Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

13





Amanda was already sitting at a good table. Stone sat down, his back to the room, and patted his forehead with his napkin.

“I saw you outside leaning against the pole,” she said. “You looked as though you were screwing up your courage to come in here. Is it me?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“What was that, then?”

“I just got some good news.”

“That’s how you react to good news? I’m glad it wasn’t bad news.”

“I got the bad news earlier and had to sweat it out until I got the good news.”

“What was the good news?”

“That the bad news wasn’t true.”

“What was the bad news?”

“That a friend of mine—no, my best friend in the world—and his new wife were killed in an airplane crash in St. Barts on their honeymoon.”

“But the good news fixed that?”

“Yes, the couple killed had the same surname.”

“And how did you hear about this?”

“A friend called me from the States.”

“So everything is all right now?”

“Yes, everything.”

“I gave the maître d’ your name, and he didn’t put me upstairs with the tourists. I’m impressed. How long since you were here?”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh. I should have suggested someplace else.”

“This is just fine—in fact, it’s my favorite place in Paris.”

“And you have a high tolerance for choucroute?”

“I do.” Stone flagged down a waiter and ordered the dish for both of them. “And a beer?” he asked Amanda.

“That’s good.”

The waiter went away and came back with two of the big round glasses with their creamy heads.

Stone took a deep draught.

“Feel better now?”

“Much.” Stone glanced up at the mirror and saw the reflection of the man Rick LaRose had described as “opposition” taking the same seat he had the day before.

“See somebody you know?”

“Not know, just familiar.”

“The guy with the shaved head and the hooked nose?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a Russian spy.”

“You think he’s after Lipp’s choucroute recipe?”

She laughed. “Isn’t everybody?”

“He was here yesterday, too, that’s why he looks familiar.”

“Who were you with yesterday?”

“A friend from the embassy.”

“The American Embassy?”

“Yes. I passed out in a cab at the airport, and the driver took me to the embassy, where they . . . I don’t know what they did. I woke up there.”

“Passed out on the floor?”

“No, in a kind of hospital room.”

“They have hospital rooms at the American Embassy?”

“Just the one, as far as I know. It wasn’t a very nice room.”

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know, exactly, maybe twenty-four hours.”

“What kind of drug were you given?”

“Something called hypno something or other.”

“Hypnotol?”

“That’s it.”

“Jesus Christ, that stuff can kill you. It was only on the market for about ten minutes before the FDA yanked it. People were dropping like flies.”

“How do you know about this?”

“I read something about it in the science section of The New York Times.”

Their choucroute came and they attacked it.

“What part of the embassy was your hospital room in?”

“I don’t know,” Stone lied. He regretted having told her about the embassy.

“When you left, did you leave by the front door?”

“No, there was some sort of side entrance, through a garden.”

She put down her fork and looked at him hard, chewing. “You were in spookville,” she said.

“Beg pardon?”

“In the CIA offices, one floor down from the main entrance.”

“If you say so.”

“Why would they put you in a room in spookville?”

“When I passed out in the cab, the driver went through my pockets and found the card of a friend of mine who works for them. He showed it to a marine guard, and they took me there.”

“Did they grill you when you woke up?”

“Not the way I’m being grilled now,” Stone said with some irritation.

She held up a hand. “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what happened to you.”

“So am I.”

“Was the friend you were here with yesterday a spook?”

“He’s the commercial attaché.”

“That means he’s a spook. How do you know him?”

“I met him at a party in the Bois de Boulogne the other night.”

“At the racing club?”

“No, at someone’s home.”

“If you know someone who owns a house in the Bois, then you’re mixing with a high-altitude crowd.”

Stone shrugged. “He sold me a car.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, you were at Marcel duBois’s house?”

“How did you know that?”

“He’s been working on this supercar for years, and the papers say it’s ready to hit the market, and he lives in the Bois.”

“That’s the one.”

“The Blaise?”

“Yes.”

“It’s named after his son, Blaise, who was killed in a racing accident several years ago.”

“He didn’t mention that.”

“How do you know Marcel duBois?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s one of the things you don’t remember?”

“Yes. I got a dinner invitation, and I was curious, so I went.”

“Who else was there?”

“Tout le monde,” Stone replied. “Or at least, that part of it that counts. There were twenty-four at the table.”

“Who else did you meet there, besides the commercial attaché?”

“I don’t remember a lot of names. There was a Swedish woman named . . .”

“Helga Becker?”

“Are you sure you weren’t at this dinner party?”

“Absolutely sure. I’m not on M’sieur duBois’s invitation list.”

“So who is Helga Becker?”

“A famous divorcée and beauty. I heard she got a hundred thousand euros when she split with some Swedish businessman.”

“That much? Where did you hear that?”

“On the grapevine—you know how those things go.”

“Who is Marcel duBois anyway?”

“You don’t know?”

“If I did, I don’t remember.”

“But he remembered you.”

“Yes, he seemed to.”

“Well, if he sold you a Blaise, you’re probably the first man in the world to own one. It’s not being released until next week. DuBois must owe you for something.”

“I was wondering about that,” Stone said. “Tell me about him.”

“He’s said to be the richest man in France, maybe even Europe.”

“How’d he make his money?”

“The hard way: he inherited it. Or at least enough to give him a running start in the world. He’s into everything. He’s the Warren Buffett of France.”

“Well, good for him.”

“He’s almost unknown in the States, but . . .” She looked at him.

Stone’s brow was screwed up.

“You remembered something, didn’t you?” She leaned forward. “What?”

“Unknown in the States,” Stone said. “That rings a bell, but I can’t remember where I’ve heard that. How could someone that rich be almost unknown in the States?”

“He’s a creature of France. He’d be known in certain circles in London or Milan, but I don’t think he’s ever even been to the States.”

“He’s been to New York,” Stone said. “I know that much.”

“How do you know that?”

Stone sighed. “I don’t know.”