Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

3





The driver delivered Stone into the hands of a doorman at the Plaza Athénée who directed him to the front desk, where a man in a dark suit greeted him. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “We were concerned about you when you didn’t turn up yesterday.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Stone said. “I was unavoidably detained, and I couldn’t call.”

The man nodded and handed Stone an International Herald Tribune. “Would you like a paper delivered every day?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And how long will you be with us?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll have to let you know.”

“That will be fine. Your suite is ready.”

Stone followed the bellman, who carried his briefcase, to the elevator, then to the top floor. The suite was larger than he needed and filled with sunlight. There were French doors leading to a terrace.

The bellman handed him his briefcase. “You have no other luggage, sir?”

“It’s being sent from the airport,” Stone said.

“We’ll see that it’s delivered immediately upon arrival.”

The doorbell rang, and Stone opened it. Another bellman stood there with his two cases on a luggage cart. Stone directed him to the dressing room.

“Would you like anything pressed?” the man asked as he set down the bags.

“Let me see.” Stone opened the two large cases and found that everything had been removed, then stuffed in haphazardly. “Please have everything pressed but the underwear and socks,” Stone said, removing suits. He noted that he was traveling with a dinner jacket, something he only did if some event at his destination would require it.

“We’ll have everything back as soon as possible,” the man said. Stone tipped both bellmen and closed the door behind them, then he got his charger from his briefcase and plugged in his iPhone. He sat down and had a look through the Trib; all the news was fresh to him. He called the front desk and asked if they had any old Tribs and was told no. He had just sat down again when his phone buzzed. He went to the desk, picked it up, and sat down. He didn’t recognize the calling number.

“Hello?”

“Stone? It’s Holly.”

“Oh, hello. I was told you were at a retreat and couldn’t be reached.”

“I’m at a conference of department heads, at our training facility, the Farm,” she said. “They made us turn in our cell phones, but somebody brought me a message from Whit Douglas in Paris, and he told me what had happened to you.”

“Good, that saves me from having to explain it again,” Stone said. “I’m afraid I don’t know any more than he told you.”

“No memories have returned?”

“Not yet. Can you help?”

“No. When I left you that morning I went straight to my apartment and left my luggage, then went to my office and was summoned to Fort Peary, in Virginia.”

“Wait a minute, you moved your things into your apartment? Did we have a fight or something?”

“No, but it was intimated to me from the top that Langley would feel more comfortable if I weren’t shacking up with you.”

“That was very narrow-minded of them.”

“Well, we’re getting a lot of attention from the press since the thwarted bombing, and they didn’t want photographs of me arriving at or leaving your house at odd hours.”

“What’s happened in that regard since I last saw you?”

“Well, all hell broke loose in the press,” Holly said. “I only escaped the reporters because I ran back to the office immediately after Viv and I dealt with the perps, so she got all the attention, which was just fine with me and with Langley, too. They don’t like our names appearing in the press under such circumstances. They’re giving me the Intelligence Star medal, but then I have to give it right back. The Agency calls these decorations ‘jockstrap medals’ because we never get to wear them.”

“Congratulations.”

“How are you feeling after your ordeal?”

“I don’t remember an ordeal, so I guess I feel okay.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know. Before I do, I’d like to at least know why I’m here.”

“We’d like to know that, too. We don’t like people associated with the Agency being drugged. I don’t know how you escaped being interrogated by somebody, or even tortured.”

“Now, there’s a pleasant thought—that somebody might want to torture me.”

“Well, maybe not, since they didn’t. This whole thing is baffling.”

“Tell me about it,” Stone said wryly.

“Listen, I’ve got to get to my first meeting of the day. Oh, by the way, the president has made the appointment of Lance Cabot to succeed Kate Lee. Hearings start tomorrow.”

“I’ll look for them on TV.”

“Don’t bother. They’ll be public only long enough for the press to get some shots. Everything else will be in closed sessions.”

“Okay, I won’t bother.”

“You’re sure you don’t remember anything yet?”

“Not yet. Oh, when I opened my luggage I found a tuxedo, which I thought was odd, since I don’t travel with one unless I know I’ll need it.”

“I guess you must have missed the party, then. Gotta run. I’ll be back in the office in a couple of days if you need to reach me.”

They said goodbye and hung up. Stone sat at the desk, staring into his briefcase. He didn’t know what to do; he had no business to conduct in Paris; he had no social events to attend; he didn’t know anybody in Paris, except the people he’d met at the embassy earlier. He was hungry, though, so he ordered a sandwich from room service, then he phoned Woodman & Weld’s managing partner, Bill Eggers, with whom he was supposed to have met three or four days ago. Maybe Bill could shed some light on why he was in Paris.

“Mr. Eggers’s office,” the secretary said.

“Hi, it’s Stone. Is he in yet?”

“No, and he won’t be.”

“Can I reach him on his cell?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s fishing or shooting moose or something in the wilds of northern Maine and can’t be reached.”

“I’m in Paris. Ask him to call me when he returns.”

“That won’t be until the end of next week.”

“Never mind, then.” Stone hung up.

He was eating forty-five minutes later when he heard the doorbell, and an envelope was slid under his door. He put down the sandwich, opened the door—nobody there—then closed it and picked up the envelope. His name was written on it in beautiful calligraphy, but there was no return address. He opened it and extracted a card.

Dinner is at eight o’clock this evening, black tie. A car will call for you at your hotel at seven-forty-five. The same calligraphy, but it was unsigned. The paper appeared to be expensive.

Stone went back to his sandwich, but the phone rang, and he had to get up again. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Amanda Hurley. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you.” Who the hell was Amanda Hurley?

“From the plane, remember?”

“Of course.”

“Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ve booked a table for us at Lasserre, on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. Do you know it?”

“I went there once some years ago.”

“Is that all right, then?”

“Yes, fine.”

“I’ve got to go somewhere for drinks first, so I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty.”

“Good.”

“The table is in your name. See you then.” She hung up.

Stone went back to his sandwich, reflecting that he was now attending a dinner party at an unknown place with unknown people, then having dinner with a woman he couldn’t remember.

His calendar was filling up.