“Just hang on for a minute.”
“Have you planted something on TV, Rick?”
“No, but I got a tip to watch this.”
The woman’s image disappeared, replaced by that of a burning vehicle.
“What’s this, a bomb in Paris?”
“No, that’s your van,” Rick said.
Stone looked more closely, but it was hard to tell. “And why is it on fire?”
“Someone is sending either you or me a message.”
“If the message is for me, what is it?”
“If it’s for you, I think it means, ‘Pay attention this time.’”
“To what?”
“To the people who tried to kill you when you were last in Paris.”
“The Russians?”
“Looks that way.”
“Let’s assume for a moment that the message is for you, instead of me. What is the message?”
“‘Stop trying to protect Stone Barrington.’”
“What happened to the driver?”
“He was standing, leaning on the van, having a cigarette—he’s not allowed to smoke in the van—and someone laid a cosh upside his head.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s in our little clinic at the embassy, and he has a very bad headache, but the doc says he’ll be okay.”
“So, how are you going to react to this message?”
“By replacing the van. We have more than one. A black one will be there at noon to pick you up for your lunch date with Marcel duBois.”
“How did you know I was having lunch with duBois?”
“I’m in the CIA, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot: you know everything.”
“Near enough to everything—enough to put two men in the van this time: one to protect you and the other to protect him.”
“Well, I hope your plan works. From what I just saw on TV, I don’t think the air-conditioning could keep up.”
“It’ll be okay this time, I promise. You know, this incident is probably going to help us more than it’ll hurt.”
“How will it do that?”
“By telling Lance that our little operation here is a good idea. Lance likes learning that he was right.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“You’re going to be getting another call this morning.”
“From whom?”
“Mirabelle Chance.”
“The last woman I met in Paris was one of yours. Is Mirabelle one of yours, too?”
“I’m working on that. In fact, you could be a great help to me.”
“You want me to recruit her for you? I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
“She clearly likes you. We know that from her behavior at the dinner last night.”
“I hope you’re right. I certainly like her.”
“She may raise the subject with you. I, and particularly Lance, would be grateful if you could help her move in our direction.”
“What do you want from her?”
“Anything we can get. She’s very well connected in Paris, beginning with her father and brother, and continuing down her client list, which is heavy with the wives and mistresses of government officials.”
“Okay, Rick, if she asks me if she should become a resource for the Agency, I’ll say, sure, why not?”
“Come on, Stone, you can do better than that.”
“I can’t promise that I will.”
“I’ll rely on your good sense. Gotta run. The van will be there at noon.” He hung up.
Stone stared at the breakfast in his lap, congealing before his eyes. Eggs Benedict did not benefit from getting cold. The phone rang. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” Mirabelle said.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Chance,” he said.
“Are you free for breakfast?”
“I am, if we can do it here.”
“At l’Arrington?”
“In the penthouse suite.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour. Au revoir.” She hung up.
Stone called down to room service to collect the tray and to double the order, then he got out of bed and into a shower and a shave.
6
Stone’s doorbell rang, and he opened it to find standing there Mirabelle Chance, dressed to the gills. Cheeks were kissed.
“Do you always dress so beautifully for breakfast?” he asked, admitting her to the suite.
“Of course,” she replied. “I am my own best advertising. Do you like it?”
“You make that dress look gorgeous,” he said.
“I’m not sure that I understand your language well enough to know if that is a criticism of the dress.”
“Not at all,” Stone replied. “The dress would make any other woman look beautiful.”
“Again, I’m not sure . . .”
“I compliment the beauty of both you and the dress,” he said. “Without reservation.”
She blinked, then smiled. “Have you coffee?” she asked.
The doorbell rang. “I do now.” He admitted the waiter, who set up the table on Stone’s terrace. Shortly, they were seated, and Mirabelle had her coffee.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Stone said.
“That is the Luxembourg Palace,” she said, pointing, “and surrounding it are the Luxembourg Gardens. And they are both very beautiful. How well do you know Paris?”
“Not as well as I expect to in a couple of weeks. What I need is a personal guide.”
She leaned forward on her elbows. “Is that all you require?”
“The river of my needs is broad and deep,” he said.
“So, then, it takes more than one woman to meet them?”
“Not necessarily. It just takes more than a personal guide.”
“A multitasker, then?”
“If you want to be technical.”
“Do you?”
“I would prefer not.” The waiter, who had been rearranging the silverware, brought two plates of eggs Benedict from the hotbox below, set them in place, and whisked away the covers.
“Bon appétit,” he said, then vanished.
“Now we are alone,” she said.
“No, we have eggs Benedict.”
“Ah, yes.” She dug in. “Tell me,” she said after a moment’s chewing, “what is your connection to the CIA?”
“I am a consultant to the Agency,” Stone said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that sometimes they ask for my advice, and I give it. At other times they don’t, and I don’t.”
“Are you paid for this advice?”
“Only on a piecework basis.”
“How much per piece?”
“I bill them by the hour. I am an attorney, after all, and that is our wont.”
“You won’t what?”
“It means our usual practice or desire.”
“You bill the CIA for your desires?”
“No, I bill them for their desires. What is your connection to French intelligence?”
“None,” she said. “They have so many—anagrams?”
“Acronyms.”
“Ah, yes, acronyms. French intelligence has too many, and I would never know with whom I was dealing. I have been asked, sort of, to become associated with American intelligence.”
“In what capacity?”
“As a conveyor of gossip, apparently.”
“I suppose you would hear quite a lot of that from your clients.”
“Constantly, but rarely anything that would amuse the CIA.”
“You never know what might entertain them,” Stone said. “Did you accept their offer?”
“Not yet. What is your advice?”
“Would it amuse you to associate yourself with them?”
“Possibly.”
“Then accept, but negotiate the terms.”
“How do you mean?”
“You are a businesswoman: whatever they offer you, demand more.”
“Will I get it?”
“You will get some of it, that’s what a negotiation is about: you rarely get everything you want.”
“I nearly always get everything I want,” she said emphatically.
“I’m not surprised. Perhaps I should hope that you don’t want me.”
“If I should want you, then God help you.”
“In that circumstance I would prefer to handle the transaction myself.”
She laughed.
“That’s the first time this morning you’ve laughed.”