Текст книги "Paris Match"

Автор книги: Stuart Woods

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

17

Stone’s van driver knew where the American ambassador’s residence was without being told, and Stone presented himself to a butler and a pair of armed guards in the entrance hall, while some Marines looked on. He was scanned and passed through the metal detector on his second attempt, after his pen and his money clip had been deposited in a tray.

Having proved himself harmless, he followed the butler into a larger hall and blushed a little when the man loudly announced, “Mr. Stone Barrington, of New York City.” Only a few people of the two dozen present bothered to glance his way.

After a brief discussion with the bartender, Stone was rewarded with a glass of Knob Creek, selected from a dozen patriotic whiskeys among the embassy’s stock. This being U.S. territory, ice was not in short supply.

He did not know a soul present, except the ambassador, who held court at the far end of the hall, surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen. The room seemed short of women, until Stone felt a breeze at his back; he turned and a tall, fairly slim redhead in a knockout green dress came straight for him, as the butler hollered, “Miz Holly Barker, of New York City.”

Holly threw her arms around his neck, and he gave her a little spin while she cuddled there. “I thought you would be dead before I had a chance to come to your rescue,” she whispered in his ear.

“I stayed alive only for you,” Stone said. She felt warm and familiar in his arms. She was slimmer than the last time he had seen her, and she had at least six inches more of the red hair. “How good to see you in Paris! How long can I keep you here?”

“Well, if you should die, my instructions are to accompany your body back to New York, but until then, I am all yours. I’m staying at the embassy.”

“Not while I have a large hotel at my disposal.”

“Oh, can you get me into l’Arrington?”

“All the rooms are booked for the opening, but there is room in my bed.”

“I accept,” she said. “The better to guard you.”

“Well,” said a voice from behind them, “I see that either you two have met, or you are getting along way too well.”

Stone turned to find the ambassador standing there. “Madame Ambassador, how good to see you again. May I present Ms. Holly Barker?”

The two women shook hands. “Ah, yes,” the ambassador said, “yet another gift from Lance Cabot’s merry band.”

“I’ve never heard it described quite that way,” Holly said, “but I’m sure Lance would take it and be happy.”

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” the butler wailed, “dinner is served.”

A pair of mahogany doors opened at one side of the hall, and the group meandered among the half-dozen round tables, looking for their place cards. Stone found himself next to Holly; the ambassador, to his relief, after Mirabelle’s comments, was at another table.

A large slab of foie gras had already been delivered to each plate, and a waiter was pouring Mondavi Reserve wines from California. “Given the new California laws,” Holly said, “I’ll bet the foie gras is from New York State.”

Introductions were exchanged with their dinner partners, and everyone fell upon the food, hardly bothering to chat.

The second course arrived, and the waiter announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the main course is Georgia fried chicken, and it is customary to eat it with your fingers, so silverware has not been provided for this dish.”

The Europeans at the table made positive noises and dug in. Stone turned to Holly, who had a mouthful of chicken. “Why are you really in Paris?”

“Tell you later,” she mumbled. “God, this is perfect fried chicken!”

After only bones remained of the chicken, the butler came into the room. “M’lords, ladies, and gentlemen, please turn over your place cards, rise, and find your new seats.”

Everyone did so and learned that they now had new tables. Stone found his card two tables over, and the ambassador was waiting for him to his left.

“Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “I’ve missed you. How was the fried chicken?”

“Superlative,” Stone cried, “and the pâté before it.”

“A gift from Governor Jerry Brown, of California,” she said. “Apparently, he has to get rid of a lot of it.” A hand squeezed his knee.

Uh-oh, he thought; how am I going to handle this?

But the ambassador was doing all the handling, and she was making progress up his thigh. Dessert came, announced to be blueberry pie from Maine, and at the first bite Stone flew into a fit of coughing. The hand was already at his zipper as he excused himself from the table, still coughing, and made his way to a men’s room.

He hoped to God she didn’t follow.

18

By the time Stone had returned to his table, dessert was gone, a small musical combo was playing, and everyone was dancing.

The ambassador took his hand from behind. “Dance with me,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. Stone took her in his arms, and they swirled to the music.

“Are you quite all right?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon, Linda, I inhaled some blueberry pie.”

The music changed to a slow ballad. She moved closer; being tall, her crotch met his. “Ah,” she said, “a response.”

“It would be caddish of me not to,” Stone said. He preferred this position to a hand under the tablecloth.

“We seem to be just the right relative heights,” she said, sounding a little drunk.

“I can’t complain,” he said, thrusting a little to please her.

“You are an attractive man,” she said.

“And you are an attractive woman.”

“Why don’t you stick around after the others leave?” she asked. “We can discuss our mutual attraction.”

“What a good idea,” Stone said. “Unfortunately, Ms. Barker seems to have Agency business to discuss, and she has preempted the remainder of my evening.”

“That is unfortunate,” she said. “Perhaps I should ring up Lance Cabot and have her recalled.”

Stone shook his head. “People would talk, and we can’t have that.”

She sighed. The music ended. “On another occasion, perhaps?”

“I would enjoy that.”

“I’ll see that you do,” she said, and was whisked away by another partner.

“May I have this dance?” Holly stepped into his arms. “What was that conversation about?”

“You. She suggested she might call Lance and get you yanked.”

“Jealous, is she? Then the stories I’ve heard about her must be true.”

“Oh? What have you heard?”

“That she was not unreasonably unhappy when she found herself a widow.”

“She struck me that way.”

“Would you like to hear what she’s said to be particularly good at?”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure you are her superior.”

Holly laughed. “I’m sure of that, too. Is it too early for us to get out of here?”

“Nothing could please me more.”

“We’ll see about that,” Holly said.

Half an hour later Holly’s clothes were hung in his closet at l’Arrington, and she was demonstrating her superiority to the ambassador. Stone responded in kind, and so it went for the better part of an hour.

–

THEY AWOKE in each other’s arms and reengaged for half an hour before breakfast arrived. Holly ran for a robe before Stone opened the door to admit the room service waiter.

Shortly, they were sitting up in bed with eggs Benedict in their laps.

“So,” Stone said, “what got you to this side of the pond?”

“Well, Lance has been pestering me to take some time off.”

“Tell me, how many days have you not worked since he made you New York station chief?”

“Let’s see . . .”

“Not a one, correct?”

“I am ashamed to say you are correct. So finally, Lance ordered me to Paris to cover your ass.”

“What a wonderful human being Lance is!”

“Isn’t he? Well, maybe not. I think he just thought I’d work better if I got laid now and then.”

“He’s a smart human being, too.”

“I know I must be interrupting a liaison of some sort,” she said. “Is there someone under the bed?”

“No, there is not. However . . .”

“I thought so! Who is she?”

“Well, I had no idea you were going to turn up, or I would have been, in Tallulah Bankhead’s memorable words, ‘as pure as the driven slush.’”

“Perfectly put, in your case. Now, who is she?”

“She’s the daughter of the prefect of police and the sister of another highly placed Paris police commander.”

“So, you’re under constant surveillance?”

“Perhaps so. I haven’t found any bugs in the suite, though.”

“Shall we look for them?”

“No, let’s entertain the listeners.”

“I don’t really mind your philandering, Stone—even when it’s not with me. We are of similar natures.”

“I know that, and somehow, it always makes our reunions important to me.”

“And to me, too. It reminds me of how crazy I am to work so much, but I was so happy to get the job that I thought I should do it well. Unfortunately, doing it well is, all too often, a 24/7 job. Now tell me about these attempts on your carcass.”

Stone told her about the roasted van and the shotgun incident of the night before.

“I’m impressed that she had the fortitude to fire when the time came.”

“The lady is not lacking in fortitude,” Stone said, “but I was impressed, too. I would have liked an opportunity to speak with the other shooter, though.”

“So they know absolutely nothing about him?”

“Nothing, except what I told you.”

Holly got out of bed, went to her luggage, and came back with a laptop computer. “Let’s try something,” she said, logging on to the CIA mainframe and opening the facial recognition program. “Let’s see. Age, thirties. Height, six feet. Weight, one-eighty. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Did he speak at all?”

“He never had the chance.”

“Hair color?”

“Light brown, I suppose. He had a rather severe flattop haircut.”

“What was he packing?”

“The Beretta 9mm that’s the standard army sidearm.”

“Lots of those around. You said that he went for the gun with his right hand, but his wristwatch was on his right wrist?”

“Right. I thought that was odd.”

“Let’s type in ‘ambidextrous,’” Holly said, and did so. “Any apparent skills?”

“Burglary and car theft,” Stone said.

“There was no fight?”

“Not that I saw. Apparently, she heard something downstairs and went down there with her grandfather’s shotgun. I got there just in time to see it used.”

Holly clicked on “search” and waited. She did not have to wait long. “Is that the guy?” she asked, turning the screen toward him.

Stone stared into a familiar face. “Holy shit, it is! How’d you do that?”

“The ambidexterity did it,” she said. “Only about three percent of the population has that gift.” She tapped some more and came up with another photograph, this one in the uniform of a United States Marine, with a file attached.

“Name, John Simpson, no middle initial. White-bread all the way through. English descent, born in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, thirty-nine years ago. Attended the local schools, got his high school diploma, joined the Marines on graduation at seventeen, with parental permission, rose to master sergeant, two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan– Uh-oh. Detached for special service four years ago—that means Special Forces or Navy SEALs . . .”

“Or CIA,” Stone pointed out.

“Oh, Jesus,” Holly said.

19

The two of them sat in bed and stared at the file of John, no middle initial, Simpson. “Is that all there is?” Stone asked.

“In this particular file, yes,” Holly replied. “His service record ended when he was transferred to Special Operations, and a new record was started. That file is heavily encrypted, and only the director of Central Intelligence—and others at his level in the various services—can retrieve it. That explains why his fingerprints and DNA didn’t produce a match.”

“Wouldn’t his whole service record be sequestered, then?”

“Yes, but we didn’t request his record—we made him with the facial recognition program, and I guess that was a back door to his original service record. Watch.” She started over on the mainframe and requested the army service record of John, no middle initial, Simpson. Immediately, she got a response: NO RECORD EXISTS.

“So, call Lance and ask him to retrieve the file.”

“Can’t you think of a reason why we shouldn’t do that?” Holly asked.

Stone thought that over. “Because there’s a chance that Simpson could be CIA?”

“Right, and if that’s the case, Lance might know what Simpson was doing at your friend’s house. And I don’t think I want to ask Lance about that.”

“I see. Suppose Simpson had retired from whatever special service he had been transferred to. Would that make his record more easily retrievable?”

“No, it would be permanently sequestered. I think you’re thinking . . .”

“Suppose he left the service and became a freelancer?”

“Right.”

“The question remains, a freelance what? I figured him for a pro when I looked him over, but I still don’t know a pro what.”

“Suppose he didn’t leave his new service?” Holly said.

“Well, I don’t think Army Special Forces or Navy SEALs would be conducting operations in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen,” Stone said. “Or committing burglary and grand theft auto in Paris.”

“Good point,” Holly said. “So where do we go from here?”

“How about to Rick LaRose?” Stone suggested.

“Rick is a station chief, like me. He wouldn’t have access to a sequestered service record any more than I do.”

“Maybe not, but he was at the scene. That gives him a good excuse to ask Lance to retrieve the file.”

“That raises another thorny point,” Holly said.

“What’s that?”

“If Simpson was working for the Agency in Paris, Rick, as the local station chief, would be aware of it, and he would know why. And if he doesn’t know, it might be very embarrassing for him.”

“And yet he seems as baffled as we are by the dead guy in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“If I were in Rick’s shoes, and I knew about an operation, it would be in my interests to seem to be baffled, too,” Holly pointed out.

“God, I’m glad I’m only a simple, barefoot New York lawyer and not an intelligence agent. It’s too complicated.”

“Now you know why I work all the time,” Holly said. “I have to figure out stuff like this.”

“What the hell,” Stone said. “I’m going to do what an amateur like me would do.” He picked up his phone, dialed Rick’s number, and put the phone on speaker.

One ring. “Rick LaRose.”

“Rick, it’s Stone.”

“Morning. How was the dinner party?”

“Eventful,” Stone said. “Rick, I think I’ve ID’d the corpse in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah? Have you come over all psychic, Stone?”

“Not yet. His name is John, no middle initial, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army master sergeant, maybe retired.”

“Nah. If he had a service record, we’d have gotten a hit on his prints or DNA.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Nevertheless what?”

“Nevertheless, that’s who the guy is.”

“Where the fuck did you come up with that?” Rick demanded.

“I have friends in high places.”

“Ahah! We’re not talking about this on the phone. I’m coming over there.” Before Stone could respond, Rick had hung up.

“Well,” Holly said, “I guess I’d better put on my knickers.”

–

HALF AN HOUR LATER there was a knock on the door, and Stone answered it. He and Holly had spent their time getting dressed and tidying the suite. Rick came in. “I knew you would be here,” he said to Holly.

“Hi, Rick, how are you?” Holly asked. “How’re things in Paris? How’s the Paris station? How’re the wife and kids?”

Rick went to the bar and found himself a bottle of fizzy water, then took a seat. “Things in Paris are just swell, the Paris station is a barrel of laughs, and you know I don’t have a wife and kids.”

“Mistress and kids? After all, it’s Paris.”

Rick ignored that. “What have you two been up to?”

“You’d better tell him, spy to spy,” Stone said to Holly. “I might leave out something.”

“All right,” Holly said, and she told him.

Rick stared at them in wonder. “How long did all this take?”

“I don’t know, eight or ten minutes,” Holly replied.

“You just went online and conjured up a sequestered subject?”

“Looks like the facial recognition software is some kind of back door to some sequestered records,” Holly said. “Anyway, we didn’t get his sequestered record, just his old service record.”

“That should have been sequestered, too,” Rick said. “Somebody must have fucked up.”

“Oh, that never happens at the Agency,” Holly said, restraining herself to a slight sneer.

Rick sat, staring into his fizzy water.

“What’s the matter, Rick? Are you seeing some sort of problem here?”

“Come on, Rick,” Stone said, “cough it up.”

“Cough what up?”

“You’re the station chief, Rick. If this guy’s Agency, you would know all about him, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know a fucking thing about him,” Rick said, “and I very much doubt that he’s Agency.”

“So what was he doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked.

Rick didn’t have an answer for that.

“Why don’t you call Lance and ask him to retrieve the guy’s sequestered service record?” Stone asked innocently.

“I’ll do that immediately after hell freezes over,” Rick said. He looked at Holly. “Can you imagine what kind of can of worms that could open?”

“All hell could break loose,” Holly replied.

“I imagine we’re going to run out of metaphors in a minute,” Stone said. “Not to mention clichés. What are we going to actually do?”

20

Rick pointed a finger at Holly. “You call Lance,” he said.

“Don’t point that thing at me,” Holly replied, “I’m just a visitor here. I’m on vacation, sort of.”

“You started this.”

“Nope. We’re on your turf, here, Rick. You’re new at this, but you’re going to have to learn what a station chief does.”

Rick looked at his watch. “It’s six A.M. at Langley,” he said. “Lance won’t be in the office yet.”

“The Lance I know gets in at seven,” Holly said.

“I’ll e-mail him,” Rick said, getting out his phone.

“Is that phone encrypted?”

“It is.”

“All right, e-mail him. He’ll get it when he arrives at his office, in an hour, or maybe he’ll get it at breakfast. I expect he’s used to getting e-mails at breakfast.”

Rick typed a short message. “Done.”

“That was brief. What did you say?”

“‘Request sequestered service record of John, NMI, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army.’ That’s all he needs.”

“Would you like some breakfast while we await a reply, Rick?” Stone asked.

“I’ve already had breakfast. I could use some lunch, though.”

Stone looked at his watch. “By the time room service delivers, it will be lunchtime.”

“I’ll have a lobster club sandwich on rye toast, and a Heineken.”

“Holly?”

“Corned beef on whole grain with mayo, and a diet Coke.”

Stone ordered the food and a roast beef sandwich for himself, then hung up. “Half an hour or sooner.”

“What’ll we do until then?” Rick asked

“Anybody got a deck of cards?” Holly asked.

“What do you want to play?” Stone asked, rummaging through the wet bar snacks.

“I don’t play cards, but I know a card trick.”

Stone stopped looking.

“So,” Rick said, “did the ambassador grab your crotch at dinner?”

Stone rolled his eyes.

“I rescued him,” Holly said.

“Was he any safer with you?”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Stone said.

“Tell us something juicy from your station, Rick,” Holly said. “We all have top secret clearances here.”

“Juicy?”

“Juicy.”

“Well, let’s see: we caught a pickpocket who stole one of our officers’ cell phones and was trying to sell it at the Paris Flea Market.”

“That’s what you call juicy?”

“All right, the ambassador grabbed Stone’s crotch at dinner last night. That juicy enough?”

“We already know about that: surprise us.”

Rick took a breath to say something, and his cell phone made a musical noise. “That’s an e-mail,” Rick said, digging the phone from its holster. He pressed a button. “It’s from Lance,” he said. “Message is as follows: ‘NO FILE EXISTS.’” He stuffed the phone back in its holster.

“You’re being stonewalled,” Holly said.

“Maybe there’s no such file,” Stone said.

“We already know there’s a file, we’ve read half of it.”

“But not the good half.”

“I’ll give you that. What’s your next move, Rick?”

“What’s my next move? Why is it my move?”

“It’s your station, so Simpson is your guy.”

“He’s not my guy—I never saw him before last night.”

“Have you put any people on this?”

“Why should I put my valuable people on it? It’s the Paris police’s case, not mine.”

“Don’t you want to know what the guy was doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked. “Before the Paris police find out?”

“My bailiwick doesn’t extend to Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“Then what were you doing there last night?” Holly asked.

Rick pointed at Stone. “He called me.”

“You’re pointing again, Rick,” Stone said. “When I called you, you came. Why?”

“I’m supposed to take reasonable steps to keep you alive,” Rick said.

“Reasonable steps? That’s all my life is worth to the Agency? What about extraordinary steps?”

“Getting me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night is an extraordinary step. I answered the call, and look where it got me. The Paris police think John, NMI, Simpson is my guy, and now they know you’re my guy.”

“They didn’t know that before?”

“Not to my knowledge. Well, there was that incident last year when we thought somebody was trying to kill Lance, but they were really trying to kill you. They can remember that far back, I guess.”

“So you lost nothing by coming to Mirabelle’s kitchen?”

“I didn’t gain anything, either.” Rick’s cell phone made the e-mail noise again, and he looked at it. “Oh, shit,” he said.

“Now what?” Holly asked.

“Bad news: Lance wants me on a secure video conference at the station in an hour.”

“Oh, goody!” Holly laughed.

“The good news is, he wants you there, too.”

“Not me?” Stone asked. “I feel left out.”

“Oh, all right, you can come, too. Where’s my sandwich?”