Текст книги "Paris Match"

“I didn’t see it.”

“Would you really take a swing at him?”

“You bet your sweet ass I would.” Stone was wide awake now.

“Do you really think Mirabelle Chance has been sleeping with her brother all these years?”

“I confess, that came as something of a shock to me when Lance brought it up. I think it’s a horribly damaging rumor, and I don’t believe for a moment that she has that in her character.”

“I rather liked her this evening. She seemed like a no-bullshit sort of person, very forthright. What is she like in bed? Is she enthusiastic, or does she just lie back and think of France?”

“Holly, shut up and go to sleep.”

“I mean, I’m the only woman I know anything about in bed—other women are a mystery to me.”

“They’re a mystery to me, too,” Stone said. “I mean, you’re in bed with me right now, and you’re talking about how other women perform sex. That is a complete mystery to me.”

“Don’t you ever wonder how other men perform in bed?”

“I have never wondered for a moment, and I don’t care.”

“You have no sexual curiosity, Stone.”

“Not about that, I don’t. You leave women to me, and I’ll leave other men to you.”

“Don’t you care if I fuck other men?”

“It’s none of my business, is it? Have I ever said a word to you on that subject?”

“I suppose not. Would you like to hear about some of them?”

“I would not!”

“Well, there was this one guy—I think you might know him—”

“Stop it! Not another word!”

“I wonder what Howard Axelrod is like in the sack.”

“Incapable, I should think, given his deep interest in other people’s sex lives.”

“Stone, everybody is interested in other people’s sex lives.”

“Not I.”

“Why do you think people go to hot movies and read hot novels? They’re dying to know how other people do it, that’s why.”

“I don’t read hot novels, and I hardly ever go to the movies, for any reason. I see movies on television, old and new, and TV, the networks, at least, haven’t gotten around to explicit sex, yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Cable and satellite are already way ahead of the networks in that regard. I’ll bet l’Arrington has half a dozen X-rated channels on its television system right now. Where’s the remote control?” She rummaged around under the covers until she came to Stone. She laid a hand on his crotch. “Are you still sleepy?” she breathed into his ear.

“Not very,” he replied.

“Oh, good. Let’s make our own X-rated movie.” She brought him erect.

He rolled over on top of her. “No pictures, please.”

“Just memories,” she said, guiding him in.

34

At ten A.M. the phone at Stone’s bedside rang; Stone turned over and answered before it occurred to him that he had ordered all his calls screened. “Hello?”

“Sleeping in?” Lance asked.

“I was.”

“Put Holly on the extension. I need to speak with you both.”

“Hang on.” Stone poked Holly’s sleeping ass with a finger, then, getting no response, poked it harder.

“What?” she said into her pillow.

“It’s Lance. He wants to speak to both of us.”

Holly rolled over and picked up the phone on her side. “What, Lance?”

“Now don’t be grumpy, this is an important call.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” she said.

“There is an exciting event this evening—a dinner for a couple dozen of America’s top journalists, and you and Stone are invited, if you don’t have other plans. If you do have other plans, kindly rearrange them.”

“We don’t have plans, do we, Stone?”

Stone shook his head.

“We’re available. Now can we go back to sleep?”

“Of course, my dear. Seven-thirty for eight at the United States ambassador’s residence. See you then!” Lance hung up.

“Did he say the ambassador’s residence?” Stone asked.

“I believe he did.”

“Been there, done that—don’t want to do it again.”

“I’m afraid we’ve already accepted, and it does sound exciting. I never get to meet journalists in my job. I wonder why Lance wants me there?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll go only if you stand between me and the ambassador at all times.”

“Didn’t you enjoy being felt up by the lady last time?”

“No, I did not. I want your solemn word.”

“Oh, all right, you have it. It’s a good thing you’re not a woman, you know.”

“Why is that?”

“Because women get groped all the time.”

“They do? I wasn’t aware of that.”

“That’s because you’re doing the groping. If you were the gropee, you’d be shocked.”

“I don’t grope unless invited.”

“You mean women walk up to you at dinner parties and say, ‘Grope me’?”

“Not exactly—it’s more subtle than that.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, do you remember the party at Dino’s apartment, when you backed into me and wiggled your ass against me? Like that.”

“Oh, my goodness, I did do that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and it was an invitation to be groped.”

“And it worked, too!” She put her hand under the covers and drew her nails across his bare ass. “Consider that an invitation,” she said. “R.S.V.P.?”

–

STONE SAW TO IT that they arrived at the ambassador’s residence just a little late; he wanted a lot of people there when the ambassador greeted them, and his plan worked.

“Stone! Holly!” the ambassador crowed. “How nice to see you again.”

Stone reached around Holly and shook her hand. “Ambassador, you look lovely this evening.” She was wearing a clinging red dress that showed off her well-toned body.

“Why, thank you!”

Lance materialized beside her, and before Stone could warn him he saw the ambassador’s hand head for its target. Lance started only a bit. “Come,” he said, “there are people to meet.” He took Holly by the hand and led her away; Stone followed, firmly attached to her other hand.

In short order, they were introduced to Walter Grimes, a columnist for the Washington Post; Charles Danforth, an editor of the Boston Globe; Helen Frank, the NBC Nightly News anchorwoman; Carla Fontana, the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times; Paul Roberts, the editor of the International New York Times; Tim Bartlett, the Paris correspondent for the Associated Press; and Rod Halliburton, the White House correspondent for Politico.

Holly was dazzled. “It’s so interesting to put faces to all these names,” she said. Lance towed them around the room, adding another dozen names and faces to the introductions. He seemed to be an old friend of each of them.

Helen Frank sidled up to Stone at the first opportunity. “Are you the Stone Barrington?” she asked.

“The only one, as far as I know,” Stone replied cordially.

“The, ah, friend of Katharine Lee?”

“The just good friend of same. I’ve already released a statement to that effect, and I have nothing to add.”

“How disappointing, I was hoping for a scoop,” she said, feigning petulance.

“Nothing exists to be scooped, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me,” she said, leaning in close. “Has the ambassador made a move on your crotch this evening? I’ve heard rumors.”

“Not this evening,” Stone said. “Holly, here, is running interference.”

“And what a lovely interference she is,” the woman said, drifting away.

Holly pulled Lance a step away from the others. “Is he here?”

“Is who here?” Lance asked innocently.

“Howard Axelrod.”

“Oh, yes, he is present, and we’ve already had our little chat.”

“Introduce me.”

“You may have already met him,” Lance said, then the ambassador pulled him away to meet someone else.

Shortly, they were called to dinner in a room full of tables of six, and Holly spent the rest of the evening speculating on which of the guests was the dreaded Howard Axelrod.

As the party broke up, Stone encountered Lance, lingering with a group. “May we offer you a lift?” he asked.

“Thank you, no,” Lance replied. “I’m staying for a little while to have a brandy with the ambassador.”

“Watch yourself,” Stone said.

“I intend to,” Lance said with his little smile.

“What was that brief conversation with Lance about?” Holly asked, when they were safely in the van.

“I’m not sure,” Stone replied, “but Lance is either very innocent or very knowing—I’m not sure which.”

“Probably both,” Holly said.

35

The van hummed along for a while then made a turn, heading for a bridge over the Seine. “Oh, God,” Stone said, rubbing his face vigorously.

“What’s wrong?” Holly asked.

“I’m having a very intense déjà vu,” he said.

“What’s it about?”

“I’m driving along like this, Lance and Rick and me, and as we enter this intersection ahead, we’re broadsided by a concrete-mixer truck. That actually happened last year, and I’m reliving it.”

“Do you survive?” Holly said.

“Of course, I’m here, right?”

“It could never happen twice,” she said.

They stopped for a traffic light. Stone was perspiring and wiping his face with a handkerchief.

“You don’t look well,” Holly said.

“I’ll be all right when we’re across the bridge.”

The light changed, and they entered the intersection with the other traffic and headed for the bridge. Stone quickly looked both ways.

“All clear,” Holly said. “I checked, and we’re safe on the bridge.”

“Thank God,” Stone said. “I thought I was going to throw up.”

The van left the Pont Royal and started across the wide intersection where the Quai Voltaire met the Quai Anatole France. Stone heard an engine revving, and he looked up to see a large mass emblazoned with the name “Aveco” rushing at the van. Then there was an incredibly loud noise and his world turned upside down, then right-side up again, and the van was sliding sideways toward the parapet between the street and the Seine while the vehicle seemed to be peppered with silent fire. The truck was still revving, and the now upright van traveled across the sidewalk, struck the parapet, breaking it, and when it finally came to rest, Stone was staring forward through the windshield into the River Seine, perhaps twenty feet below.

Holly had been thrown onto the van’s floor, and she struggled back to her feet with a Glock in her hand. “So much for déjà vu!” she shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”

“No!” came a shout from the driver. “If you get out we’ll go into the river!”

“Then you get out first!” Holly shouted back. “And be quick about it!”

The two men up front struggled with their doors. “They’re jammed!” one of them yelled.

“Then come back here!” Stone shouted.

The two men climbed uphill into the passenger compartment and Stone began yanking on the sliding door. “Need some help, here!”

One of the men started kicking the door, and it flew open. The four of them spilled out of the van into a sea of gravel, on the opposite side from the well-aimed truck. Three of them had weapons in their hands and were pointing them in all directions. There was the sound of running boots striking the pavement, away from them, then the sound of approaching sirens. All this seemed to Stone to have happened in seconds.

“Let’s get out of here,” the driver said, sticking his submachine gun under his coat. “I don’t want to have to explain this to the police.”

“Which way?” Holly asked.

“Back across the bridge, away from this mess. Don’t run, walk. Try not to attract attention.”

“Maybe you should return the Glock to wherever it came from,” Stone suggested.

Holly shoved it back into her handbag but kept looking around for hostiles. They hurried across the bridge as a group, looking in all directions, while the driver muttered into a handheld radio. He took it away from his lips for a moment. “Check yourselves. Anybody hurt? Any blood? Any broken limbs?”

“All right here,” Holly said, and Stone said the same.

“We’ve got a car five minutes out,” the driver said. “Let’s stand behind that bus shelter.” They crossed the Quai des Tuileries and huddled behind the shelter.

“What’s happening across the river?” Holly asked. “I can’t see a thing.”

“It was a big dump truck loaded with gravel. That was the noise like bullets striking the van—there’s gravel everywhere.”

“What the hell would a dump truck be doing out at this time of night?” Holly asked.

“Looking for us,” Stone said. “Or rather, for me.”

“Did anybody see the driver?”

“I saw a man running,” the driver’s companion said. “Big guy, black or dark clothes, heavy boots.”

“Like the French assault-team cops wear?” Stone asked.

“Exactly like that,” the man said.

They continued to huddle behind the bus shelter, waiting for rescue. Holly had the Glock in her hand again.

36

The car came, and Stone’s guards shoved him and Holly into the rear seat, while they flagged a cab. “We’ll catch up with you,” his driver said, “but in a new vehicle.”

–

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Stone and Holly sat in their suite with brandy glasses in hand, trying to come down. There was a hammering on the door, and when Stone answered it, Rick LaRose walked in and locked the door behind him.

“Everybody okay?” he asked.

“Just as soon as we get the brandy down,” Stone said. “Pour yourself one.”

“I can’t find Lance,” Rick said, “and he’s not answering his phone.”

Stone and Holly exchanged a glance. “Lance just needs a little downtime,” Holly said. “He’ll turn up.”

“I even called the ambassador’s residence,” Rick said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Stone replied.

“One good thing, though—that van took a beating and came out whole, not even a broken window. It’ll see service again.”

“I’m so happy for it,” Stone said.

“Don’t worry, there’s a new one downstairs.”

“Aren’t you running out of them yet?” Holly asked.

“Soon, but not yet. Lance has the authority to requisition replacements.”

“Swell,” Stone said.

“Did anybody see anything?”

“One of the drivers said the truck driver was dressed in black clothes and wearing heavy boots, like those the police assault teams wear.”

“Yeah, Lance told me his theory about Jacques Chance.”

“I don’t think it’s a theory anymore,” Stone said.

Stone took a swig of his brandy and sighed.

“What?” Holly asked.

“I was just thinking how nice home would feel at this point.”

“Not before we’ve neutralized Jacques Chance,” Rick said.

Holly looked up. “Not before I’ve worn my new dress to the l’Arrington grand opening.”

Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”

“Are you children well?” Lance asked.

“We’re still breathing, and nothing is broken.”

“Quite a lot like last year’s incident, don’t you think?”

“Much too much like it.”

“The van justified its existence, I’m told.”

“It did indeed. How was the rest of your evening, Lance?”

“Stimulating,” Lance replied. “And we’ll say no more about it.”

“As you wish.”

“Rick will be there soon with a new one.”

“He’s already here.”

“I’ve briefed him on the situation with Jacques Chance.”

“We’ve been discussing it.”

“Quite soon, now, M’sieur Chance will have his hands full with new problems, and he will be unlikely to be further concerned with you.”

“That would be a welcome relief,” Stone said.

“And you may get some good news from home. Good night. Read the papers tomorrow morning.”

“After I’ve slept for twelve hours,” Stone said, but Lance was already gone. He hung up. “Well, Rick, Lance seems as pleased as punch about how things have gone.”

“Lance is a little twisted that way,” Rick replied. “I’ll say good night. It’s unlikely that you two will be assaulted again before morning.”

“Only until morning?” Holly asked. “Can’t you do better than that?”

“Sweet dreams,” Rick said, letting himself out.

Holly came and took Stone’s empty glass from him, led him to the bed, undressed him, and tucked him in. “Tell me,” she said, adjusting the covers, “do you often have these déjà vu/premonition things?”

“Déjà vu, yes. Doesn’t everybody? But premonitions, no. My first time.”

“Next time, try to have it a bit earlier, like, before we get into the van.”

“I’ll work on that,” Stone said, stroking her hair. “Are you really all right?”

“If I attack you in the morning, then I’m all right. Ask me then.”

“I’ll be sure and do that,” Stone said, drifting off.

37

The International New York Times arrived with breakfast. Stone searched the front page for news of Jacques Chance, but there was nothing.

Holly bit into a croissant. “Maybe the Times closes early,” she said. “Let’s try the French newspapers.”

Stone called down for the papers, and they arrived as they were finishing their coffee.

“Here we go,” Holly said, holding up a paper.

SCANDALE!

ASSASSIN! CORRUPTION! ESPIONNAGE RUSSE!

EN HAUT LIEU!

“Now, that’s more like it,” Holly said.

“May I have a translation, please?”

“Here you go: ‘Scandal! Murder! Corruption! Russian Spying!’ And all of it ‘in High Places!’ Or maybe ‘Instead of High Places!’”

“That’s pretty comprehensive, except that last one doesn’t sound quite right.”

“My French isn’t all that hot,” Holly admitted, “but what more could we—correction, Lance—ask for? Look, there’s even a mention of Howard Axelrod, a couple of paragraphs down. Apparently, it broke on his website.”

Stone scanned the front page and, alarmingly, saw his name mentioned, along with Axelrod, in a box. “What does this say?”

Holly read it a couple of times. “I can’t make much sense of it, but they use the word ‘excuses.’”

“Axelrod is making excuses for something?” Stone’s cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“Good morning,” Lance said with enthusiasm. “Seen the papers?”

“Yes, we’re looking at them right now. I think we figured out the headlines, but the text is rough going for us, with Holly’s French.”

“Have you got the Times?”

“Yes.”

“Page six, bottom half. They didn’t play it quite as big.”

The headline read “Blogger ‘Howard Axelrod’ looses salvo in the French Press.” Then, in smaller letters, “Apologizes for false rumor about Democratic nominee Katharine Lee.’” Stone read quickly. “Howard Axelrod, as he styles himself, added to his French story an apology to Katharine Lee for a rumor he published claiming that she was pregnant by a man not her husband, New York attorney Stone Barrington. Said Axelrod, ‘I relied on a source who turned out to be unreliable. In fact, he has been revealed to be a Republican provocateur who has been instrumental in airing other falsehoods about Mrs. Lee. I apologize, unreservedly, for any distress I have caused both Katharine Lee and her friend Stone Barrington by the publication of this scurrilous fabrication. Neither I nor anyone else has presented the slightest evidence that her child was fathered by anyone but her husband, the president.’”

“How does that sound, Stone?”

“It sounds just wonderful.”

“I know you must be relieved.”

“I certainly am.”

“There is, however, one more step that has to be taken to fully clear your name.”

“What’s that?”

“We need a news story by a credible, well-placed journalist.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Do you remember meeting Carla Fontana last evening? She’s the Washington bureau chief for the New York Times.”

“Yes, of course.”

“She has expressed a desire to have dinner with you this evening and interview you about this experience.”

“I can see how that could be advantageous.”

“However, she doesn’t want to be seen interviewing you, so dinner will have to be in your suite at l’Arrington. Must you ask Holly’s permission?”

“Hang on.” He covered the phone and turned to Holly. “Lance wants me to have dinner with Carla Fontana, of the Times, tonight. He thinks she will help to further clear the air.” Holly shrugged. “Also, he says I have to see her here—she doesn’t want to be seen doing this in public.”

Holly’s eyebrows shot up. “Aha! Lance wants to get you laid!”

“I don’t think that’s what he has in mind,” Stone said, and went back to the phone. “Okay, Lance, Holly doesn’t have a problem with that. What time?”

“She will present herself there at seven P.M. And if sex raises its ugly head, it can’t hurt.”

“Thanks, Lance, I’ll see her then.” He hung up.

“You see, he wants to get you into bed with Carla Fontana,” Holly said.

“He wants nothing of the sort, and please remember that this was Lance’s idea and not mine.”

“Okay, I’ll clear out for the night. I can bunk at our embassy station. But you wait, I’ll bet La Carla is in on it, too.”

“Lance says I have to do this to put an end to the story.”

“Yeah, sure,” Holly said.