Paris Match

7

The new black Mercedes supervan was indeed waiting for him in l’Arrington’s courtyard at the appointed hour, and it got through the midday Paris traffic with few delays. Stone noted the second man up front, and he could see the short barrel of an automatic weapon protruding from the man’s cradled arms. He found that reassuring but unsatisfying, since it apparently indicated that Rick believed any opposition would be similarly armed. If bullets started flying, he would prefer single squirts to spraying, even if the vehicle was armored.

The van was stopped at an archway for a security check, then allowed to drive into a courtyard, much like that at l’Arrington, but smaller. There were three large trees in pots arrayed against the walls, and next to each stood a man in black body armor, booted and helmeted, with an automatic weapon slung from a shoulder. The concrete tree pots would provide cover, he assumed.

Inside the front door of the office building of, perhaps, fifteen floors, he was stopped at a desk and required to place his right thumb on a sensor while gazing into a lens with his right eye. The equipment indicated its assent by displaying two photographs of him on a screen: one taken the year before and one taken just now. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” a female voice said from the speaker. “M’sieur duBois is expecting you. Please take the elevator at your left to the top floor.”

“Thank you,” Stone replied to the mass of electronic equipment. Stone knew the building housed Marcel’s business operations and that he lived on the top two floors. As the car rose a piece of music, a particular favorite of his, began to play: the Dave McKe

Marcel tapped him on a knee as “Limehouse Blues” died. “Bonjour, Stone. Do not rise.”

The Frenchman sat down beside him. Their view through a floor-to-ceiling glass wall was of treetops and a view across the city.

“Good morning, Marcel,” Stone finally managed. “I am very impressed by the new wrinkles in your security system. I assume the police-like costumes and weapons of the men downstairs were chosen for a reason?”

“Ah, yes. After our difficulties of last year, your good friend Michael Freeman suggested that the presence of security be overt, rather than the subtlety of men dressed in blue suits with bulges under their arms.”

“An economical and, no doubt, effective change. What about my thumbprint, my cornea, and my taste in music? Where did they come from?”

“The prints were unobtrusively harvested from your person last year,” Marcel replied. “And the music was read from the albums stored on the iPhone in your pocket. Imelda—the name given to her voice—deduced which was the most-played track among them and played it for you. I rather liked it. Are the artists popular in the States?”

“The artists, unfortunately, are all dead, as are most of my favorites—Count Basie, Artie Shaw, Erroll Garner, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, et alia. Fortunately, their work survived them.”

“Ah, yes, the same with me. Did you and Mirabelle enjoy your breakfast together?”

“Once again, Marcel, you are well ahead of me. Yes, we did.”

“And have you been enjoying your Blaise?”

“I drive it to my house in Co

“Ah, good.”

“I have also enjoyed the performance of Frederick Flicker, and he and I have come to a more permanent arrangement. I’m grateful for your realization that I needed him.”

“Every gentleman of any substance needs a gentleman’s gentleman to take care of him. I have so much substance myself that I need three, in shifts.”

“I can manage very nicely with the one,” Stone said.

There was the tinkle of silverware from behind them. “And now, shall we have some lunch?” Marcel asked.

They rose and went to the table that had been set for them. Instead of courses, a small smorgasbord was wheeled out on a cart, and they chose what they liked from a dozen dishes.

“So much food,” Stone said. “I hope what we don’t eat will not go to waste.”

“Don’t worry, the kitchen staff are anxiously awaiting the return of the cart. By the end of their lunch hour, it will be empty.”

Champagne was poured for them. Marcel raised his glass. “A Krug ’55,” he said. “I hope you enjoy it.”

Stone enjoyed it.

—

WHEN THE TABLE had been cleared they returned to their seats before the huge window.

“Now,” Marcel said, “I must tell you that I have had an offer for my stock in the Arrington Group.”

“Is it from a Russian source?”

“It is from a corporation, benignly named. No name was attached to it.”

“Then I think we will have to assume that the source is Russian, and that the name is Yevgeny Majorov.”

“It was a more reasonable offer than I would have thought that gentleman would come up with, but I have the same suspicions as you. Should I explore it further?”

“Marcel, should you ever wish to dispose of your Arrington stock, I or my other investors will buy it from you for a better price than the Russians would give you.”

“Oh, no, Stone, I don’t want out,” Marcel said. “I just wondered if we should toy with them a bit.”

“Marcel, these ‘gentlemen’ would regard anything beyond a simple no as an encouragement, and they would become even more of a nuisance than they already are. My advice would be to have your secretary, on your behalf, write a short, blunt refusal to the corporation. Don’t even sign it yourself.”

“All right, I’ll do that.”

“It has been my experience in dealing with criminal elements who seek to disguise themselves in legitimacy, that if you give them so much as a bite, they will want the steak, and the bone, too, on unacceptable terms. They have already accompanied your offer with a violent attack: the CIA van that I and my party rode in to your di

“And how will you answer the loss of the van?”

“The CIA will answer, since the van was theirs, and I expect they will do so emphatically.”

“Will that not escalate the matter?”

“I think the Agency will do it in such a way as to discourage escalation.”

“Do you know how they will do it?”

“No, and I don’t want to know.”

The two men changed the subject and discussed the opening of l’Arrington in detail.

“I’m very impressed with my suite and with what I can see of the lobby and the exterior.”

“By our opening next week, all will be perfection,” Marcel said. “I assure this by throwing the first party in the hotel for the staff and the construction crews. They will bring their wives and girlfriends to dine and drink, and for their party, they will see that everything is perfect. Our party will be a couple of nights later.”

Stone rose to return to his van. “Anything I can do at the hotel?”

“You might send a note to the manager with any suggestions, complaints, or requests that would make your stay more enjoyable. Guest feedback is the one thing we don’t have yet.”

“I will do so.”

They said their goodbyes, and Stone returned to the sanctity of his supervan.

8

Stone was still feeling the effects of jet lag, so he had a nap, and when he woke, the Bacchettis were in the living room.