Stone got in and shook hands. “What a surprise to see you in Paris, Lance,” he said. He always was wary around Lance, today no less so.
“In my line of work I try to surprise,” Lance said. “When people expect you, bad things can happen.”
Rick slid in beside Lance and closed the door, then rapped sharply on the bulkhead behind him. The van moved smoothly away
“What brings you across the pond?” Stone asked, genuinely curious.
Lance gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “Oh, I thought I’d come over and help Rick get settled into his new office. And into his new job.”
“And that is very much appreciated, Lance,” Rick said, somehow avoiding sounding obsequious.
“Also, I wanted the opportunity to speak with you privately before you reach your new hotel,” Lance said.
“Well, here I am, and this looks private to me. Assuming we can trust Rick, of course.”
“Of course,” Lance said. “Stone, your arrival in Paris coincides with two notable gatherings in the city: one is the meeting of that group of important policemen, now called the Congress of Security, or in the way of the world these days, CONSEC. Although many of these gentlemen have met at one time or another, this is the first time all of them have met at once. The importance of that meeting is indicated by the place of their conference, the Élysée Palace, which, as you know, is the seat of the president of France.”
Stone nodded; he knew that much, at least.
“The other gathering, which will not be publicized, is of a criminal nature, though it will appear to be a conference of business executives. This is an organization of Russian oligarchs, most of them former KGB generals and colonels, who have grown rich and fat in their new, so-called democracy. What was formerly a loose network of old chums, colleagues, and enemies has now gelled into a more formal entity, which they call the Cowl, as in the hood of a monk. The apparent head monk is Yevgeny Majorov, the son of a very, very important KGB general, now thankfully deceased, and the brother of another decedent, Yuri Majorov, in whose death they suspect you of having had a hand.”
Stone raised a finger. “I deny that,” he said.
“Deny it all you like,” Lance replied. “The fact is that Yuri wanted you dead because you would not accept him as a partner in your hotel business, and he had brought with him to Los Angeles a feared mafia assassin, who sometimes worked freelance, for the express purpose of ensuring your demise.”
“I believe I heard something about that,” Stone said.
“Yuri, as we now know, departed Los Angeles in his private jet, bound for Moscow, and arrived in that city, having apparently expired of natural causes en route.”
Stone shrugged. “These things happen.”
“Yuri’s death coincided with that of his hired assassin, in his bed at the Bel-Air Hotel, and his killer used a little something from the gentleman’s own pharmaceutical supply to off both the assassin and Yuri.”
“There’s a certain poetry to that,” Stone observed.
“Yes, and that standard of ‘poetry’ is rarely found outside organizations such as the one I head. In fact, I believe this particular ‘poet’ to be a former member of my flock, one Teddy Fay, but I can’t prove it, and that fact alone causes me to suspect Teddy. That and the fact that Teddy’s name, photographs, fingerprints, and DNA test have recently vanished from every intelligence and law enforcement database in the United States and its possessions, along with the databases of all those nations with whom we share such data.”
“I will have to take the Fifth on that one,” Stone said.
“There is only one way this could have happened,” Lance said. “Not even I could have engineered it, and I can engineer almost anything, if I try hard enough. No, that action originated far, far above my pay grade. One, and only one, personage could have initiated it, and he, coincidentally, is a friend of yours. But, for reasons of both decorum and self-preservation, I will say no more about that.”
“Thank you, Lance, that is a relief.”
“Good, but you have little else about which to be relieved, Stone.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that Yevgeny Majorov has made some of the same deductions I have made, and he believes you, in one way or another, to be responsible for both his brother’s failure to penetrate the ownership of your hotel group and for his brother’s untimely demise.”
“The man must be delusional,” Stone said.
“Nevertheless,” Lance said, “while you are in Paris you are going to have to watch your ass—or rather, Rick and his coterie are going to have to. Do you understand and accept this fact?”
Stone sighed. “If I must,” he said.
“Yes, you must. Good day to you.” The van glided to a stop at a Paris street corner; Lance exited the vehicle and immediately got into a black sedan.
“Now to l’Arrington,” Rick said.
3
Rick’s van took so many turns down so many narrow streets that Stone lost his bearings. After a time, however, the van slowed for a left turn, and Stone saw, for the first time, the gates to the new hotel. They turned and drove through a handsome archway into a large courtyard. A building that was probably impressive under ordinary circumstances had been concealed by acres of scaffolding and plastic cloth.
“I believe they’re sandblasting the limestone facade,” Rick said.
“I hope the inside looks better,” Stone said.
“What was this place before it was a hotel?” Rick asked.
“It was a hotel,” Stone replied. “Before that it was a hospital that Marcel duBois’s father had bought and turned into a cheap hotel. Marcel has now turned it into an expensive one.”
Stone alit from the big van and discovered that it had been followed by three black SUVs, which now disgorged Dino and Viv Bacchetti, Mike Freeman, and the top policemen of Los Angeles and Boston and their luggage.
Dino came over and peeked into Rick’s van. “I want one of these,” he said.
Stone introduced everybody to Rick, while a team of bellmen erupted from the hotel to collect all their luggage.
“Is this place finished?” Dino asked, looking around.
“Almost,” Stone said. “The paint in your room may still be wet, though.”
There was no check-in process; they were immediately escorted into elevators, and Stone was shown into a large, elegantly furnished suite, while Dino and Viv were put in an adjoining bedroom.
A large crystal vase of calla lilies stood on a table in Stone’s living room, and he read the attached card. Welcome to your new home in Paris, it said, and was signed by Marcel duBois.
Dino and Viv unpacked and returned to the sitting room, where tea and some light food had been brought up.
“When do we see Marcel duBois?” Viv asked.
“You’ll see him at dinner. Dino, when do your meetings start?”
“The day after tomorrow. We’re supposed to get over the jet lag during that time. What was the deal with the white van?” Dino asked.
“It contained Lance Cabot,” Stone explained, “who wanted to tell me that the Russians haven’t forgotten about me.”
“Oh, shit,” Dino said.
“Am I going to have to provide your security?” Viv asked.
“No, Lance has thoughtfully taken care of that. Rick LaRose, who you just met, is the CIA’s Paris station chief, newly in the job.”
“What’s Lance doing in Paris?” Dino asked.
“He says he came to help Rick settle into his new office, but I tend to think that nothing Lance says is ever entirely true.”
“How long do we have until dinner?” Viv asked.
Stone looked at his watch. “An hour.”
“Then please excuse me, I have a lot to do.” She vanished into their room.
“Me, too,” Dino said. “See you later.” He followed Viv.
Stone went to do his own unpacking and freshening.
—
THE WHITE Mercedes van awaited them in the courtyard, sans Rick.
“Where are we going?” Dino asked.
“To a wonderful restaurant called Lasserre,” Stone said. “Marcel duBois is our host, and I understand there will be some other people there, too.”