Twenty minutes later, the boat eased alongside a dilapidated wharf, and the young man helped them with off their luggage. Craig waited on the pier with two other men, whom Stone had never met. Both carried submachine guns.
“We’re behind schedule,” Craig barked, waving them on to the SUVs.
Conversation was limited as they raced to the airport. Craig was eager to send them off as soon as possible. Still, he ran a well-organized program, and they could thank his efficiency in getting them out safely.
The farewells alongside the executive jet were brief and formal. As soon as the two were seated, the engines started, and in a matter of minutes they were in the air, the city lights of Freetown below. The plane banked in a northerly direction, the moon shining in the windows, and they began to ascend.
The plane held ten passengers in two rows of single seats on either side of the aircraft. Stone sat in front with Sandra across the aisle. In the rear of the plane sat two long-haired men in dirty clothes who didn’t acknowledge Stone’s greeting when he boarded and didn’t speak the rest of the trip. Deep cover operatives, Stone assumed, going from one hellhole to another. Sandra had closed her eyes before takeoff, and they remained shut for an hour.
As the plane flew over nighttime Africa, Stone looked down at the moonlit vastness. Here and there he saw soft glows from single points of light. Oil lamps from villages somewhere in the backcountry of Mali or Guinea, their owners far removed from Stone’s universe. He imagined someone looking up at the blinking aircraft lights and wondering who flew above their world.
Stone had a strong attraction for Africa, but at the same time knew he could never understand it, nor be at home. Always he anticipated going, always he was happy to leave. Now it appeared he was leaving for the last time. Another tasking from Langley appeared unlikely, and even though his future now was in California near his two children, he would miss the action and the excitement. His headache returned.
“I forgot to tell you, Hayden.” Sandra reached across the aisle. “You’re supposed to lay over in Paris.” She handed him a white index card. “This is your hotel.”
Stone switched on the overhead light and studied the address, immediately recognizing it. One block off the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the small hotel was on a quiet street and very chic. A favorite haunt of his friend, Colonel Gustave Frederick.
Chapter Fourteen
Like so many things Parisian, the hotel had lost none of its charm over the course of time. It had been three years since Stone’s last visit to the hotel. The four-story, mansard-roofed structure sat on the Left Bank, hidden off the busy Boulevard St. Germain. A guest entered through a courtyard, wisteria climbing the gray stone walls. Sections of the building dated from the seventeenth century. Inside, the salon was still decorated in dark, richly upholstered furniture and damask wallpaper in rose patterns, and a blend of antique prints and modern art was displayed on the walls. Here, Stone always felt he was entering a world that had existed between the two great world wars. A comfortable one.
A stylish, impeccably attired woman greeted him. Her hair perfectly coiffed, she wore a single strand of pearls. She spoke to him first in French, and frowned when Stone answered in kind, and switched to English. His French didn’t go well in Paris.
“Mr. Stone, we have been awaiting your arrival.” She took his passport, had him sign the register, ordered the bellman to take his bags, and led Stone to his room, again set out with ornate furnishings. The US Government expense allowances would never come close to covering the cost of these accommodations. Good thing he was on a CIA operational expense account.
Stone took his time unpacking, pausing occasionally to peer out the window and reacquaint himself with the surroundings. The empty courtyard and neighboring gardens added to the feeling of tranquility. Late afternoon shadows darkened the walls and building facades. He would dine at a restaurant he knew of a short distance from the hotel. Perhaps he’d have the paillard of veal along with the house white wine. Nothing fancy. He’d be dining alone, which in Paris he always considered a waste of setting. Too bad Sandra wasn’t there to dine with him. Still, he intended to make the best of his stay — not knowing when he’d return.
The next morning Stone made his way down to the hotel’s cellar lounge and helped himself to the continental breakfast. While he read the Herald Tribune, the concierge approached and handed him a sealed envelope. Stone’s full name appeared in type on the front. Opening it, he found the following message, handwritten in blue ink and undated:
Bonjour, Hayden,
Await further instructions.
Relax,
F
His friend and mentor, Colonel Gustave Frederick, had authored the instructions. Was Frederick giving him a short vacation?
“Who delivered this?”
“A woman from your embassy. Just before you came down for breakfast.”
“Blonde? Green eyes?”
The concierge tilted his head. Obviously, Sandra Harington was in contact with Frederick. The two were probably putting their heads together to salvage her career. Meanwhile, he, Stone, was set adrift for a time in Paris. Not a bad place to plan one’s future.
Tossing the newspaper aside, Stone phoned the US Embassy and asked for Roland Deville. The secretary told him that Deville and his family had taken vacation in a little town outside Nice. Stone sighed and flipped his cell phone shut. I wonder if Deville and his wife will visit Contessa Lucinda Avoscani?
Deville was the FBI’s legal attaché assigned to Paris. FBI colleagues for over twenty years, Roland was someone whom he could confide in. It had been only a few months since the two of them participated in the assault on Lucinda’s palace in Villefranche. That misguided adventure to capture Osama bin Laden’s lieutenant had resulted in disaster. The team found the lieutenant already dead, but wrecked Lucinda’s palace in the process. Lucinda held Stone responsible.
Lucinda. Maybe he’d phone her. On the other hand, why not fly down to Nice and see her? He saw the bright sky through the window. Perhaps, a morning walk around Paris would clear his mind.
Turning left out of the hotel entrance, he walked toward St. Germain. He passed the corner restaurant where he had dinner the previous night. Now it was empty, the tables outside bare. He thought of the dessert he had, frangipane tartlet with plums.
At the Boulevard St. Germain, he again turned left and headed toward the Pont de la Concorde, one of the bridges crossing the Seine. Midway across the bridge, he stopped and watched the tour boats passing below.
Stone took in the moist, mineral smell of the river. Farther down the Seine, he spotted rows of bouquinistes. Their owners were opening their green stall boxes and extending the short awnings, where for over a century proprietors hawked their used books and prints. Being August, with many Parisians taking vacances, walking the city was a delight. Stone decided to stroll along the open-air market and see if he could find a treasure to take home.
He visited the stalls one by one. Most of the books were in French. The few ragged English titles were uninteresting or already in his personal library back in Virginia. Still, he welcomed the distraction of exchanging greetings with the proprietors and ducking his head under the makeshift awnings to inspect their wares.