Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

14





They left Brasserie Lipp and began strolling through the back streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, checking out gallery windows.

“Amanda, why do you think the bald guy at Lipp is a Russian spy?”

“He’s a well-known figure about town, turns up at gallery openings and the like, chatting up people. Much like your friend the commercial attaché, I expect.”

“Why would a ‘spook,’ as you call LaRose, be interested in me?”

“Did he seem to want anything from you?”

“He asked my advice about clothes. I took him to Charvet, where he spent more money than a diplomat should be able to.”

“That means he’s not a diplomat, he’s a spook.”

“Why would a spook have tens of thousands of dollars to spend on clothes? And why would he?” Stone asked.

“Maybe he has family money. A lot of the old boys came from that. As to why he would buy a lot of clothes, maybe he wants to fit in better in Paris. A spook would.”

“Well, he was wearing a rented tuxedo at duBois’s dinner party.”

“There you go. He’s probably just come in from an assignment in some station where clothes don’t make the man, like Africa.”

“How is it you know so much about the CIA?” Stone asked.

“If you live abroad long enough, you meet those people, just as you did. After a while, you get to know the drill with them. Who is your friend in the Agency?”

“She’s a retired army officer who joined them and seems to have done well.”

“How well?”

“She got promoted last year. She works directly for the director, I think.”

“So you are very well connected at the Agency.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“If you were connected there, you certainly wouldn’t.”

“Look, I’m an attorney and an investor. Any connections I may have arise from those two things.”

“How did you meet your lady friend, the spook?”

“Oh, it was years ago. I went down to Florida to take delivery of an airplane at the factory. I was in a local bank, getting a cashier’s check to pay for it, when a couple of people with shotguns walked in and robbed the bank. I saw them shoot a customer, then run. I did what I could for the man until the ambulance arrived, but by that time he was gone.

“He was about to marry a woman who was the local chief of police. A while after that she was in New York for something, and we had dinner.”

“That’s a bizarre story,” Amanda said. “In fact, it smacks of an Agency cover story.”

“Oh, come on! It’s a highly improbable story that just happens to be true in every respect.”

“Do you still have the airplane?”

“I traded it for something bigger and faster.”

“What airplane?”

“A Citation Mustang.”

“You fly it yourself?”

“I do.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Why do you know about airplanes?”

“Oh, I got my private license many years ago, but I couldn’t afford an airplane.”

“How would you know if a story smacked of an Agency cover story?”

“I’ve heard a few.”

“From whom?”

“Various folks.”

“Amanda, are you now or have you ever been associated with the CIA?”

That stopped her in her tracks, literally; they had been walking and she just stopped and stared at him.

“Well, come on,” Stone said. “Give me a straight answer.”

“Let me put it this way,” she said. “If I had been, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“You wouldn’t be able to tell me if you were still with them, but if you left, you have no obligation to dissemble when asked that question.”

“Why do you think I might be CIA?”

“You know too much about it not to be. And you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’ve given you the only answer I can,” she said.

“Ah now, that answers my question in part, but not the part about whether you’re still in the Agency’s employ.”

“All right, I’m not.”

“And why should I believe a trained liar?”

She burst out laughing. “I can’t win, can I?”

“Hang on,” Stone said. He had stopped in front of a gallery window and was staring at a painting inside. “Let’s go in,” he said. He led her into the shop and asked the woman inside if she could remove the painting from the window. She did so, and he looked closely at it and inquired of the price. A little haggling ensued, and Stone handed her his American Express card and his address.

“I don’t get it,” Amanda said as they waited for the transaction to be completed.

“Don’t get what?”

“You’re walking around Paris with an expert, and you don’t even ask my advice. Or my opinion, for that matter.”

“You might have disagreed with me,” he replied, “and my only criterion when buying art is whether I like it enough to want it in my home. But now that I’ve bought it, what do you think of it?”

She smiled. “If you hadn’t bought it I would have bought it myself for one of the collections I curate. You got a good price, too. Where did you learn about art?”

“From my mother, by osmosis. She was a painter.”

“Wait a minute, I’ve got it! Your mother was Matilda Stone?”

“She was.”

“Her work is on my permanent to-buy list, whenever it becomes available, not that it does very often.”

“In that case, you’re very smart. She’s on my permanent to-buy list, too. I’ve picked up two small paintings in the last year. I hope I won’t have to start competing with you.”

“You may have to,” she said.

“Tell you what: I’ll give you a generous reward for every picture of hers you lead me to.”

“My arrangement with my clients allows me to freelance,” she said. “You’re on.”

Stone signed the bill, and they left the shop. “You know,” he said as they strolled down the street, “I can see why you’re no longer a spook.”

“And why is that?”

“You can’t have been very good at it.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say. Why did you say it?”

“Because the bald guy from Lipp has been following us since we left. He’s across the street in a doorway now, pretending to look at a piece of sculpture.”

“Well, shit,” she said. “On the other hand, why do you think he’s following me?”

“You’re the ex-spook. Why would he follow me?”

“Maybe because he’s seen you at Lipp on two consecutive days, in the company of people he believes to be CIA?”

“Well,” Stone said, “I’m going to have to start hanging out with a better class of people.”