Unintended Consequences (13 page)

“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.

•   •   •

S
tone 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.

•   •   •

T
hey 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 Russians 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

S
tone 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?”

Stone nearly said no, but reconsidered. Lying to the police was not a good idea. “Yes, I do.”

“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.”

“When, and under what circumstances?”

“We were first introduced at a dinner party at the home of Marcel duBois, then I ran into him the evening before last at the Ulyanov Gallery, in Montmartre, at the opening of an art show. I also saw him at the party last evening at the Russian Embassy, though we did not speak. He seemed quite healthy at the time.”

“You are friends, then?”

“Certainly not. On the two occasions when we actually spoke, we exchanged only a few words.”

“Are you aware of the true identity of this man, Saachi?”

“I’ve heard rumors that he is an Albanian named Hoxha.”

“Ah, yes, quite so. You seem to know a lot about this Saachi.”

“Only what I’ve told you. I am an attorney, a lawyer. May I go to your headquarters and see Ms. Becker?”

“Are you licensed to practice law in France?”

“I am not.”

“Then you may not see her. However, I think it would be a good idea if you got dressed and came with us.”

“For what purpose?”

“We wish to investigate your story and question you further.”

Stone handed the detective his passport, reflecting that Lance Cabot had been prescient in giving it to him. “I’m sorry, but I must decline to accompany you. If you have any further questions of me, please ask them here and now, because the next time we speak I will be accompanied by my legal representative, who will, no doubt, advise me not to answer any questions.”

Claire examined the passport with care. “Why do you have a diplomatic passport?”

“Your question is not relevant to your reasons for visiting me,” Stone said.

“Please, sir, I will determine what is relevant and what is not.”

“No, I will make that determination for myself,” Stone said. “Now, if you have further questions, please ask them or leave.”

Claire glanced at his colleague, who shook his head, then they both got to their feet. “We may wish to question you again,” Claire said, “so do not leave Paris.”

Stone walked to the desk, got a business card from his briefcase, and handed it to Claire. “I will go where I wish, when I wish,” Stone said. “If I decide to leave Paris, you may contact me at my office in New York.” He walked to the door, opened it, and stood back. “Good night—or rather, good morning—gentlemen,” he said.

The two men left, and Stone closed the door behind them.

He found his iPhone and pressed the speed-dial number for Rick LaRose. It rang several times before it was answered.

“Yes?”

“Rick, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“What time is it?”