Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

18





Stone sat at the desk in Helga’s sitting room at the Plaza Athénée, using her computer and printer, naked. Helga’s report to Lance was beside him, and he consulted as he wrote. “You’re really going to say this?” he asked.

“All of it. It will be good for Lance.”

“Okay, I’m with you. Small differences: where you say you kept my attention through the night, I’m saying you kept me at attention.”

“Perfect.”

Stone printed the document, then they both put them into Plaza Athénée envelopes and addressed them to Lance. Helga hung over his shoulders, pinching his nipples. “Oh, no,” Stone said, “I’ll be late for lunch with Marcel.”

“Are you going to his home?”

“No, to his office.”

“His city home is the top two floors of his office building. The one in the Bois is his country home—well, one of them.”

Stone got into his clothes and kissed Helga enthusiastically.

“Tonight?” she asked.

“Of course. Book us someplace you love, but this time and in the future, it’s on me.”

“As you wish.”

Stone was just closing the door to his suite when his cell phone began to buzz. “Hello?”

“Stone?” The voice sounded very far away.

“Bill?”

“What the f*ck is going on? We had this airplane land on the lake last night and had to put up the pilot in the guest house, and now I’m phoning you in the middle of the night, almost.”

“Bill, I’m sorry about that, but this is an emergency.”

“What sort of emergency?”

“Did you and I meet with a Frenchman named Marcel duBois?”

“What, you don’t remember?”

Stone gave the briefest possible explanation of why he didn’t remember.

“And how much time did you lose?”

“About four days, starting after Dino’s wedding. Bill, why am I in Paris?”

“Because duBois invited you, schmuck.”

“Why didn’t he invite you?”

“Because he wants The Arrington.”

“Wants it? What do you mean?”

“He stayed there for a couple of days when he was meeting with his West Coast dealer for his car, and he was overwhelmed. He wants to buy it—lock, stock, and wine cellar.”

“Holy shit. Did he make an offer?”

“He said he’d give you one in writing when you came to Paris. Has he?”

“No, but I’ve seen him only once, at a dinner party at his house. I’m having lunch with him in less than an hour.”

“Well, expect to hear a lot of zeros thrown around.”

“Okay. Did I do anything for him while he was in New York?”

“Do anything? What do you mean?”

“I mean favors.”

“You mean like getting him laid?”

“No, no. Did I introduce him to anybody of consequence?”

“Well, there was me.”

“Besides you?”

“Not that I know of. Listen, the firm wants his business for everything he does in the States, so sell him the f*cking hotel, will you?”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so. Does Mike Freeman know anything about this?”

“I don’t know. Did you tell him about it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call him after lunch.”

“Great. Now, can I give this pilot his satphone and go back to sleep?”

“Sure, Bill, and thanks for bringing me up to date.”

“Oh, Stone?”

“Yes?”

“There was one other thing about our meeting.”

“What?”

“I can’t remember. I’m drawing a blank.”

“Has somebody drugged you, too?”

“No, I’m just having a senior moment, okay?”

“Take your time.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t remember what it was. I’ll have to call you later.”

“How are you going to do that without a satphone?”

“You have a point.”

“Tell the pilot you’re keeping it and that you’ll send it to Lance when you get back to New York.”

“Good idea!”

“Go back to sleep, Bill.”

“I’ll never get back to sleep now.”

“Well, go moosing, or something.” But Eggers had already hung up.





19





Marcel’s car was waiting for Stone when he arrived downstairs, and on the way to lunch he thought a lot. The pieces of his four lost days were falling into place, but he knew only what others had told him. He still remembered nothing, and he was beginning to think he never would.

They arrived in front of a traditional building of twelve stories or so on a broad avenue. They drove through a gate and into an inner courtyard, where Stone departed the car and was directed to a door. Behind that sat a uniformed security guard.

“M’sieur Barrington?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Please travel in this elevator,” he said, pointing to one of three.

“Which floor?”

“There is one button only,” the guard replied.

Stone pressed the only button, and the car rose for half a minute, and the doors opened into a vestibule. A man in a white jacket and black trousers with highly polished shoes greeted him and led him into a living room that Stone estimated to be fifty feet in length, furnished with sofas and chairs in groups, scattered about the room. Stone thought it must be a perfect room for a very large party. They continued toward the rear of the building into a large, paneled library, where a spiral staircase led up to a second level that carried the circumference of the room. A table was set for two in the center of the room, and Marcel duBois sat at a desk at the end before large windows, speaking German into a telephone. He waved a hand, indicating that Stone should sit on a sofa.

Stone did. While duBois finished his conversation Stone looked at the beautifully bound volumes, perhaps two thousand, he thought, perhaps three, lining the room, and there was still room for a dozen or so large paintings—old masters, mostly.

DuBois hung up, navigated around the desk, and came to Stone’s sofa. Stone stood and greeted him, and they sat down.

“Are you well, Stone?”

“I am very well, thank you.”

“Have you seen more of the lovely Helga?”

“I have, and with much pleasure. Last night she made me a very good offer to become her kept man—an apartment, clothes, the works.”

DuBois threw back his head and laughed. “You must really have impressed her, because that is the exact opposite of her usual operating technique. How did you respond?”

“With an old American aphorism which says ‘Why buy a cow when milk is so cheap?’ She was buying dinner, and I told her that was reward enough.”

DuBois laughed again. “Wonderful, wonderful.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “Forgive me if I dispense with business before lunch.”

“Of course.”

DuBois handed Stone the envelope. “This is my offer for The Arrington.”

Stone opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. Typed on it was a number: one billion dollars.

“What do you think?” duBois asked.

“I think it’s low,” Stone replied. “I know what the land is worth, and I know how much we spent on construction, landscaping, and staffing.”

“Forgive me, my offer does not include the land. I would continue to lease it from you on favorable terms.”

“Then your offer is a serious one,” Stone said, “but I’m not inclined to accept it. Please let me explain.”

“Please do.”

“This is the first business I have ever been involved in that I and my investors built from the ground up. Therefore, I am very attached to it, and the property includes the house where my son grew up.”

“I see,” duBois said, looking at the ceiling. “Perhaps I can make the offer more attractive.”

“Please don’t,” Stone said. “Let me suggest another alternative.”

“I am all ears,” duBois said.

“We would like to build more Arringtons—we thought in the United States. But building some in Europe might be a good idea, too.”

“That was my fallback position,” duBois said. “As it happens, I inherited a chain of hotels from my father—nothing fancy, meant for commercial travelers and tourists on a budget. There are forty-odd of them, all pedestrian and beginning to decay, but perhaps a dozen of them are built on spacious plots of land in neighborhoods that began gentrifying a decade ago and that are ripe for razing and redevelopment.”

“Very interesting,” Stone said. “We could provide design and decorating services, in line with the look of the Bel-Air property, and train staff to our standards. And, although I and my investors are not in your class of capitalists, we would also be able to offer investment in the group.”

“Shall we get specific, then?” duBois asked.

“Oh, please, no. I do not fancy myself negotiating a business deal with you. I am not equipped for that. If we agree in principle, then I will send representatives to work out a concrete arrangement.”

“I agree in principle,” duBois said. “How about you?”

“I, too, agree in principle.”

“Then,” duBois said, rising, “let’s talk no more of it and enjoy our lunch.” He led Stone to the table, where their first course, a slab of terrine, awaited them. A waiter held Stone’s chair and poured the wine.

“You know,” duBois said, “I have never done business in America, though I have, of course, dealt with many Americans in Europe. I like their straightforward attitude. They are, or seem to be, guileless. Of course, one must, as you say, dot i’s and cross t’s as in any business arrangement.”

“I hope to see you do a lot of business in the States,” Stone said, “and speaking for Woodman & Weld, we would be very pleased to represent you in any venture you might undertake.”

“Thank you, Stone. I have already done my due diligence on your firm, and I would very much like you to represent me.”

“Thank you, Marcel.”

“I also admire the American fashion of governing, and I just read a very interesting new book by a former CIA officer. I was very impressed with some of the operations the Agency conducted.”

Stone had an inspiration. “You’re interested in intelligence work, then?” he asked.

“Intelligence is half of business,” duBois said, smiling. “I could not survive without it.”

“Perhaps you have read in the papers that our director of Central Intelligence is retiring.”

“I have, and I understand you are acquainted with Mrs. Lee and the president. Do you know who will succeed Mrs. Lee at the CIA?”

“I do. His name is Lance Cabot, and he has recently been testifying before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. I believe he will be confirmed within a matter of days.”

“Is he a good man?”

“The best for the job, I think. As it happens, he is in Paris at the moment. Would you like to meet him?”

DuBois’s face lit up. “I would like very much to do so.”

“It would have to be on short notice. He’ll be returning to the States shortly.”

“I am available at all times,” duBois said.

“Perhaps I can reach him now.”

“Please do.”

“Excuse me for a moment.” Stone rose and walked to a corner of the room and got out his cell phone. He called the number that Lance had programmed into the new phone.

“Yes?” Lance said.

“It’s Stone.”

“Good day.”

“Good day. Would you like to meet Marcel duBois?”

“Yes! When?”

“In an hour?”

“Yes, good!”

Stone gave him the address, hung up, and returned to the table. “He will be here in one hour,” he said to duBois.

“Astonishing! You are full of surprises, Stone.”

“Merely a happy coincidence,” Stone said. And one, he thought, that would get him off the hook with Lance. Now the man could recruit his own asset, and Stone could avoid further entanglements with the Agency.