“Of course.”
“Then I don’t think I’ll have anything to worry about.”
“Nevertheless.”
“Oh, all right.”
“See you there.” Mike hung up.
41
H
olly breezed in a little after six. “Hey, there!” she said, giving him a wet kiss.
“You’re late,” Stone said. “I was about to start without you.”
“Then I would have had you liquidated, beating the Russians to it.”
“Martini?”
“How’d you guess? Hurry up!”
Stone hurried, then handed her the chilled glass and poured himself a Knob Creek.
Holly sank into the living room sofa and kicked off her shoes. Her skirt was up around her thighs, and Stone pretended not to notice.
“I’m bushed,” Holly said.
“That is not my recollection,” Stone replied.
Holly laughed. “Touché,” she said.
“I have a very good memory for these things.”
“It remembers you, too,” she said.
His hand drifted to her thigh.
“Careful,” she said. “You don’t want me to spill my martini.”
“That’s your problem,” Stone said, raising his sights.
She gave a little gasp. “Touché again!”
“How is it you are already wet?”
“I was thinking about you in the car.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I was remembering something, from about a year ago.”
“What was it?”
She told him.
“Ah, yes, I remember it well.”
“Isn’t that a Lerner and Loewe song?”
“It is. It’s also a very pleasant memory.”
“That’s why I’m wet. Right there, please, that’s the spot.”
“Do you want me to do that thing again?”
“Yes, but not until after dinner, when we’re in bed.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“So will I,” she said, then she grabbed his arm and made noises of delight.
“That didn’t take long,” he said.
“Since we have so much time on our hands, do it again.”
Stone complied, sipping his bourbon with his other hand.
Holly went limp, nearly spilling her martini. “That was fabulous,” she said, “and I still didn’t spill a drop.”
“You are to be commended for your delicate balance.”
“And you are to be commended for your delicate fingers. Do you play the piano?”
“Not for many years.”
“You should do it more often,” she said. “It would keep you in shape for doing that.”
“It was more fun than practicing scales.”
“I’m glad it was fun for you, too.”
“Entertaining you is always fun.”
“‘Entertaining.’ That’s a good way to look at it. It was certainly very that.”
“What else can I do for you?” he asked.
“Talk to me, feed me, then we’ll start over.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Is Kate Lee carrying your baby?”
Stone choked on his bourbon. “You’ve been reading the gutter press,” he said.
“The gutter Internet.”
“You haven’t read the latest.”
“What’s that? Did I miss something?”
“Howard Axelrod has apologized and committed suicide.”
“Shut up!”
Stone got his laptop and showed her the column.
“Well, I’ll be damned, and so, I believe, will Axelrod be. Did he really off himself?”
“I think he offed his character.”
“Who is he?”
“The man is a mystery to me.”
“I’m glad that episode is over. Let’s eat.”
“What would you like?”
“Shall we have a look at the room service menu?”
“Just think of something—I’ll force them to prepare it.”
“I’d like a New York strip steak rare, some fried onion rings, some sugar snap peas, and a great California Cabernet. I like it better than the French stuff.”
Stone picked up the phone and ordered.
“While we’re waiting, some business,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“My New York station has suddenly discovered that I can speak, even when I’m out of town, so they’ve been on the phone all day.”
“Anything you can tell me about?”
“My friend Scott, over at the NSA, has been surfing the metadata for Russian mob stuff, and your name came up.”
“In what regard?”
“In what regard do you think?”
“Something to do with my demise, no doubt.”
“Bingo!”
“Anything specific?”
“The word ‘gala’ was mentioned. Or whatever the Russian for ‘gala’ is.”
“I’m scheduled for only one gala,” Stone said.
“I know, and since I plan to accompany you, wearing my
new dress, I’m going to take particular care to see that you end the evening in the same condition as you start it.”
“That’s very kind of you. Mike Freeman has similar intentions.”
“Not quite the same as mine,” she said.
“By the way, the Strategic Services Gulfstream 650 departs Le Bourget at one
A.M.
, after the gala. Mike says both you and Lance are welcome to bum a ride.”
“There’s a bed on that airplane, isn’t there?”
“Now that you mention it, yes.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
42
S
tone’s cell phone rang a little after eight. Holly was still sleeping soundly. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?” A woman’s voice. “I’m calling for Marcel duBois.”
“Yes?”
“He would be very pleased if you would join him for breakfast at his home. He has something important to discuss with you.”
Stone checked the bedside clock. “Of course. What time?”
“As soon as you can be here.”
“Give me half an hour,” he said. He tiptoed out of the room, shaved, showered, and dressed, then went downstairs. The courtyard was empty of his usual transport. He thought of
calling Rick LaRose, then thought better of it and got into a cab. Ten minutes later he was deposited in the courtyard of the duBois building. Two security types loitered near the door, but neither was dressed in the usual body armor. One of them gave him a little salute as he approached the door, then held it open for him. Stone had a good memory for faces, but he didn’t recognize the guard.
He rode the elevator upstairs and got off at the top level, where Marcel’s apartment was. “Marcel?” he called.
“In here,” duBois responded.
Stone walked through the living room and into Marcel’s study. The Frenchman sat in an armchair next to a man Stone didn’t recognize. He heard a small noise behind him and turned to find two hefty men sporting bulges under their arms.
“Stone Barrington,” Marcel said, “this is Yevgeny Majorov.” He nodded at his other guest.
“How do you do?” Stone asked, thinking fast. He was out of options at the moment.
“I do very well, Mr. Barrington,” Majorov said. “Please have a seat. I’m told breakfast will be ready in a moment.” His accent was more British than Russian.
As he spoke, a uniformed butler wheeled a large table into the room and uncovered several dishes.
“It’s a buffet,” Majorov said.
“I recognized it,” Stone replied.
The three men served their plates and sat down at a table already set for them.
“How did they get in?” Stone asked Marcel.
“I don’t know,” the Frenchman replied.
“Fear not, Mr. Barrington,” Majorov said, “I’m unarmed and not here to harm you.”
“What about your two minions?” Stone asked, jerking a thumb toward the men.
“They harm only those who attempt to harm me.”
“That’s benevolent of them. How many people did you harm getting into the building?”
“It was done quickly and quietly,” Majorov said, “and without serious injury to any person.”
Stone didn’t believe that for a moment.
They ate quietly for a bit, then Majorov spoke up. “I’m here on business,” he said.
“What sort of business?”
“I know that, in the past, you have rejected offers from my organization.”
“Quite true. Why do you think anything has changed?”
“Because the leadership of my organization has changed.”
“In what respect?”
“I am now its chief executive, instead of my late brother.”
“I fail to see the difference.”
“My brother tended toward bluntness in business and relied on violence instead of negotiation to achieve his ends.”
“I’m acquainted with his techniques.”
“My brother also tended toward the lowball offer when seeking new assets.”
“Yes.”
“When I took charge of the organization I began a top-to-bottom reorganization, eliminating a number of older members who relied on my brother’s techniques to achieve success. The Neanderthals are gone.”
“Leaving what?”
“Civilized men, like myself, who wish to conduct our affairs in a more straightforward manner.”
“Like the two—no, three recent attempts on my life?”
“I wish to apologize for that. We had previously relied on a French national who tended to overstep.”
“That would be Jacques Chance?”
“Regrettably, yes. I should mention that his actions were exacerbated by your attentions to his sister. As a result, we have severed all ties to him. He was a holdover from my brother’s regime, and even so, we regard his actions as business, not personal.”
Stone ignored the Mafia-esque reference. “Frankly, after Jacques’s sudden disappearance from public life, I was surprised to hear that he was still alive.”
“You may put that down to regime change,” Majorov said. “I hope his absence from the scene will clear the air between us and allow us to do business on a more normal basis.”
“You can hope.”
Marcel suppressed a laugh. “Perhaps, Stone, we can hear out Mr. Majorov, then discuss it between us.”
“As you wish, Marcel.”
“First of all,” Majorov said, “I am willing to put aside your involvement in the death of my brother.”
“I had no such involvement,” Stone said, “in spite of his repeated attempts on my life and that of my son and his friends.”
“I have good reason to attach the involvement of an associate of yours to my brother’s death,” Majorov said, sounding angry for the first time.
“And whom would that be?”
“A fugitive from American justice named Theodore Fay, I believe.”
“You may believe what you wish,” Stone said, “but I have good reason to believe that no such person exists.”
“Perhaps you know him under another name?”
“And what name would that be?”
Majorov reddened. “I have been unable to discover that, but I am sure that he exists and that he killed not only my brother, but at least four of his associates.”
“Are you referring to the men who were attempting to kill my son and his friends in Arizona?”
“Again, you are referring to a regime in my organization that no longer exists. May we not begin anew with a clean slate?”
“We may not,” Stone said.
“Stone,” Marcel interjected, “let’s hear what Mr. Majorov has to say.”
“If you insist, Marcel.”
“Mr. Barrington,” Majorov said, “my organization has
acquired a majority position in a chain of fine hotels in Russia and Eastern Europe called the Ikon Group.”
“I know these hotels,” Marcel said. “They are fairly good hostelries, but they could use much improvement.”
“We are prepared to make that investment,” Majorov said, “and we are prepared to make an attractive offer for the Arrington Group, whose expertise would be of benefit to us in refining our hotels. Our offer would be a sum greater than the current value of your hotels.”
“By whose standards?” Marcel asked.
“By objective assessments by real estate experts in Los Angeles and Paris.”
“All right, Marcel,” Stone said, “I have heard out Mr. Majorov, and now I wish to say that I have no interest in any offer from his organization and no interest in hearing further from Mr. Majorov on the subject of our hotels—or on any other subject, for that matter.” He turned to Majorov. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Majorov was redder, now, and his hands trembled slightly as he spoke. “Perfectly clear,” he said. “But I wish you to remember that I made this offer in good faith, and that you insulted me.”
“I rejected your offer,” Stone said. “Any insult is your inference.”
Majorov stood, knocking over a glass at his table setting. His two companions swiftly moved to either side of him.
Stone was eyeing a sharp-looking knife on the table.
“I should tell you, Mr. Barrington,” Majorov said, “that the
conflict in my organization has not entirely ended, and that there are still those who would regard your absence from the scene as beneficial.”
“I should tell you, Mr. Majorov,” Stone replied, “that I will hold you entirely responsible for any further attempt on the persons of M’sieur duBois or myself or any of our associates or properties. And you may regard that as personal, not business.”
Majorov threw his napkin onto the table and stalked from the room, accompanied by his two bodyguards.
“Whew!” Marcel said. “That man appeared in my bedroom this morning and frightened me half to death. I thought you dealt with him brilliantly.”
“I don’t think either of us is through dealing with him,” Stone said.
43
S
tone had a cup of coffee with Marcel and tried to calm him down. When he went downstairs there were no guards present outside the building. He went back inside and looked around the ground floor, then he heard a banging noise and traced it to a closed door. He opened it and found a supply closet containing half a dozen people, bound and gagged, sitting on the floor.
Stone freed one of them and told him to free the others. “Then I suggest you resume your posts and do your work with more care.” He left the building and found a cab in the street. Strangely, he found comfort in being in an ordinary taxi rather than an armored van. “Saint-Germain-des-Prés,” he said to
the driver in his best French, which he knew made him sound like an American schoolboy working on his pronunciation.