Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

27





The following morning Stone sat at the breakfast table in Helga’s suite and glanced through the Paris papers. Marcel’s Blaise had been chosen best in show, and there were multiple photos of him in and out of the car. He was quoted in the International Herald Tribune as saying, “On to New York!”

“It looks as though Marcel has a major success on his hands,” Helga said, reading over Stone’s shoulder while massaging his neck.

“I’m sure it’s not his first,” Stone said, “but it must be very satisfying for him.”

Helga’s phone rang, and she picked it up. “Yes? Good morning.” She listened for a moment. “That’s very kind of you. Please hold for a moment.” She turned toward Stone. “It’s the ambassador’s secretary at the Russian Embassy. They are giving an impromptu party for Marcel this evening, and we are on a list that he gave them to invite. Do you want to go?”

Stone shrugged. “If you do.”

She turned back to the phone. “Yes, I’d love to, and you may check Mr. Barrington off your list. He’d like to come, too.” She hung up. “Well, that’s very interesting.”

“How so?”

“Why would the Russian ambassador give a party for Marcel?”

“Perhaps he does some business in Russia,” Stone said.

• • •

Stone spent his day calling Joan and dictating letters, then working out a framework for a deal with Marcel. Late in the afternoon Rick LaRose called.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Pretending to work,” Stone replied.

“Want to go to a party tonight?”

“I can’t. Helga and I are going to the Russian Embassy.”

Rick laughed. “So am I.”

“You want to be seen by the opposition?”

“I’m accompanying the ambassador as the commercial attaché. Marcel has very large business interests in Russia, so many of the guests will be business types in town for the auto show.”

“You make it sound dull.”

“I hope it won’t be,” Rick said. “About an hour after you arrive, we’ll bump into each other, and I’ll point out the players to you.”

“Will that keep me awake?”

“I didn’t promise you excitement. See you there.” Rick hung up.

• • •

They took a taxi, and when they arrived at the Russian Embassy, they found a Blaise parked in the forecourt, on display. Both gull-wing doors and the hood were open, and a photographer was shooting it from every angle.

Inside there was a formal reception line, and they had to work their way through that; then there was caviar, chilled vodka, and Russian champagne on offer. By the time they got to Marcel, Stone had a vodka buzz going.

“Did you see the photographer outside?” Marcel asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“The Russians are photographing the Blaise because they want to copy it.”

“That seems like a stupid idea,” Stone said.

“They have a history of this,” Marcel said. “Do you know that during World War Two an American B-17 bomber made a forced landing in Siberia, and the Russians—or should I say, the Soviets—dismantled it, copied every part of it, and when they assembled their new airplane, it was so heavy they couldn’t get it off the ground?”

“Then let’s wish them the same success with copying the Blaise,” Stone said, raising his glass.

“Stone, have you given any thought as to how you would like to proceed with our Arrington business?”

“I have, and I’d like to get together with you to discuss it.”

“Lunch tomorrow at my home, then?”

“Yes, fine.”

“I’ll send the car for you at noon.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll get a taxi.”

“I’ll send you home in the car, then,” Marcel said.

Stone looked across the room and saw Aldo Saachi, né Hoxha, talking with someone. While he talked he stared at Stone and Marcel.

“Marcel, do you know Aldo Saachi well?”

“Not very well. Why do you ask?”

“Helga and I met him at a gallery opening last night—the Ulyanov Gallery, in Montmartre.”

“Ah, yes, I had an invitation but declined. It is a very odd gallery, no?”

“How do you mean?”

“First of all, ‘Ulyanov’ is the real name of Vladimir Lenin. An odd reference for a Russian art gallery in their time of democracy, yes?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And it is operated by a former citizen of Albania, who is close to Aldo.”

“Oh?”

“Wheels within wheels. I think the business of this gallery is not art but something else. Perhaps something our friend who works in Virginia would like to know about?”

“A good opportunity to enlighten him,” Stone said. “Then make him tell you something.”

“Good advice.”

Stone saw Rick enter with the American ambassador, waited a few minutes, then sidled over to him.

“Good evening,” Rick said. He was wearing another of his new suits. He introduced Stone to the ambassador.

“Ah, yes,” the ambassador said. “Mr. Barrington, you’re one of Lance’s, aren’t you?”

“I’m a consultant to the Agency,” Stone replied.

“Yes, of course,” the ambassador said with a knowing wink. He turned to speak to someone else.

Stone turned back to Rick. “When you get a moment, will you kindly explain to the ambassador that I’m not one of you?”

“I would, but it would only confuse him,” Rick replied.

Stone sighed. “All right, but now please, make this evening exciting for me.”

“I’ll do my best,” Rick said. “This event is a hotbed of spies of all sorts—political and industrial. You see the short, heavy man over there with the Russian ambassador’s wife? That’s the German intelligence service’s man in Paris. And over there is the Italian ambassador with a man from Ferrari, who is probably here just to sneer at the Blaise. And then there’s Aldo Saachi. Remember him?”

“Yes, I do.” Stone told him of the events of last evening.

“I wish you hadn’t gone there,” Rick said, “but now I don’t suppose it matters because everybody in town has seen us together here. You will now be known by everyone as Agency, and there’s nothing you can do about it, short of slugging me and walking out.”

“Is that what you suggest?”

“No, no. The ambassador would have a cow. Just learn to live with it. And with the consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“There will be some probing, I expect.”

“I think I should just conclude my business in Paris and get back to New York,” Stone said.

“I was going to suggest that, but I didn’t think you’d go for it.”

“I’m having lunch with Marcel tomorrow. I think after that I will wend my way home.”

“And happy contrails to you,” Rick replied.