away for a few months. Bill e-mailed back that he thought it was a great idea, and was startled when Marshall said he was going to Paris. Bill hoped it would do him good. He knew the challenges Marshall was facing, and felt sorry for him. They all did, which was why Marshall wanted to go away, as far as he could. He was tired of people pitying him. He was doing enough of that himself.

It only took him days to pack up the apartment, and he listed whatever he wanted to get rid of on craigslist. He had just posted the listing when he found himself looking at the notices about dogs. There were puppies of all shapes and sizes, and he had no idea why he was bothering to look, when a listing caught his eye that sounded so ridiculous that he read it in detail with a grin. It was posted under adoptions, and was a one-year-old bloodhound named Stanley, for whom the owner wanted to find a good home. Marshall went to the owner's website and saw a photograph of him. He was a seriously depressed-looking dog, a large black-and-ginger-colored bloodhound with a mournful face and a thousand wrinkles. And feeling as crazy as he had when he decided to move to Paris, he called the owner's number to talk to him.

“Why are you giving him up? Did he kill someone?”

“He's just too big. I live in an apartment in Georgetown. I really don't have room for him. It's not fair to the dog. And my girlfriend is allergic to dogs.” Marshall almost suggested he give her up, but didn't want to be rude.

“Is he housebroken?”

“Totally,” his owner said proudly. “He's fantastic, but he gets depressed being left alone all day. He likes company.”

“He looks depressed,” Marshall commented, but there was something about the dog that appealed to him, even his ridiculous name for a dog, Stanley. He sounded like a man, not a dog. “Can I meet him?”

“Sure. Where do you live?”

“In Georgetown for another ten days. I'm moving to Paris, to an apartment next to a park. Does he speak French?”

“No,” Stanley's owner said seriously, “but he plays dead.”

They discovered that they lived a few blocks from each other and agreed to meet the next day. And Marshall felt foolish, but he was excited all day. It felt like he was going on a blind date, not going to meet a dog.

They met at the appointed hour, on a street corner, and Stanley looked at Marshall with suspicion. He sat down and stared at him, and then offered him his paw. He had the most mournful face Marshall had ever seen, except possibly his own. And after shaking Marshall's hand, he rolled over and played dead for a treat. They went on a short walk, and the dog seemed very well behaved, and even slightly skittish around other dogs. He was an enormous dog, but was terrified when a Yorkie barked at him.

“He's kind of a sissy,” his owner admitted, but he walked politely on the leash. “He's had all his shots, and he has a chip in case he gets lost, and a tattoo on his stomach. He's pedigreed, but I don't want money for him. I just want to know he has a good home. What do you do?” He had noticed the limp left arm, and Marshall was tempted to say he was a right-handed pitcher for the Yankees. He was still uncomfortable about explaining the arm, and didn't want to.

“I'm retired,” he said simply.

“Lucky you,” the young man said enviously, imagining unlimited wealth or a lucky deal. He was about the same age as Marshall, and seemed nervous and stressed.

“Not really. I worked for the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Administration. I retired recently, so I'm going to spend six months or a year in France.”

Stanley's owner didn't ask if the arm was why he had retired, but guessed that might be the case.

“I don't know if I can take a dog to France. I assume I can, with a health certificate.”

“Yeah, and I think you need a chip, but since he has one, it's not a problem. The French are pretty dog-friendly. My mom lived there for a year. She had a French bulldog and took it everywhere, even to restaurants, although Stanley is too big.” He was practically the size of a Great Dane, but Marshall liked the idea of a big dog, and he loved Stanley's face, and he seemed good-natured and would be company on long, lonely nights.

“I'll take him,” Marshall suddenly said out of the blue, feeling as though he'd been possessed by aliens. He had rented an apartment in Paris and was adopting a gigantic bloodhound, all in less than a week. Maybe he was losing his mind.

“Are you sure?” The owner looked a little stunned, but no more so than Marshall.

“Yes, I am,” Marshall said clearly, wondering what had possessed him. Maybe it was some kind of psychosis that happened with an injury and the loss of a career. He felt a little nuts. “How do you think he'll manage traveling cargo on the plane?” He was faintly worried about it, and didn't want to do anything that would hurt the dog.

“He's never flown before, to be honest,” his owner said cautiously, “but you can get a sedative from a vet. I'll give you the name of mine. You can take him in the cabin with you, if you say he's a service dog.”

“I don't think I can pass for blind,” Marshall said seriously. Crazy maybe, but not blind.

“They use service dogs for epileptics now, to warn them before a seizure. For depression, and a lot of other things.” He glanced at Marshall's limp left arm as he said it, and Marshall wondered if that would work. It would be worth trying, if the dog was well behaved on the plane. Stanley looked pretty calm, and was sitting on the sidewalk again, watching passersby.

“I'll give it a shot, and take the sedative with me, in case they don't buy it.” They exchanged information, and Marshall offered to pay him, but Stanley's owner declined. He promised to deliver him the next day with all his papers, and Marshall agreed. His owner said he wanted a last night with him to say goodbye, which sounded sad, but Stanley looked depressed anyway. He wagged his tail as Marshall patted him and said, “See you tomorrow.”

And true to his word, Stanley's owner showed up with him at Marshall's apartment the next afternoon. His pedigree was in order, and all his vaccination certificates. He had gotten a health certificate and proof of his chip from the vet so Marshall could take him into France. He had a bottle of sedatives, in case Stanley needed them for the trip, since Marshall had decided to say he was a service dog, as the owner had suggested, so he could keep him in the cabin. Stanley sniffed his way around the apartment in true bloodhound style. And despite his somber face, he seemed happy and wagged his tail.

“He's really a great dog,” his soon-to-be-ex-owner said, and looked like he was about to cry. He gave the dog a last loving pat, thanked Marshall, wished him luck, and slipped out the door, as Marshall sat staring at his new dog.

“Well, Stanley, I hope you like Paris,” he said seriously. He had always wanted a dog, but couldn't have one because of his work. And now he had Stanley, and an apartment in Paris. It felt like an adventure, and he was ready for it.

The following week, he went to say goodbye to the Armstrongs, and he brought the dog. The children loved him, and Amelia said he was the funniest-looking dog she'd ever seen. And she gave Marshall a big hug when he left, and so did Brad. And he got a last look at the baby, asleep in Melissa's arms after being nursed.

“Take good care of my namesake,” he said, and kissed Melissa on the cheek.

“Keep in touch, Marsh,” the president said warmly. “Let us know where you are.”

“I will,” Marshall promised, feeling sad to say goodbye.

The Armstrong children had added warmth and joy to his life. And now it would be just him and a dog in Paris. He didn't know a soul there. But he had made no close friends in Washington anyway—only the Armstrongs. So he had nothing to leave behind.

The plane trip to Paris went better than Marshall had hoped. He was traveling in business class, and with a matter-of-fact expression, he told the woman at the Air France desk that Stanley was a service dog.

“For what purpose?” she asked as she filled out the form.

“He cuts my meat,” Marshall said seriously, indicating his arm, and she nodded without really listening and jotted down “service dog” on the form. Half an hour later Marshall was on the plane, and Stanley lay down at his feet and went to sleep. The person sitting next to him looked surprised, but didn't seem to mind.

He took the night flight and arrived in Paris at noon the next day with two suitcases and his dog. The cab driver dropped them off at 22 rue Bugeaud, near a small, elegant hotel called the St. James. They rode up in the elevator of his building to the fifth floor. The guardian gave Marshall the keys that were waiting for him in an envelope. The apartment was as cozy and well kept and bright as it had looked in the pictures. It was a gray February day, but the apartment was filled with light, and it started snowing as Marshall set his bags down in the bedroom. He hadn't realized it until that moment, but it was exactly two years to the day since he'd left Bogotá, heartbroken and heartsick over leaving Paloma and their baby, the same day that she died. And now with one good arm and a dog, in a Paris apartment, knowing no one in the city, Marshall felt as though his new life had started at last. He could finally put all the old ghosts to rest, and begin to live again.

Robert Gregory had always had everything he could have wanted and needed in life: Family money to back him up. An education at the best schools, Princeton undergraduate, and the eating club he had chosen, Ivy. Harvard Business School after that. A wife he adored, and a daughter his life revolved around from the moment she was born. And the successful career he had expected. The one great tragedy that had befallen him was when his wife Laura died of a brain tumor only a year ago. They had been to all the best doctors in the country, and neither his money nor his love could save her. He had been devastated by her death, and he turned to his daughter, Ariana, constantly for comfort. And he focused all his love and attention on her now. She loved her father too, and tried to fill the void her mother had left.

The only thing lacking in Robert's life, as he began winding down in his career, was a dream he had had as a young man. He had always wanted to be an ambassador, to either Britain or France. His father had had the same wish before him, and it had never been fulfilled. And as Robert Gregory watched the presidential campaign unfold, of a man he could truly support wholeheartedly, Phillip Armstrong, the dream of becoming ambassador took hold of him again. To that end, and out of genuine respect for the man he hoped would be president, Robert contributed vast amounts of money to his campaign. He was sure that ultimately, after Armstrong won the election, it would get him the ambassadorship to Britain or France, and he said as much to Ariana several times during the campaign. His hope was the only thing that distracted him from his deep mourning for his late wife.

“Daddy, for heaven's sake, what do you want to be an ambassador for? It would be such a headache! That's the last thing you need.” Ariana wasn't enthused about it, especially now that he was widowed. At nearly seventy, he had had a demanding career for more than four decades, and Ariana thought it would be too stressful for him, especially after all his agony and grief over her mother, which had been so hard on him. He had had a heart scare a few years before, and a successful angioplasty, and she didn't like the idea of his taking on more. Her father was all she had, her only living relative in the world now. And at twenty-two, she had no desire to live in England or France, and wouldn't have let him go alone.

She had graduated from Barnard at Columbia six months before. She hadn't wanted to go to Princeton like her father, although he had pushed hard. And now she had the job she wanted, as assistant to the editor of a prestigious online fashion magazine. She had always wanted a career in fashion, and now she had it. She loved going to fashion events, and learning about new trends and important designers. Her long-term ambition was to become editor of
Vogue
magazine one day. Ariana had loved fashion almost since the day she was born, and she had the same simple natural style as her mother, who had shared her love of fashion with her. Laura Gregory had been elegant and gracious, and Ariana was a more exuberant, younger version of her mother. Her father kept photographs of his beautiful late wife everywhere.

Ariana had the same flawless blond looks, long legs, and blue eyes. Laura had been twenty years younger than Ariana's father and had died much too young. He had worshipped her from the moment they met, just as he did their daughter now. Ariana thought his longing for an ambassadorship was silly, and probably wouldn't be good for his health. She wanted to stay in New York. She loved her friends and her job. She had just gotten her first apartment, in Tribeca, as a graduation present from her father, and she was having a ball. She had friends over almost every night. She didn't have a serious boyfriend, but she had lots of dates. She was living a life that was the dream of every twenty-two-year-old girl, and many older.

Her doting father lived to make life easy, happy, and safe for her. He had gotten the apartment in a building with a doorman, so she had twenty-four-hour security. The one thing he always insisted on was that she was safe. He wanted her to use a car service at night when she went out, and not take cabs. He insisted she live in a great building, in a good neighborhood, and had granted her every wish all her life. And now he was in pursuit of what he wanted. And Ariana was attentive to him with her mother gone. She had dinner with her father once or twice a week, and called him every day, knowing how much he missed her mother.

He met with Phillip Armstrong several times during the campaign, at fund-raisers, and reminded him that he wanted to be ambassador to Britain or France, if Armstrong won. The presidential candidate never promised to grant Robert his wish, but he said that he would consider it and do his best. He had other equally big donors to his campaign, and there were other considerations, as to who would fulfill the post best. He had integrity and was an honest man, which only made Robert respect him all the more.

Ariana wasn't worried even when Armstrong won. Her father was invited to the inauguration, and he asked her to join him for the ball that night. It was an exciting moment for her too. She met the president and his wife, and Melissa Armstrong was kind and delightful to her. It was obvious that Phillip Armstrong held her father in high esteem. On their way back to New York, her father practically gloated, he was so excited, certain that he would get the appointment as ambassador to either country soon. Ariana didn't want to discourage him, but she wasn't as sure. Her father wasn't young, had less-than-perfect health, no longer had a wife to act as hostess, and had no experience as a career diplomat, although she knew that many of those posts were given according to campaign contributions. Her father was like a little kid about it, and she didn't want to rain on his parade.

When nothing had happened two months after the inauguration, she figured she was home free. She was having fun with her new job and didn't want to go anywhere, even London or Paris, although she would have tried to get a job in fashion there. But she liked her job in New York. It was the most exciting time in her life, and in March, she met a boy she really liked. He was in law school at NYU, twenty-six years old, and they were having a great time together.

She felt sorry for her father when ambassadors were appointed to both Britain and France. The one being sent to London was actually a friend of her father's, which made it even harder for him to swallow. At least he didn't know, and had never heard of, the man who had been appointed to France. He was from L.A. She was relieved that she had nothing to worry about after that, her life in New York was secure. Until May, when her father asked her to come to dinner one night, and he looked serious when she arrived. She was instantly worried that he had another problem with his health. She was constantly concerned about him now that her mother was gone. Her worst fear in life was that something would happen to him. She loved him every bit as much as he loved her, and she had always idolized him. One of the worst times in her life was when he had the angioplasty, but he'd been fine ever since.

She sat down to dinner with him in the dining room at his Fifth Avenue apartment, overlooking Central Park. He claimed that it was tomblike now without her mother, and she tried to have dinner with him as often as she could. She invited him to visit her too, but he didn't like coming down to SoHo and Tribeca, even though she lived there now. He liked it better when she came home, as she had that night.

“I spoke to President Armstrong today. He called me,” he said quietly, and Ariana looked surprised.

“Why did he call you, Daddy?” She knew that the two ambassadorships he wanted were gone, so it couldn't be that.

“He offered me an ambassadorship,” Robert Gregory said as their soup was served, but he didn't look happy about it.

“He did? To where?” She suddenly wondered if the president was going to offer her father something like Rome or Madrid, which she thought were career posts. Or something really scary like Ghana, or Nepal, or someplace else she didn't want to go.

Her father hesitated for a minute before he answered her. He'd been thinking about it all day. “Argentina,” he said somberly. “We'd be in Buenos Aires, which everyone seems to love, but it's a lot different for a two-week vacation than three or four years. I don't think it's a good idea. The country's been in terrible trouble for years, they're dead broke. And they may be wonderful people, but I can't solve their problems for them. It would be a lot of pressure on me, and it's only a stone's throw away from all those countries that are dangerous, with revolutionaries, kidnappings for ransom, and the drug cartels. It's just a headache we don't need.”

“I totally agree,” Ariana said politely, relieved that he wouldn't consider it. “So you told him no?”

“I tried to, and he asked me to think about it. He said we'd absolutely love it once we got there, he said everyone does, and the reason it took so long to offer me the appointment is because they practically had to pry the last ambassador out with a crowbar. He didn't want to leave because he was so happy there.”

“Maybe he had a girlfriend down there,” Ariana said tongue in cheek, trying to make light of it to her father. She had no desire whatsoever to live in Argentina for four years, or even three. Especially now that Paris and London had passed him by, she wanted to stay in New York and assumed he did too. “But you're going to say no, Daddy, right?” She wanted reassurance from him, and she could see he wasn't sure.

“I don't know. Maybe it doesn't matter where we are. The experience might be wonderful, for both of us. Being ambassador is really a great honor, and Argentina could be fun for you too. I hear the people are absolutely terrific and very hospitable, the city looks like Paris, and the social life is fabulous. He said the embassy needs a woman's touch and some decorating, but that would be fun for you.”

“I don't want to go anywhere, and least of all Argentina,” she said with a feeling of panic. “We don't speak the language and we don't know anybody there.” She was trying to think of everything she could to discourage him, but she could tell she wasn't getting anywhere. The president had done much too good a job of selling it to him.

“As ambassador, we'd meet everyone. And you speak enough Spanish to get by,” he encouraged her.

“No, I don't, I took two years in high school. I can get you to the post office and the train station and that's it.”

“What do you think, Ari?” he asked her, sitting back in his chair. He hadn't touched his soup, nor had she. She couldn't eat. “Should we try it? You only live once. We might regret it forever if we turn this down.” He might, but she knew she wouldn't. And he was making it clear that he'd expect her to go with him. She felt anxious listening to him talk about it.

“Daddy, what if you get sick?” She was justifiably worried, given his problems before, and she didn't want to go through another heart episode with him on foreign turf.

“I'm fine. I had a checkup a month ago, and everything is great. I don't know, it probably sounds foolish to you, but I would love to be an ambassador somewhere before I die.” She could see the dream still in his eyes.

“You're not dying, and you'd better not. And you said you were only interested in going to England or France.” She was panicking as she listened to him, and could sense she wasn't winning the argument. She didn't want to step into her mother's shoes and move to Argentina with him. She wanted her own life.

“It might be fun. Everybody loves Argentina. Maybe you would too.” He tried to convince her, as her heart sank.

There were tears in her eyes when she turned to her father. “That's such a long time. Three years, maybe four. What if we hate it there? We'll be stuck for all that time. I'd be twenty-six years old when we came back. I'll have missed all that time to get ahead at my job.” To her, twenty-six felt like ninety.

“But this is an experience you might never have otherwise.” It was clear that the president had swayed him with whatever he had said, and for that moment in time Ariana hated Phillip Armstrong for selling her father on an ambassadorship in Argentina. She fell silent for a while, not knowing what else to say to express her reluctance and concerns, and they both ate their soup. “I just wanted to let you know that I'm thinking about it, so it doesn't come as a surprise.” That sounded even worse to her.

“Daddy,” she said honestly, “I don't want to go.” It was as clear as she could make it, and he looked very worried by what she said.

“I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving you here alone. And I'd need you there, Ariana. I can't do this alone without your mom.” He looked imploringly at her, which made her feel guilty. It was a sacrifice she didn't want to make, and she thought it was unfair of him to try and push her. But whether he did or not, she felt responsible for him. She had promised her mother that she would take care of him. But moving to Argentina was more than she had bargained for. What scared her was that once her father made a decision, that was it. And it sounded like he was getting there fast. She was near tears by the end of dinner, and left immediately afterward to meet up with friends at the Waverly Tavern downtown. Her new boyfriend was among the group, and he could see how upset she was, although he didn't know her well.

“Something wrong?” he asked as he put an arm around her and kissed her.

“My father got offered an ambassadorship in Argentina today.”

“That sounds like fun,” he said enthusiastically. “You can go visit him and learn the tango,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. She didn't tell him that her father wanted her to move there as well. She wouldn't be “visiting,” she'd be living there. But she didn't want to tell him that and spoil their romance, before her father made the decision.

Her father called her the next day. The decision had been made. He had just spoken to the president and had accepted the post, and he had to be in Buenos Aires in four weeks. Ariana burst into tears the minute he told her, and he tried to assure her how interesting and exciting it would be, how much she'd love it, and she would be like an ambassadress herself. She loved her father, but he was high-handed at times, and always convinced that he was right. But this time he wasn't, for her.