Paris Match

They were halfway through their first course, a slab of fresh foie gras, when Mirabelle Chance finally took her seat. The gentlemen all rose to receive her, and Marcel introduced her to those at the table she had not yet met.

“I do beg your pardon,” she said, with the slightest French accent layered over upper-class British English. “There was a line in the loo.”

“There always is,” Viv said, and everybody laughed.

“Now, Mr. Barrington,” Mirabelle said, “since I know your name, it is time for me to learn who you are, where you come from, and everything else about you of any possible interest.”

Stone laughed. “Well, I am an attorney,” he said. “I come from New York, and everything else about me you will have to root out, one piece of information at a time.”

“Then I must work for my supper?”

“Only as hard as you wish to,” Stone replied, “but before you start, I think I’m entitled to an exchange of information.”

“All right,” she said. “I am a Parisie

Stone looked her up and down. “You are very good at what you do,” he said.

“Now, my turn to dig,” she said. “Where were you schooled?”

“Within a few blocks of my home in Greenwich Village, at P.S. Six, at New York University, then at their law school.”

“No further graduate work?”

“Yes, I got my Ph.D. as a patrolman and detective with the New York Police Department. I attended for fourteen years, but the degree is purely honorary.” He nodded toward Dino. “That gentleman over there, whose name you will remember is Dino, was my partner as a detective, and he now rules the NYPD as police commissioner. His wife, Vivian, or Viv, as we call her, was a decorated detective before she retired to enter the private sector.”

“My goodness, so many policemen. I feel quite at home, because my father, Michel Chance, is the prefect of police and the Cabinet, the most important of several prefects and roughly analogous to the position of Commissioner Bacchetti.”

Marcel spoke up. “May I say I feel extremely safe at this table?”

“And well you should,” Mirabelle said.

“And how did you avoid becoming a police officer?” Stone asked.

“That was left to my brother, who has risen through the ranks to the position of commandant, and is in charge of investigations in Paris.”

“Until Dino’s recent promotion,” Stone said, “he held that position in New York—chief of detectives.”

“Well,” Mirabelle said, “now we have everyone’s credentials.”

“Not quite,” Stone said. “Which university did you attend in Britain?”

“Cambridge,” she replied, forking a considerable chunk of foie gras between her lush lips.

“I congratulate you,” Stone said.

“Thank you, but your congratulations are late, since I earned my degree some fifteen years ago.”

“My apologies for my tardiness. For whom do you design dresses?”

“I am strictly couture,” she said. “I make dresses for clients, I do not manufacture them for the masses, or even for the elite classes.”

“If you were a Frenchwoman, Stone,” Marcel said, “you would know all this. Mirabelle is quite famous in her world.”

“I never doubted it,” Stone said. “Mirabelle, perhaps you could tell me why there are two men in black suits across the room there”—he nodded—“staring at you.”

“My father and my brother feel that, since I am of their family, I require police protection at all . . . well, at nearly all times.”

“I’m glad there are exceptions,” Stone said.

“And perhaps you could tell me, Stone, why the man and woman in gray over there”—she nodded—“are staring at you?”

“They are employed to see that I may do business in Paris without coming to harm.”

“Since you are dealing with Marcel, I assume this is l’Arrington business of which you speak?”

“It is.”

“Stone,” said Marcel, “is the originator of the Arrington brand, having opened the first one in Bel-Air, Los Angeles. He also sits on the board.”

“Along with Marcel,” Stone pointed out.

“Well,” said Mirabelle, “if I should ever need a place to sleep, I shall know whom to call.”

“I am at your beck and call,” Stone said, handing her a card, “and I hope I may be of service soon.”

Mirabelle tucked the card into her bosom. “We shall see,” she said.

—

TWO HOURS LATER, sated and suffering from jet lag, Stone and his party went downstairs to his waiting Mercedes van. It wasn’t there.

Stone was about to call Rick LaRose when his cell phone vibrated. He glanced at the calling number. “Yes, Rick?”

“Your van has become unavailable,” Rick said. “Get everybody back inside and wait for my call.”

Stone herded his group back inside. “Rick LaRose’s orders,” he said.

“Oh,” Mirabelle said, “there is my car outside now.” She said good night to all, went outside and departed.

A moment later, a long black car appeared outside, and Rick LaRose got out and came inside. “We have another car for you,” he said.

They trooped outside and got into the car. As they drove away Stone asked, “Whose car is this?”

“The ambassador’s,” Rick replied.

“And what happened to the van?”

“Don’t ask.”

5

Stone was awakened by the room service waiter early the next morning. For a moment he forgot he had left the order on the doorknob.

He let the man in, then got back into bed while the waiter set a tray on his lap, along with a copy of the International New York Times and one of Paris Match. Stone tried that, but his French wasn’t good enough to read it, so he reverted to the Times. He switched on the TV and found CNN.

His phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Rick.”

“Good morning, Rick.”

“Do you have the TV on?”

“Yes, on CNN.”

“Turn it to the local news, cha

Stone switched and found a Frenchwoman gazing into the camera, producing a torrent of her language. “Okay, got it. What am I watching?”

“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.”