Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

28





Stone and Helga arrived back at the Plaza Athénée and got on the elevator.

“Excuse me,” Helga said, pressing both her button and Stone’s, “but I’m tired, and I’d rather sleep alone. Please don’t take offense.”

“Of course not,” Stone said. “That party made me pretty tired, too.” The elevator arrived at his floor; he kissed her, then the doors closed, and she continued up to her floor.

Stone let himself into his suite, got undressed, and fell into bed. He was asleep almost instantly. He began dreaming.

He was back on the Air France flight from New York, sitting in his seat, reading a magazine and sipping a mimosa—orange juice and champagne. Amanda Hurley was across the aisle, and the sixtyish woman in the Chanel suit was making her way down the aisle. He turned and looked over his shoulder: Aldo Saachi was seated directly behind him. Then he looked across the airplane, past Amanda, and saw Majorov across the other aisle. The Chanel woman came closer, then suddenly a chime was ringing. He looked ahead at the sign on the bulkhead, expecting the seat belt light to be turned on, but it was not. The chime seemed to get louder. The Chanel woman came closer and seemed to lose her balance, teetering toward Stone.

He jerked awake, but the chime was still ringing, and someone was knocking loudly on his door. He got out of bed, grabbed a robe, and looked through the peephole. Two men in suits stood outside. “Yes?” he yelled. One of the men held up an identity card, and Stone was able to read the words “Préfecture de Police.” He opened the door. “Yes?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“We must speak with you. May we come in?”

Stone turned on the master light switch, illuminating his sitting room. “Yes, come in.” What the hell could the police want with him?

“Please be seated, Mr. Barrington,” the older of the two, a man in his forties, said. His companion, who was perhaps ten years younger, stood silently and watched, a notebook in his hand.

“Have a seat yourself,” Stone said, and everybody got comfortable. “Now, how may I help you?” He glanced at the digital clock on the desk: 3:40.

“I am Detective Inspector Claire,” the older man said. “Would you kindly account for your actions of earlier this evening?”

“Why? What is this about?”

“Please, Mr. Barrington, indulge us.”

Stone sighed, then recalled that he had spent many an evening of his youth in their position. “I spent the evening at a party at the Russian Embassy,” Stone replied.

“And who at the party can confirm your presence there?” Claire asked.

“Oh, let’s see,” Stone said, staring at the ceiling as if to concentrate. “The American ambassador; the commercial attaché at our embassy, Mr. LaRose; the Russian ambassador; oh, and M’sieur Marcel duBois.”

At the mention of that name the younger detective, who had been writing in his notebook, stopped and looked up at Stone.

“Anything else?” Stone asked.

“Were you in the company of a woman at this party?” Claire asked.

“Yes, I was.”

“And her name?”

“Helga Becker. She lives on the top floor of this hotel.”

“Did you return to the hotel in her company?”

“I did.”

“At what time did you arrive here?”

“I think around ten-thirty.”

“Did you go to her suite with her?”

“No, we took the elevator up together, but I got off at this floor, and she continued upstairs.”

“Mr. Barrington, do you possess a firearm?”

Stone nearly said no, but reconsidered. Lying to the police was not a good idea. “Yes, I do.”

“May I see it, please?”

Stone got up, went to the desk, opened a drawer, and removed the small pistol Lance had given him. He also picked up his passport and slipped it into the pocket of his robe before returning to his seat.

Claire accepted the pistol in its holster. He popped out the magazine and worked the action to be sure it was unloaded, then he smelled the breach and the barrel. “How is it that you, a foreign visitor, would be armed?”

Stone decided to give him a short version: “An official of the American government was concerned for my safety and gave it to me. Earlier that day, an apparent attempt had been made on our lives. A large truck rammed our car about one hundred meters from here.”

“Ah, yes,” Claire said, “I know of this event. Who else was in the car with you?”

“I’m sure you already have their names,” Stone said. “Now, would you please tell me why you are calling on me at this ungodly hour?”

The two detectives exchanged a glance.

“We are investigating a homicide,” Claire replied.

“A homicide where and who?” Stone asked.

“In Ms. Becker’s suite,” Claire replied.

Stone was startled. “Is Ms. Becker all right?” he asked.

“She is quite safe, I assure you,” Claire said. “She is at the headquarters of the Prefecture of Police, helping us with our inquiries.”

“Did she witness the homicide?” Stone asked.

“As far as we know, she was the only person in her suite besides the deceased.”

Stone didn’t like the sound of that. “And who died?”

“Are you acquainted with a person who calls himself Aldo Saachi?”

“Yes, I’ve met him.”

“When, and under what circumstances?”

“We were first introduced at a dinner party at the home of Marcel duBois, then I ran into him the evening before last at the Ulyanov Gallery, in Montmartre, at the opening of an art show. I also saw him at the party last evening at the Russian Embassy, though we did not speak. He seemed quite healthy at the time.”

“You are friends, then?”

“Certainly not. On the two occasions when we actually spoke, we exchanged only a few words.”

“Are you aware of the true identity of this man, Saachi?”

“I’ve heard rumors that he is an Albanian named Hoxha.”

“Ah, yes, quite so. You seem to know a lot about this Saachi.”

“Only what I’ve told you. I am an attorney, a lawyer. May I go to your headquarters and see Ms. Becker?”

“Are you licensed to practice law in France?”

“I am not.”

“Then you may not see her. However, I think it would be a good idea if you got dressed and came with us.”

“For what purpose?”

“We wish to investigate your story and question you further.”

Stone handed the detective his passport, reflecting that Lance Cabot had been prescient in giving it to him. “I’m sorry, but I must decline to accompany you. If you have any further questions of me, please ask them here and now, because the next time we speak I will be accompanied by my legal representative, who will, no doubt, advise me not to answer any questions.”

Claire examined the passport with care. “Why do you have a diplomatic passport?”

“Your question is not relevant to your reasons for visiting me,” Stone said.

“Please, sir, I will determine what is relevant and what is not.”

“No, I will make that determination for myself,” Stone said. “Now, if you have further questions, please ask them or leave.”

Claire glanced at his colleague, who shook his head, then they both got to their feet. “We may wish to question you again,” Claire said, “so do not leave Paris.”

Stone walked to the desk, got a business card from his briefcase, and handed it to Claire. “I will go where I wish, when I wish,” Stone said. “If I decide to leave Paris, you may contact me at my office in New York.” He walked to the door, opened it, and stood back. “Good night—or rather, good morning—gentlemen,” he said.

The two men left, and Stone closed the door behind them.

He found his iPhone and pressed the speed-dial number for Rick LaRose. It rang several times before it was answered.

“Yes?”

“Rick, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“What time is it?”

“Nearly four A.M.”

“What’s going on?”

“Aldo Saachi has been shot and killed in Helga Becker’s suite at the Plaza Athénée, and she is being held at the headquarters of the Prefecture of Police.”

“What?”

“You heard me the first time. It sounds as though Helga is their only suspect. They wouldn’t let me see her.”

“Good God! It wasn’t supposed to happen that way!”

Stone was speechless. By the time he had recovered enough to speak, Rick had hung up.