Foreign Affairs (A Stone Barrington Novel) Page 8

  Stone put the pin back into the box and the box into his pocket. “Okay.”

  Rick handed him another box. “This goes into your left ear,” he said.

  Stone opened the box and found what appeared to be a lump of plastic. There was also a sort of tool with a hook on the end.

  “Push it into the ear as far as it will go. To get it out, use the little hook.”

  Stone examined the thing carefully. “You’ll be able to talk to me?”

  “Only if I have suggestions. If you can lead him into an admission of a crime, that would be a nice bonus.”

  “I doubt he’s going to pour his heart out to me.”

  “Maybe he’ll brag.”

  “Who knows?”

  “Exactly. If he does, encourage him.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “You might also encourage him to threaten you. That would be helpful to the French. Tomorrow, you won’t see any of us. Just leave the house and walk down the street to Lipp.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want a weapon?”

  “What would I do with it? Shoot him in the middle of a popular restaurant? I’d never get a table again.”

  “Lance says to be careful.”

  “Lance always says that. He doesn’t really think I’ll be exposed to harm, does he?”

  “Lance always expects that. It’s not a bad policy. One more thing: when you’ve wrapped up your lunch, don’t leave the restaurant with him. Make an excuse to stay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Will I need it?”

  “We’ll see.”

  22

  At ten minutes before one Stone left the house and strolled down the few blocks to Brasserie Lipp, doing some light window-shopping along the way. The restaurant, a longtime hangout for people in the arts, had outside tables and a ground-floor dining room, plus an upstairs one where the tourists were invariably sent, to keep the main room open for regulars. Stone thought of it as Paris’s answer to Elaine’s, his old hangout in New York, until the death of Elaine.

  The maître d’ recognized him immediately. “Bonjour, M’sieur Barrington.” The two shook hands. “Your guest has not yet arrived.” He led Stone to a table against the wall, with a good view of the front door. Stone settled in and ordered a bottle of Perrier. “And please,” he said to the waiter, “bring large glasses for the wine and pour generously.” The man nodded and left.

  He had not long to wait. Casselli appeared at the front door, apparently alone, then approached the maître d’. Two men then entered the front door. The maître d’ escorted Casselli to Stone’s table, while his assistant greeted the two men and, after a short argument, sent them upstairs.

  Casselli apparently didn’t notice. Stone stood to greet him, and they shook hands coolly.

  “I hope you had a good flight,” Stone said.

  “I did,” Casselli said. “How did you know I flew?”

  “I assumed that driving or taking a train would be cumbersome.”

  “Quite right. How long have you been in Paris?”

  “I’m sure you know,” Stone replied. May as well cut through the niceties.

  Menus were brought.

  “What’s good here?” Casselli asked.

  “It’s an Alsatian restaurant. Try the choucroute.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  “Assorted meats and sausage on a bed of sauerkraut.”

  Casselli turned up his nose. “Oh, all right, after all, when in . . . Paris.”

  Stone ordered the food and a bottle of red wine.

  “Now,” Casselli said, spreading his napkin in his lap. “If we may speak of business.”

  Stone nodded. “Of course.”

  “I realize that both you and Mr. duBois are not Italian, and you may not be fully aware of how business is done in Rome.”

  Stone shrugged.

  “Accomplishing such an enterprise as building a hotel in the city is very complicated . . . and very Italian.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  “There are many, many permits issued by separate city departments which are required for building.”

  “As there are in Los Angeles and Paris, where we already have hotels.”

  “Oh, it is quite different in Rome,” Casselli said with a little smile. “One must deal with different . . . personalities, and in different departments they do not always operate by the same rules. Personal intercession by a knowledgeable intermediary can save much more time and money than the cost of such services. Everything goes more smoothly with the help of a . . . consultant.”

  “I should imagine,” Stone said drily.

  “You must have a permit for the foundations, then for the structure, then the roof—electrical, plumbing, all sorts of things.”

  “’Twas ever thus, ’twill ever be.”

  “What?”

  “Please go on.”

  “Our services extend even to supervising the building’s workforce and that of subcontractors.”

  “Mr. Casselli—”

  “Leonardo, please.”

  “Leonardo, perhaps you are not aware that we have obtained all the required permits so far with little trouble with the bureaucracy. We, in fact, have already employed . . . consultants . . . who are performing satisfactorily.”

  “Ah, but you have had a major fire, which complicates things.”

  “Not really. We have obtained a permit for clearing the ground and starting over.” Stone didn’t really know about these things, just the broad strokes, but he wanted to needle Casselli.

  The food and wine arrived, and the waiter poured generous glasses. Stone raised his and took a sip. Casselli raised his and took a gulp.

  “Sometimes,” Casselli continued, “frequently even, accidents occur on a site, and new permits are required.”

  “Leonardo,” Stone said, “let me pause you right there. Clearly, you have spent much of your life in New York, and perhaps even on the Lower East Side and Little Italy. What you are trying to explain, decorously, to me is just a new version of an old practice. Someone throws a brick through the window of a small shop, then magically, his colleague appears to offer the owner protection from such outrages. A small weekly fee and no more bricks through the window: no more customers covered in broken glass, no more plateglass windows replaced. It’s a very old racket, and I must say, I’m surprised that you have not found newer, more profitable ways to earn a living.”

  Casselli reddened slightly, then smiled. “And I am surprised that you would think that we are not more modern in our approach. Oh, and the food is delicious—good choice.”

  “Thank you. If you will forgive me for interrupting, I think I should take a moment to tell you what you are up against.”

  “Up against?” Casselli asked, as if he had never heard of such a thing.

  “In this instance, you are not dealing with a shopkeeper, but with Mr. duBois, possibly the richest man in Europe, and one with many, many business resources, and in my case with a person of considerable wealth and associations that are wide and deep. Perhaps you have heard of a company called Strategic Services?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “They are the second largest security company in the world, with offices in fifty cities, employing more than thirty thousand highly trained personnel and as many more contractors, many of whom are former Special Forces, Navy SEALs, FBI agents, and police officers, with all the training and capabilities that their experience can provide them. I am the second largest stockholder in that company and its chief attorney, and I can call upon their skills at any time and very quickly. Some of your men have already encountered these people and have come off badly in comparison.

  “Secondly, there is me: perhaps you do not know that I am a former New Y
ork City police officer, and that my partner during those years is now the police commissioner of New York City, the most important police officer in the world, who is on close terms with his counterparts in Europe, including a Mr. Massimo Bertelli, who, as I’m sure you know, is head of the Italian DIA, which is responsible for pursuing ‘consultants’ who attempt to extort legitimate businesses. Mr. Bertelli, I should tell you, is taking a keen interest in the operations of Arrington Hotels in Rome, and especially in the building and permitting process, and a keen interest in you, personally, and in your operations and personnel.

  “Finally, if I can say this without bragging, I am an informal adviser to the former president of the United States and his wife, the current president, and their close friend, which helps in all sorts of ways, and I am also a consultant to the Central Intelligence Agency, which helps in all sorts of other ways.

  “So, should you continue to press your ‘services’ upon us, you will find yourself swept by a tsunami of government and police attention to your every move. And should you think that you are sufficiently legally detached from your operations, you should know that we are in a position to offer multimillion-dollar rewards and new passports to anyone who might offer evidence of your criminal connections. When that happens, some of your associates might find it more profitable and safer to realign their loyalties.”

  Stone refilled their wineglasses, then locked eyes with Casselli, who was paler, now, and trembling with anger. “Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

  “No one has ever spoken to me in that manner,” he said, “and lived to tell about it.”

  “Leonardo,” Stone said evenly, “perhaps you had better become accustomed to being spoken to in that manner, both in court and outside of it. It is time for you to retire from ‘business’ and enjoy your ill-gotten gains, before they are all taken from you and the flesh flayed from your bones, leaving you to the vultures.”

  The waiter appeared and offered them dessert.

  “I must go to the men’s room,” Casselli said. “Please order me a double espresso.”

  Stone ordered two and watched the man disappear down the stairs toward the toilets. Shortly, he heard a police siren from somewhere outside.

  Casselli had been gone ten minutes when Rick LaRose came in, sat down in his place, and began drinking his espresso.

  “I didn’t hear from you through my earpiece,” Stone said, fishing the thing out with its hook.

  “I thought you were doing very well without my help,” Rick replied.

  “Did you take him?”

  “He had a car waiting outside the kitchen door—a Paris police car. He’s gone.”

  23

  Rick walked back to the house with Stone, and once inside he excused himself and went into the library to make phone calls. It was getting chilly, so Stone lit the fire. Finally, Rick returned and sank into an easy chair.

  “What did Lance have to say?” Stone asked.

  “Lance was not amused.”

  “Wasn’t it a police operation?”

  “It was ours, with police backup.”

  “Ah.”

  “Lance was incensed that you invoked not only the Agency, but the president.”

  “You told him that?”

  “He listened to your recording.”

  “Swell.”

  “What do you think Casselli will do now?”

  “Do?”

  “I thought that when you decided to let loose at Casselli you might have given some thought to how he would react. Did you think he would just leave meekly and never darken your life again?”

  “Frankly, I thought he would be in the Bastille by now. It’s just around the corner from Lipp.”

  “I don’t think the gendarmes relished the thought of chasing one of their own cars through the streets of Paris with lights flashing and sirens sounding. It would have made the evening news.”

  “Can’t the Italian police pick him up at the other end?”

  “Pick him up for what? He’s not wanted in Italy, and you apparently forgot to get him to incriminate himself.”

  “I got mad, I guess.”

  “I especially liked the parts about the ‘tsunami’ and ‘flaying of flesh off his bones.’”

  “I’m glad you appreciated my performance.”

  “I should have given you a script.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have followed it.”

  “I guess not. What are you going to do now?”

  “Spend a few days here, I guess, then go back to Rome.”

  “Back to Rome?”

  “Well, I can’t abandon Marcel in the middle of all this, and Hedy needs to go back.”

  “May I suggest that you persuade Marcel to run his business from Paris, and that you and Hedy get your asses back to New York?”

  “And anyway, I promised Casselli a tsunami.”

  “You mean that wasn’t an empty threat?”

  “Certainly not. We’ve got Bertelli on our side, and he’s the key man in Italy. I’ll talk to Marcel about posting a reward for Casselli’s neck in a noose.”

  “You think that will work?”

  “Why not? Italians like money as well as everybody else, maybe more. It might shake somebody loose.”

  “You might begin by getting Dino to ask Bertelli to do the things you’ve already told Casselli he was doing.”

  “I forgot about that, heat of the moment.”

  “And as long as you’ve mentioned the Agency and the president—you seemed to forget the FBI and the attorney general—you might give some thought to what help you can ask of them. After all, they’re your ‘very close friends.’”

  Stone winced. “Who else has heard the recording?”

  “The gendarmes, and they were very impressed.”

  Stone groaned.

  “Don’t worry, Lance has ordered me to destroy the recording.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  “It’s a shame, really, my people at the station would have loved it.”

  “And you would have played it for them?”

  “Absolutely. I have to think of morale—I may play it for them yet.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Why not? It would make you famous inside the Agency. I’ll just e-mail it and click on the ‘send all’ button.”

  Stone held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

  “You’re a civilian, you can’t destroy government property, only a government official can do that.”

  Stone pointed at the fire. “Then do it here, in my civilian fireplace.”

  “I guess there’s no regulation about that.” Rick fished a SanDisk card out of a pocket and flipped it like a coin into the fireplace, where it melted and sizzled.

  “Thank you,” Stone said.

  Rick got up to go. “How do you know that was the real card? We spies are a devious lot.”

  “Can a civilian shoot a government official?”

  “If he wants to get into a whole lot of trouble.”

  “What if he doesn’t care?”

  “Save it for Casselli. And don’t forget, you’ve humiliated him—he’s mad now.” Rick gave Stone a little wave and left.

  24

  Stone, Hedy, Dino, and Viv had dinner at a neighborhood restaurant, where Stone gave them a summary of his conversation with Casselli.

  They listened in silence, then Dino spoke. “I guess I’d better get on the horn to Massimo Bertelli tomorrow morning and get him started doing the things you told Casselli he was already doing.”

  “You think he will cooperate to that extent? Isn’t he afraid of his superiors, the Mafia, or both?”

  “Neither. He has a direct line to the prime minister, and where the Mafia is concerned, he has more guts than brains. He’ll do anything he can to press
them.”

  “In that case, I’d appreciate it if you’d call him first thing in the morning.”

  “What else are you going to do to create the ‘tsunami’?”

  “I’m ashamed to say I don’t know. I’m not about to call the president, and I don’t think Lance is in a mood to spring to my assistance after hearing the recording of my meeting with Casselli.”

  “You can put your money where your mouth is.”

  “You mean offering a reward for Casselli’s arrest and conviction?”

  “Sure. I’m sure Marcel would pick up half of it, so if you offered, say, five million and a passport for Casselli’s head, you might get a nibble from somebody who knows a lot, maybe even land a fish.”

  “I’ll do that first thing tomorrow.”

  “By the way, where are you going to get the passport?”

  “Can you ask Bertelli to back us up on that?”

  “Sure. I think he’ll help.”

  Stone paid the bill, and they walked home. No sooner had they entered the house, when his cell phone rang, from a blocked number. “Hello?”

  “It’s Holly. How are you?” Holly Barker was an old and good friend and sometime lover who had formerly run the CIA New York station and now was national security adviser to the president.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “How’s Paris?”

  “How’d you know I’m in Paris?”

  “I saw your video with Casselli at Lipp, and I loved it!”

  “Video! I thought it was only audio.”

  “Nope, and with three cameras, too. They cut it like a movie: a two-shot, then close-ups of both of you when you spoke.”

  “Oh, shit, Rick threw a SanDisk into my fireplace when he was here, and I thought that was it.”

  “Never trust anything a spy does.”

  “Never again. Please tell me this hasn’t reached the president.”

  “It hasn’t from me, but I’m sure by morning somebody in the Agency e-mail loop will have forwarded it to her. You might devote some time, though, to hoping it doesn’t get leaked to some reporter.”