Unintended Consequences Read online

“When, and under what circumstances?”

  “We were first introduced at a dinner party at the home of Marcel duBois, then I ran into him the evening before last at the Ulyanov Gallery, in Montmartre, at the opening of an art show. I also saw him at the party last evening at the Russian Embassy, though we did not speak. He seemed quite healthy at the time.”

  “You are friends, then?”

  “Certainly not. On the two occasions when we actually spoke, we exchanged only a few words.”

  “Are you aware of the true identity of this man, Saachi?”

  “I’ve heard rumors that he is an Albanian named Hoxha.”

  “Ah, yes, quite so. You seem to know a lot about this Saachi.”

  “Only what I’ve told you. I am an attorney, a lawyer. May I go to your headquarters and see Ms. Becker?”

  “Are you licensed to practice law in France?”

  “I am not.”

  “Then you may not see her. However, I think it would be a good idea if you got dressed and came with us.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “We wish to investigate your story and question you further.”

  Stone handed the detective his passport, reflecting that Lance Cabot had been prescient in giving it to him. “I’m sorry, but I must decline to accompany you. If you have any further questions of me, please ask them here and now, because the next time we speak I will be accompanied by my legal representative, who will, no doubt, advise me not to answer any questions.”

  Claire examined the passport with care. “Why do you have a diplomatic passport?”

  “Your question is not relevant to your reasons for visiting me,” Stone said.

  “Please, sir, I will determine what is relevant and what is not.”

  “No, I will make that determination for myself,” Stone said. “Now, if you have further questions, please ask them or leave.”

  Claire glanced at his colleague, who shook his head, then they both got to their feet. “We may wish to question you again,” Claire said, “so do not leave Paris.”

  Stone walked to the desk, got a business card from his briefcase, and handed it to Claire. “I will go where I wish, when I wish,” Stone said. “If I decide to leave Paris, you may contact me at my office in New York.” He walked to the door, opened it, and stood back. “Good night—or rather, good morning—gentlemen,” he said.

  The two men left, and Stone closed the door behind them.

  He found his iPhone and pressed the speed-dial number for Rick LaRose. It rang several times before it was answered.

  “Yes?”

  “Rick, it’s Stone Barrington.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly four A.M.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Aldo Saachi has been shot and killed in Helga Becker’s suite at the Plaza Athénée, and she is being held at the headquarters of the Prefecture of Police.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me the first time. It sounds as though Helga is their only suspect. They wouldn’t let me see her.”

  “Good God! It wasn’t supposed to happen that way!”

  Stone was speechless. By the time he had recovered enough to speak, Rick had hung up.

  29

  Stone drifted awake. He looked at the clock on the desk: 10:20 A.M. and his bedroom seemed darker than usual at this hour. He was aware that he had had two dreams, and he remembered both of them with absolute clarity. He couldn’t remember ever having recalled a dream after waking. Then he realized that one of them had not been a dream: the one with the French policemen.

  He went to the windows and opened the drapes. The Paris he had been experiencing for the past few days—one of crisp, sunny autumn days—was gone; it had been replaced by a darkened city whipped by gusty winds and lashed by pouring rain. He closed the drapes.

  He shaved and showered, then phoned down a breakfast order, then he picked up the phone, called the American Embassy and asked for Dr. Keeler. He didn’t remember a first name.

  “Dr. Keeler,” the man said.

  “Good morning, Dr. Keeler,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington. I’ve had a dream I can’t interpret.”

  “Freud, I’m not,” Keeler replied, “but tell me about it.”

  Stone told him about the dream of his Air France flight. “It’s extremely unusual that I would remember a dream,” he said. “In fact, I’ve hardly ever done so.”

  “I think what you have there is not a dream but a memory,” Keeler said. “Congratulations, you’re on the mend.”

  “Thank you. What do I do now?”

  “Remember something else,” Keeler said.

  Stone thanked the man and hung up. His doorbell was chiming, and he shouted for the waiter to enter. The man wheeled in the table, and Stone started to eat.

  The doorbell chimed again, and Stone shouted for the waiter to enter.

  “I don’t have a key!” somebody yelled from the other side of the door. Stone opened the door and let in Rick LaRose. “Good morning, Rick. Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Rick replied. “Belgian waffles, three scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, and a pot of espresso.”

  Stone pointed at the desk. “Speak into the phone,” he said.

  Rick ordered his breakfast, then pulled up a chair to Stone’s table.

  Stone poured him a cup of coffee. “Have you heard anything about Helga?” he asked.

  “I put her into a car a couple of hours ago,” Rick replied. “By now, she’s on a private jet to Stockholm. She’ll be met there and driven to her divorce-won house on an island in the Stockholm archipelago. You won’t be hearing from her.”

  “How did you get the Prefecture of Police to release her?”

  “I didn’t. The ambassador spoke to the prefect of police personally and did some explaining. That’s the second time in less than a week he’s had to do that for us, and he was very unhappy about it—to put it mildly.”

  “Do they have another suspect?” Stone asked.

  “No.”

  “Then what could the ambassador possibly have said to the prefect of police that would secure her release? Is she something more than one of your assets?”

  Rick sighed. “Let me put it this way: Helga is something more than an Agency asset and something less than a CIA officer.”

  “What lies between?”

  “Consultants and contractors.”

  “Which is Helga?”

  “A contractor.”

  “And what is she contracted to do?”

  Rick finished the coffee, and his breakfast arrived. He dug in.

  Stone waited until he had finished everything and was on his first cup of espresso. “Why don’t you weigh three hundred pounds?” he asked.

  “I don’t eat this way every day,” Rick replied. “Only when I’m under stress and somebody else is buying.”

  “Back to my question,” Stone said. “What is Helga contracted to do?”

  “Helga was recruited as an asset about three years ago, then Lance felt that she might have what it takes to make an actual agent. She didn’t make it through all the training at the Farm, but two things about her stood out.”

  “Was that an attempt at humor?” Stone said.

  Rick ignored the question. “First, she turned out to be an excellent shot with a handgun and a rifle, and, being athletic, she was very good with other . . . tools, as well. Very strong, physically. And her psychological profile revealed her to be very strong mentally, as well—cool under pressure, ruthless when motivated, and not much burdened by conscience.”

  “You’re not telling me she’s an—”

  “That’s right, I’m not telling you that, but she wasn’t supposed to do it in her hotel suite. She came home and found Aldo Saachi wait
ing for her, expecting a roll in the hay, and he, you might say, insisted. Still, with no witnesses to support her story, the police were not inclined to believe her—thus, the intervention of the ambassador.”

  “Well, that’s a breathtaking story,” Stone said. “I don’t think I’ve ever . . .” He seemed at a loss for words.

  “Fucked an Agency contractor?” Rick offered, helpfully.

  Stone shrugged. “You said something on the phone that puzzled me,” he said.

  “What was that?”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.’ I take it you had plans for Aldo?”

  “Aldo was a pain in the ass,” Rick said, “but he became much more than that. He became a danger to, among other people, you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stone said, “don’t hang this on me.”

  “And Marcel duBois.”

  “Do you mean he was an actual physical threat?”

  “Aldo was in the employ of . . . I don’t know quite what to call them—they don’t have a name. A cabal, I guess, is as good as any word to describe them. They are a criminally oriented group of ex–intelligence officers—KGB and Eastern European services, formerly Soviet Bloc countries.”

  “With Majorov at the top?”

  “Not at the top, but close.”

  “And who’s at the top?”

  “I dare not speak his name,” Rick said. “Because we’re not entirely sure.”

  “My memory has started to return,” Stone said. “At least a slice of it.” He told Rick about the group on the Air France flight.

  “That was Lance’s doing,” Rick said. “He bought the empty first-class seats on that flight. You had already booked, so he left you in place, since you are contractually bound not to talk about what might have gone on.”

  “You mean, Aldo was supposed to meet his end on that flight?”

  “No, but what happened on that flight was supposed to make him easier to deal with. We had envisioned an interrogation.”

  “But I, ah, took his room reservation at the embassy?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Rick, why are you telling me all this? Wouldn’t Lance object to my knowing it?”

  “Lance feels badly about what happened to you, and he wanted to help you fill in the gaps. He wants you happy.”

  “I’m puzzled,” Stone said. “Why would he want that?”

  “Because Marcel duBois is showing some reluctance to behave as an asset should. Lance said to tell you that, for the time being, he is your asset, not mine or Lance’s.”

  “Oh, swell,” Stone said.

  “All you have to do is listen to him, then report in.”

  “That’s all there is to it?”

  “Well, there is the fact that, in spite of the demise of Aldo Saachi, M’sieur duBois is not entirely out of the woods, no pun intended.” Rick drained his espresso cup. “Nor are you.”

  30

  Stone checked the weather again before leaving the hotel. No change. He wished now that he had accepted Marcel’s offer of his car. He got into his trench coat, unpacked a folding fedora, and carried it down to the lobby and out the front door. “Taxi, please,” he said to the doorman.

  The man was dressed in a yellow slicker with a hood. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barrington,” he said, throwing up his hands. “There are no taxis, except those that might drop a passenger at the hotel. It could be half an hour or more.”

  “Then I’ll walk,” Stone said, putting on his hat and buttoning and belting his trench coat.

  The man held out an umbrella. “Compliments of the hotel,” he said.

  Stone trudged down the street in the general direction of Marcel’s building, leaning into the wind and sheltering himself as best he could under the umbrella. Twenty minutes later he walked into the building, dripping water onto the lobby floor. He gave the doorman his coat, hat, and umbrella. The man received them gingerly and hung them in a closet.

  Stone’s trousers were soaked from the shins down, and so were his shoes. He rode up in the elevator, adjusting his tie and making himself as presentable as possible. He arrived at Marcel’s floor and was greeted by the man himself.

  “My dear fellow!” Marcel cried. “Your trousers are soaked. Were you unable to find a taxi?”

  “I should have accepted your offer of your car,” Stone said.

  Marcel turned to his butler. “Victor, find Mr. Barrington a robe and press his suit. Is your coat downstairs, Stone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dry everything and press his garments,” Marcel said. “Please, Stone, go with Victor.”

  Victor showed him to a guest bedroom. “There is a dressing gown and slippers in the closet,” he said. “Please give me your suit and shoes.”

  Stone got out of the clothes and turned them over to Victor, then he got into the cashmere dressing gown and soft leather slippers and went back to the living room, where Marcel waited.

  “Come into the study,” Marcel said. “Lunch will be ready shortly. Would you like a drink?”

  “Perhaps some Perrier,” Stone said. He took a chair and the footman brought him the water.

  Marcel joined him. “Now,” he said, “I hope you are comfortable.”

  “Quite comfortable,” Stone said.

  “The storm is very bad. De Gaulle is closed—until midnight, they say.”

  “I hope I might be able to get a flight to New York tomorrow,” Stone said. “I hope we can conclude our business, one way or another, before then.”

  “I, too, hope so,” Marcel said. “Have you thought about my offer?”

  “Yes, and I’ve discussed it with two of our directors, as well. Here is what I am willing to propose to the board: to sell you fifteen percent of our stock for three hundred and fifty million dollars and to invest our net proceeds in a new company, which would operate hotels in Europe and, perhaps, elsewhere in the world.”

  “Well,” Marcel said, “now it is my turn to think.” The waiter entered and announced lunch.

  “I thought some hot soup would be appropriate for the weather,” Marcel said as they took their seats.

  The waiter served a leek and potato soup, which Stone welcomed.

  “I don’t know if you have spoken to Lance,” Marcel said.

  “No, but I’ve heard that you are, perhaps, a little uncomfortable with your arrangement with him.”

  “On reflection, yes. I am French, and I am troubled that I might somehow go against my country’s interests in being associated with him.”

  “I can quite understand that,” Stone said. “I would certainly not enter into an arrangement that would go against my own country’s interests.”

  “Also, I am reluctant to communicate through the means he has given me. I am hardly a Luddite, but I am a little distrustful of electronic devices in conveying sensitive information.”

  “Of course,” Stone said. “If it would be helpful to you, I would be happy to act as a conduit between you and Lance.”

  Marcel brightened. “That is an interesting offer,” he said. “Would you also convey in the opposite direction?”

  “Yes, indeed. I don’t imagine you will be contacting each other on a daily basis.”

  “That is unlikely,” Marcel said.

  “There is something that I should convey to you now, if I may.”

  “Please.”

  “I was visited by the police in the middle of the night,” Stone said, and proceeded to describe Helga’s situation.

  “I am sorry for her,” Marcel said, “but she will surely be safe back in Sweden.”

  “I believe so,” Stone said, “but it has been suggested to me by Rick LaRose that you and I may not be quite so safe.”

  Marcel sighed. “I have been feeling a certain amount of pressure to enter in
to business dealings which are not attractive to me. This Aldo fellow has been the messenger, and I’ve had an instinctive distrust of him. The people he represents are eager to buy into my Blaise operation and to distribute the car outside of Europe and the United States.”

  Stone told him of Rick’s assessment of Aldo’s business associates.

  “That is shocking,” Marcel said, “but it confirms my worst suspicions, and more.”

  “It seems possible,” Stone said, “that these people may employ more than business tactics in achieving their ends. You should be wary.”

  “I certainly feel wary,” Marcel replied. “After all, there is the business of the bombs planted in my Blaises at the auto show.”

  “Do you have any personal security?” Stone asked.

  “No, I have never felt the need,” Marcel said. “Until now, perhaps.”

  “I serve on the board of a company called Strategic Services,” Stone said, “run by an excellent man named Michael Freeman.”

  “I have heard of them, of course,” Marcel replied. “Their reputation is excellent.”

  “Mike has a Paris branch, and I would be happy to introduce you to him.”

  “I would like very much to meet him,” Marcel replied. “This would seem an opportune moment for me to get out of Paris for a while, I think, and it might be a good time for me to visit New York and see if we can come to some arrangement regarding The Arrington.”

  “I and my colleagues would be very happy to see you in America.”

  “Then tomorrow why don’t you forsake Air France and fly with me to New York?”

  “Thank you, that would be a pleasure. If you are uncomfortable staying in a hotel at this time I would be happy to have you as a guest in my home. We can make you comfortable and secure there for as long as you like.”

  “That is very kind of you, Stone.”

  “And there is room for others, if you wish to take some staff along.”

  “I usually travel alone,” Marcel said.

  “And I’ll arrange for you to meet with Mike Freeman. I’m sure Bill Eggers would like to see you, as well. He should be back shortly from his hunting trip in Maine.”

  “Then I will collect you at your hotel at ten tomorrow morning,” Marcel said, “and we will drive to Le Bourget together. The storm will pass through tonight, and although the airline schedules may still be affected, we need not let that concern us.”