Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

32





At eight o’clock, Stone rapped on Marcel’s door. His guest was occupying the guest suite overlooking the garden, immediately below Stone’s bedroom. Stone led him down to the study and offered him a drink.

“What is that you are drinking?” Marcel asked.

“Knob Creek, a small-batch bourbon. Knob Creek is where Abraham Lincoln was born in a log cabin, in Kentucky.”

“I’ll try it, then,” Marcel said.

Stone poured the drinks and handed one to him. “You may find it peculiar at first, but the second one goes down more smoothly.”

Marcel took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “Interesting,” he said. He looked around the study. “You have a great deal of very fine woodwork in your house,” he said.

“Thank you. All of it was made by my father.”

“He was a designer?”

“A woodworker who later became a designer.”

“Tell me about him,” Marcel said.

“My parents were from old families in western Massachusetts, to the north, in New England. My father had been enrolled at Yale, following in his father’s footsteps, but he had always enjoyed working with wood, and he wanted to make a career of it. He and my mother were in love, contemplating marriage by this time.

“My grandfather was outraged that, instead of his son’s following him into the family business, a woolen mill, he wanted to enter a trade. He also disliked my father’s and mother’s left-wing politics. Both sets of parents forbade them to marry, and when they eloped, they were disowned. My mother was a painter, and they settled in the Village, where my father earned a meager living, wandering the Village with a toolbox, knocking on doors and offering to do odd jobs. In the meantime, he was drawing the sort of things he wanted to build.

“My great-aunt Matilda, for whom my mother was named, was the only family member who would still speak to them. She built this house and engaged my father to do all the woodwork—paneling, library, doors—everything. The commission kept them alive for three years, and when it was done, all of Aunt Matilda’s friends wanted my father’s work. He became well known in New York, and my mother became a very fine painter. The picture there is one of hers.” He indicated the painting over the sofa.

“She was very good indeed,” Marcel said. “A lovely style.”

“She has work hanging in the Metropolitan Museum.”

“I’m not surprised. Who are the other people we’re dining with tonight?”

“You’ve met Bill Eggers,” Stone said. “He has been very important in my life. When I was in law school I worked in a summer program with the New York Police Department, and when I graduated I joined the police, instead of practicing law. I did that for fourteen years, then the department and I had a disagreement, and I lost. I had inherited this house from Aunt Matilda, and I was renovating it in my spare time, with a little help from outside contractors. I found myself unemployed with only a police pension for income and a big loan on the house.

“Then I ran into Bill Eggers, who had been a good friend when we were in law school together. He suggested I study for the bar examination, then come to work for Woodman & Weld. I did so, and I’ve been happy there ever since.”

“And Michael Freeman?”

“Mike has a mysterious background in the world of intelligence. The founder of Strategic Services, Jim Hackett, also found Mike, and he became the number two man in the business. When Jim died, Mike succeeded him, and he has quadrupled the size of the company since then, to the point where they are the second-largest security firm in the world.”

“And the other couple?”

“Dino Bacchetti and I were partners for many years when we were both policemen. He is still with the department and was recently promoted to chief of detectives, a very important position. His wife, Vivian, or Viv, as she’s called, was also a detective. She retired from the department when they married, a few weeks ago, and has just joined Strategic Services. And those are our dinner companions.”

The phone buzzed, and Stone picked it up, listened for a moment, then hung up. “My car is waiting for us outside,” he said.

“Then I will have my second Knob Creek at the restaurant,” Marcel said, rising. “Where are we going?”

“To the Four Seasons,” Stone replied. “It’s only a few blocks away.”

They entered the Four Seasons from East Fifty-second Street and climbed the broad staircase, emerging in the bar, where the others in their party awaited. Stone gave Dino and Viv a hug, then made the introductions; then they moved into the main dining room, often called the “Pool Room” because of the large pool at its center. They were seated at a round table, and Stone placed Marcel between himself and Mike Freeman. Drinks were ordered.

“Marcel,” Bill Eggers said when their drinks had arrived, “I see Stone has recruited you to bourbon.”

“This is my second one,” Marcel said, “and I’m enjoying it more and more.” He turned to Freeman. “Mike, I would like to thank you for arranging our security at the airport,” he said. “You’ve made me feel very secure in New York, something I had recently not felt in Paris.”

“Stone told me about that,” Mike replied, “and I was happy to help.”

They ordered dinner, and the conversation flowed.

• • •

After dinner Stone’s car, driven by Philip, returned them to his house. “Would you like a nightcap?” he asked Marcel.

“If you will forgive me, I think the time change is catching up with me, so I will retire. It is very late in Paris.”

Stone put him on the elevator, then went to his study, poured himself a cognac, and called Mike Freeman.

“I liked your guest,” Mike said.

“And he liked you, I could tell.”

“I’ve done a little looking into him, as is my wont, and I think he makes an ideal investor for us in the States, and an ideal gateway to Europe for us, too.”

“Surely that isn’t all you’ve found out.”

“All right, he’s worth something in the neighborhood of thirty billion euros, which puts him well up in the Forbes 100. The comparison to Warren Buffett is a perfectly valid one. Their careers and investing methods are similar, but not their lifestyles.”

“Yes, I’ve experienced Marcel’s lifestyle, and let me tell you, it is spectacular.”

Stone’s other line rang. “Hang on a minute, Mike.” He pressed the hold button, then the second line. “Hello?”

“Stone?” A woman’s voice, familiar. “It’s Helga.”

“Hold on, Helga.” He pressed line one. “Mike, I’m going to have to talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night, then.”