Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

29





Stone drifted awake. He looked at the clock on the desk: 10:20 A.M. and his bedroom seemed darker than usual at this hour. He was aware that he had had two dreams, and he remembered both of them with absolute clarity. He couldn’t remember ever having recalled a dream after waking. Then he realized that one of them had not been a dream: the one with the French policemen.

He went to the windows and opened the drapes. The Paris he had been experiencing for the past few days—one of crisp, sunny autumn days—was gone; it had been replaced by a darkened city whipped by gusty winds and lashed by pouring rain. He closed the drapes.

He shaved and showered, then phoned down a breakfast order, then he picked up the phone, called the American Embassy and asked for Dr. Keeler. He didn’t remember a first name.

“Dr. Keeler,” the man said.

“Good morning, Dr. Keeler,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington. I’ve had a dream I can’t interpret.”

“Freud, I’m not,” Keeler replied, “but tell me about it.”

Stone told him about the dream of his Air France flight. “It’s extremely unusual that I would remember a dream,” he said. “In fact, I’ve hardly ever done so.”

“I think what you have there is not a dream but a memory,” Keeler said. “Congratulations, you’re on the mend.”

“Thank you. What do I do now?”

“Remember something else,” Keeler said.

Stone thanked the man and hung up. His doorbell was chiming, and he shouted for the waiter to enter. The man wheeled in the table, and Stone started to eat.

The doorbell chimed again, and Stone shouted for the waiter to enter.

“I don’t have a key!” somebody yelled from the other side of the door. Stone opened the door and let in Rick LaRose. “Good morning, Rick. Would you like some breakfast?”

“Thank you, yes,” Rick replied. “Belgian waffles, three scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, and a pot of espresso.”

Stone pointed at the desk. “Speak into the phone,” he said.

Rick ordered his breakfast, then pulled up a chair to Stone’s table.

Stone poured him a cup of coffee. “Have you heard anything about Helga?” he asked.

“I put her into a car a couple of hours ago,” Rick replied. “By now, she’s on a private jet to Stockholm. She’ll be met there and driven to her divorce-won house on an island in the Stockholm archipelago. You won’t be hearing from her.”

“How did you get the Prefecture of Police to release her?”

“I didn’t. The ambassador spoke to the prefect of police personally and did some explaining. That’s the second time in less than a week he’s had to do that for us, and he was very unhappy about it—to put it mildly.”

“Do they have another suspect?” Stone asked.

“No.”

“Then what could the ambassador possibly have said to the prefect of police that would secure her release? Is she something more than one of your assets?”

Rick sighed. “Let me put it this way: Helga is something more than an Agency asset and something less than a CIA officer.”

“What lies between?”

“Consultants and contractors.”

“Which is Helga?”

“A contractor.”

“And what is she contracted to do?”

Rick finished the coffee, and his breakfast arrived. He dug in.

Stone waited until he had finished everything and was on his first cup of espresso. “Why don’t you weigh three hundred pounds?” he asked.

“I don’t eat this way every day,” Rick replied. “Only when I’m under stress and somebody else is buying.”

“Back to my question,” Stone said. “What is Helga contracted to do?”

“Helga was recruited as an asset about three years ago, then Lance felt that she might have what it takes to make an actual agent. She didn’t make it through all the training at the Farm, but two things about her stood out.”

“Was that an attempt at humor?” Stone said.

Rick ignored the question. “First, she turned out to be an excellent shot with a handgun and a rifle, and, being athletic, she was very good with other . . . tools, as well. Very strong, physically. And her psychological profile revealed her to be very strong mentally, as well—cool under pressure, ruthless when motivated, and not much burdened by conscience.”

“You’re not telling me she’s an—”

“That’s right, I’m not telling you that, but she wasn’t supposed to do it in her hotel suite. She came home and found Aldo Saachi waiting for her, expecting a roll in the hay, and he, you might say, insisted. Still, with no witnesses to support her story, the police were not inclined to believe her—thus, the intervention of the ambassador.”

“Well, that’s a breathtaking story,” Stone said. “I don’t think I’ve ever . . .” He seemed at a loss for words.

“F*cked an Agency contractor?” Rick offered, helpfully.

Stone shrugged. “You said something on the phone that puzzled me,” he said.

“What was that?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.’ I take it you had plans for Aldo?”

“Aldo was a pain in the ass,” Rick said, “but he became much more than that. He became a danger to, among other people, you.”

“Wait a minute,” Stone said, “don’t hang this on me.”

“And Marcel duBois.”

“Do you mean he was an actual physical threat?”

“Aldo was in the employ of . . . I don’t know quite what to call them—they don’t have a name. A cabal, I guess, is as good as any word to describe them. They are a criminally oriented group of ex–intelligence officers—KGB and Eastern European services, formerly Soviet Bloc countries.”

“With Majorov at the top?”

“Not at the top, but close.”

“And who’s at the top?”

“I dare not speak his name,” Rick said. “Because we’re not entirely sure.”

“My memory has started to return,” Stone said. “At least a slice of it.” He told Rick about the group on the Air France flight.

“That was Lance’s doing,” Rick said. “He bought the empty first-class seats on that flight. You had already booked, so he left you in place, since you are contractually bound not to talk about what might have gone on.”

“You mean, Aldo was supposed to meet his end on that flight?”

“No, but what happened on that flight was supposed to make him easier to deal with. We had envisioned an interrogation.”

“But I, ah, took his room reservation at the embassy?”

“You might say that.”

“Rick, why are you telling me all this? Wouldn’t Lance object to my knowing it?”

“Lance feels badly about what happened to you, and he wanted to help you fill in the gaps. He wants you happy.”

“I’m puzzled,” Stone said. “Why would he want that?”

“Because Marcel duBois is showing some reluctance to behave as an asset should. Lance said to tell you that, for the time being, he is your asset, not mine or Lance’s.”

“Oh, swell,” Stone said.

“All you have to do is listen to him, then report in.”

“That’s all there is to it?”

“Well, there is the fact that, in spite of the demise of Aldo Saachi, M’sieur duBois is not entirely out of the woods, no pun intended.” Rick drained his espresso cup. “Nor are you.”