“Get down to what?” Holly asked, finally.
“This business with John, no middle initial, Simpson. Jean-Noël knew him—in fact, he brought him to Paris a while back.”
“This is so,” Ragot said.
“Tell us why,” Lance said.
“Ron Spencer sent me and three others here to…” He stopped, looking doubtful.
“We’re all family here,” Lance said. “Tell us.”
“To interrogate a Russian,” Ragot said.
“At whose request?” Lance asked.
“Ron had a contact in the French national police who wanted the man spoken to.”
“Don’t the French police know how to conduct an interrogation?” Holly asked.
Ragot looked uncomfortable. “Of course, but our host didn’t want this Russian to be known to his colleagues.”
“Why did you choose Simpson to accompany you?” Lance asked.
“Simpson was something of an expert,” Ragot said.
“In interrogation?” Rick asked.
“In… persuasion,” Ragot replied. “Another of the team did the interrogation. Simpson was to persuade the subject to reply.”
Everyone was silent for a moment before Lance spoke. “What was the identity of the Russian?”
“We never knew his name,” Ragot asked.
“What was the name of Ron’s friend in the police?”
“We never knew his name, either. Our instructions came from a man on the telephone. We never met him.”
“What was the subject of the… conversation with the Russian gentleman?”
“The man apparently knew the identity of a spy for the Russians inside the Paris police.”
“A spy for Russian intelligence?”
“I think not,” Ragot said. “I formed the opinion that the spy was working not for Russian intelligence, but for other Russians, I know not who they were.”
“Were you able to learn the name of the person who made the request from inside the Paris police?” Lance asked impatiently.
“No, we were not.”
“I thought you said Simpson was expert at… persuasion.”
“Oh, yes, Simpson did his job, all too well.”
“I’m sorry?” Lance asked.
“The Russian expired before Simpson could persuade him to tell us the name—apparently of some preexisting condition of which we were not told.”
“How long were Simpson’s… attentions applied to the subject?”
“For about three hours. We came and went from time to time to check on his progress.”
“If not the name of the informant, what else did you learn from the Russian gentleman?”
“Nothing, not even his name. He would not speak.”
Nobody said anything for about a minute.
Holly broke the silence, and she was incredulous. “Simpson…
persuaded
the man for three hours and he revealed
nothing
?”
“I’m afraid that is correct.”
“What happened after the interrogation ended?” Lance asked.
“I telephoned the number we had, the man answered, and we told him the subject had unexpectedly died. He asked if we had learned anything at all, and when I told him we had not he said that we should remove the body from Paris and dispose of it carefully. Then he hung up.”
“That was it?” Lance asked.
“I telephoned the number again, and it was out of service.”
“What did you do then?”
“Two of my colleagues and I returned to our hotel, Simpson having said that he would deal with the body. He returned late that night, and we all flew back to Berlin the following morning.”
“And what did Simpson have to say about his efforts? Did he tell you where and how he disposed of the body?”
“Nothing. We never spoke of the incident again.”
“Where did the interrogation take place?” Lance asked.
“In a garage in the twentieth arrondissement, near the Père-Lachaise cemetery. We arrived there to find the subject alone,
bound and gagged. We never learned who brought him there or how.”
“Well, it’s all very neat, isn’t it?” Lance said. He stood and picked up his bags. “I’m going to get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll be at the Plaza Athénée.” Then he left.
“Well,” Holly said, “that was bizarre.”
26
S
tone had just finished a room-service lunch when his cell phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Ann,” she said.
“How are you? How’s the campaign?”
“I’m not sure about either of those.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure about that, either. Everything seems fine, except Kate is dropping in the polls.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know for sure, but we suspect some sort of surreptitious campaign of lies. We just can’t get a handle on it. Kate was up seven points in the polls and gained two more after the first debate, then the balloon started leaking air with
each successive poll. We’re down to a one-point lead, and with the margin of error at six percent, we’re not even sure we’re ahead.”
“What are you doing about it?”
“We don’t know what to do, except maintain a steady offense. I wish you were here.”
“You don’t need a lawyer, you need an operative who’s just as sneaky as the opposition to figure this out.”
“We’re working on that. It’s driving the press crazy, too, so they’re working overtime to find out what’s happening. The only good thing was the interview with the French deputy prime minister.”
“The elegant Frenchwoman with the red hair?”
“That’s the one.”
“What was the interview?”
“She was being interviewed on Bloomberg TV, and she was asked what she thought of the economic policies of the Republican candidate, Hank Carson. When she answered the question, she referred to Carson as ‘Honk.’ Nobody heard anything after that, because we were all laughing so hard. Since then, everybody here, and some of the press, has been calling him ‘Honk.’ It’s lifted our spirits a bit.”
Stone laughed, too. “Somehow, it seems to fit him.”
“Carson has tried so hard to get people to call him ‘Hank,’ to loosen his image, but hardly anybody has. Now everybody calls him ‘Honk.’”
“And still, you’re down in the polls?”
“We are. I wish I were in Paris with you. The press are at
me every minute, wanting to know what’s wrong with our campaign, and I’m running out of brave faces to put on for them.”
“Most races seem to tighten a bit in the last weeks, don’t they?”
“Yes, but not this much. I mean, Kate is so clearly the superior candidate, I don’t know why everybody hasn’t gotten on her bandwagon. Hang on a minute.” She covered the phone, and he could hear her voice, muffled. She seemed to be expressing consternation. Then she came back. “Mystery solved,” she said, sounding dejected.
“Tell me.”
“Some blogger named Howard Axelrod has concocted a story that a DNA test exists, proving that you are the father of Kate’s baby.”
Stone was immediately furious. “They tried that earlier, didn’t they? It didn’t hold water.”
“He’s saying that you’ve left the country because you don’t want to be questioned about it. It’s the rumor of the DNA test that’s lending weight to the story.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I haven’t donated any bodily tissues or fluids for purposes of DNA testing.”
“Wait a minute,” Ann said. “Have you had any sort of medical testing done in the past three months?”
“I had my biyearly flight physical, the one required by the FAA and my insurance company to keep me flying. That was about three weeks ago.”
“Did they do blood work or take a urine sample?”
“Just the urine sample.”
“That’s enough for a DNA test, I think. Who’s your doctor?”
“Samuel Somethingorother. I can’t remember the last name. He’s not my regular doctor, he’s an AME—an Aviation Medical Examiner—appointed by the FAA. Actually, he’s an ob-gyn who happens to be a pilot and thus has an interest in flying.”
“I’ll check him out. Let’s hope to God he’s not Kate’s ob-gyn. What’s his address?”
“He’s in the East Seventies, up near the Carlyle Hotel.”
“Oh, God, near Will and Kate’s apartment.”
Stone dug his FAA medical certificate from his wallet. “Wharton,” he said. “Samuel C. Wharton, M.D.”
“How were you referred to him?”
“There’s a list of AMEs on an aviation website. I chose him because he was the closest to my house.”
“Hang on a minute,” Ann said, and covered the phone again.
Stone waited patiently.
Three minutes later, Ann came back on the line. “You’re not going to believe this,” she said.
“Try me.”
“We looked him up on the Internet: Dr. Wharton and Kate were undergraduate classmates at Harvard.”
“Is he her doctor?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if they knew each other in college, and I’m afraid to ask her.”
“Well,
somebody
is going to have to ask her. There are too many coincidences here not to excite the interest of reporters.”
“Stone, I hate to ask you this, but did you and Kate ever—”
“No! I’ve told you this before: Kate and I have never had any kind of physical relationship.”
“I mean, I could understand it if you did—you’re both such attractive people.”
“Ann, stop it!”
“I’m so sorry, I’m just so worried.”
“How about this: Kate and I take DNA tests on national television, from a doctor appointed by the Republican National Committee—”
“All right, all right! I’ll stop it. I’ll even ask Kate who her ob-gyn is!”
“I think you have to do that. Please let me know how this all turns out.”
“You may start getting calls from reporters.”
“I’ll fend them off, get my calls screened—”
“No! That’ll make you look guilty. Don’t run from them, just answer the question.”
“I hate doing that.”
“I hate your having to do it. I’ll call you when I’ve heard more.” She hung up.
Five seconds after she did, Stone’s phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID: Associated Press. He groaned.
27
S
tone pressed the button. “Hello?”
“Stone Barrington?”
“Yes?”
“Is this Mr. Stone Barrington, an attorney at Woodman & Weld?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Mr. Barrington, this is Jim Wardell, from the Associated Press.”
“What can I do for you, Jim?”
“I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Shoot.”
“Are you acquainted with a Dr. Samuel Wharton of New York?”
“I am.”
“Have you ever seen him as a patient?”
“Yes, about three weeks ago.”
“May I ask, did you have a medical complaint?”
“No, I had a need for a new medical certificate as a pilot.”
“Did you say ‘pilot’? As in an airplane?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you need a new medical certificate?”
“Because my old one expires at the end of this month. All are required to have a medical exam every two years, in order to maintain their flying privileges. Airline pilots have to have one every six months.”
“I see. Did you, as part of this medical exam, offer any bodily fluids for examination?”
“Well, I peed into a cup, if that’s what you mean.”
“Was this, ah, fluid sent to a lab for analysis?”
“I believe the way it’s done is, you pee into the cup, the doctor dunks some sort of test strip in it, and if the strip turns the correct color, you’re good, and they flush the rest.”
“What color should it turn?”
“I’ve no idea. I think it’s something to do with your blood sugar, and they want to know if you’re diabetic. What’s this about?”
“Do you know if Dr. Wharton is acquainted with Mrs. Katharine Lee?”
“Nope.”
“Nope, she isn’t?”
“Nope, I don’t know if she is or isn’t.”
“Are you aware that Dr. Wharton is an ob-gyn?”
“Yes, I saw a certificate on his office wall.”
“Then why were you seeing an ob-gyn for an aviation medical exam?”
“It’s like this: the Federal Aviation Agency appoints doctors in every city as Aviation Medical Examiners, in order to ensure that pilots are healthy enough to fly safely. My former AME retired, so I needed a new one. I went to the AOPA website—”
“AO what?”
“The Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association.”
“Right.”
“They have a list of all the AMEs in various cities, and I picked Dr. Wharton because he was the nearest to my home.”
“Did Katharine Lee recommend Dr. Wharton?”
“I just told you how I picked him. Are you having hearing problems?”
“No, I can hear you just fine.”
“Then stop asking me questions I’ve already answered—it’s annoying. Now I’m going to ask you just one more time: What’s this call about? And if I don’t get a straight answer, I’m hanging up.”
“Mr. Barrington, are you aware of a contention from an Internet blogger named Howard Axelrod that you are the father of the baby that Mrs. Katharine Lee is carrying?”
“
What?
That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Are you, sir?”
“Am I what? Did you say you’re from the Associated Press?
Because I’m beginning to get the feeling you’re from the Drudge Report.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Barrington.”
“What question?”
“About the baby.”
“Oh, that question. Let me spell it out for you: I am not the father of any baby that any woman on earth is carrying. Does that clear it up for you?”
“Does that include Katharine Lee’s baby?”
“Didn’t you hear me say ‘any woman on earth’?”
“Yes, but—”
“But my ass, or rather, bite my ass. And don’t call me again with stupid questions about something you came across on the Internet.” Stone ended the call. Immediately, the phone rang again. He punched the button. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, this is Joe Jerkison from the Drudge Report.”
“Hi, there, got a pencil?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Then write this down: I, Stone Barrington, am not the father of any baby carried by any woman on earth. Got it?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Bye-bye.” He hung up. The phone began ringing again. This time Stone found a paper clip, inserted it into the hole in the iPhone that opened the case, and disconnected the battery.