Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

44





It was three-thirty, and Helga had not returned from shopping. Stone was loath to take a taxi, given the events of the morning. He went upstairs to his dressing room, opened his safe, and removed a compact .45 automatic and its holster. It had been custom-made by Terry Tussey and weighed only twenty-one ounces, compared to the thirty-nine of the standard Colt.

With the gun on his belt, he went down to the living room in time to see the Bentley pull up outside. Stone called the car and told Philip not to allow Helga out until they were in the garage with the door closed.

He collected Marcel and went to the garage. Helga was emptying the trunk of many shopping bags, and Philip was taking them into the house.

“I did much damage,” she said to Stone.

Stone kissed her and motioned for Philip to get behind the wheel. “We’re running late,” he said.

They arrived in the underground garage of the Strategic Services building and took the elevator to the top floor, where Mike Freeman greeted them. “I think we’re all ready,” he said.

He led them into the conference room where Bill Eggers and two French lawyers awaited. Eggers was reading the last page of the contract.

“Looks good to me,” he said.

“I read it online this morning,” Marcel said. “I’m ready to sign if you are.”

“We are,” Stone said.

“I have the signatures of the board on a draft,” Mike said, “so you and I can sign for the company.”

They sat down, and Stone took out his pen. “I think we’ll remember this moment for a long time,” he said, and signed three copies of the document. He passed it to Mike, who signed, then Marcel inked them, as well. The copies were distributed, then Marcel looked around. “Have we any further business to conduct?” he asked.

“Nothing else,” Mike said.

Marcel stood. “Then, if you will excuse me, I would like to return to have a last look at our area of the auto show. Stone, would you like to come?”

“Thank you, no, Marcel. I’ll see it tomorrow at the opening. Please take the car.”

The meeting broke up, and Mike got onto the elevator and rode down with Stone. “We have special transportation for you,” he said. “The first of our newest armored vehicle.” The elevator arrived at the garage level, and they got out.

A large Mercedes van awaited them, its windows mirrored, and the side door slid open. Inside the richly furnished cabin four seats, two forward and two aft, awaited. Lance Cabot was sitting in one of them, and Rick LaRose was in another.

“Welcome aboard, Stone,” Rick said. “Have a seat.”

“I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your trip,” Mike said.

The door slid silently shut, and the van began to move.

Stone shook both the men’s hands. “Welcome, Rick,” Stone said. “What brings you to New York?”

Rick looked at Lance, who ignored him.

“What do you think of our new conveyance?” Lance asked.

“Very handsome,” Stone replied. “I hear people are driving these things to the Hamptons for weekends.”

“Not exactly like this one,” Lance said. “It’s quite heavily armored.”

“Mike says it’s his newest effort.”

“Indeed. We’ll make another stop,” Lance said. “Then I will chopper to Langley, and the van will drop you at home.”

“All right.”

“It’s a good opportunity for us to talk, Stone,” Lance said.

“We’ve been doing quite a lot of that the past week,” Stone reminded him.

“There’s more to say, I’m afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?” Stone asked.

“I have some things to tell you,” Lance said, “and you’re not going to like them.”

Stone felt a pang of anxiety in his gut; he didn’t like the sound of this. “Go on, Lance.”

“I’m afraid that I and Rick and some of our colleagues have found it necessary to mislead you.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll get to the root of the matter,” Lance said. “Marcel duBois is not the target of the attacks you have seen, beginning in Paris and continuing here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t. Tell me, have any further parts of your memory returned since you’ve been back in the city?”

“No,” Stone said. “Just the memory of who was on the airplane, the one I told your doctor about.”

“I had hoped it would all come back to you,” Lance said. “It would have been simpler than what I have to tell you.”

“Lance,” Stone said, “if Marcel is not the subject of the attacks, then who is?”

“You are,” Lance said.

That stopped Stone in his tracks.

“I expect you thought that it was I who may have been the target in the attack on our car in Paris,” Lance said.

“It crossed my mind.”

“No, it was you.”

Stone started to speak again, but Lance held up a hand. “No, please, let me continue. The shot that nearly struck Amanda was aimed at you. It was silenced, and you didn’t see the bullet strike. The attempted attack on Marcel’s car was aimed at you, as well. And Aldo Saachi did not try to rape Helga—he was waiting in her suite, expecting you to return with her from the party at the Russian Embassy. He planned to kill you both, but mostly, you. Helga would have just been collateral damage.”

“I’m waiting to hear why all this is true,” Stone said.

“Rick?” Lance said. “You tell him.”

“Majorov and his friends were not after Marcel’s businesses,” Rick said. “They want The Arrington. Aldo Saachi approached Eggers right after the two of you met with Marcel, and Eggers rebuffed him.”

“Why didn’t Eggers tell me that?” Stone asked.

“Because he thought you knew. He’s not aware of your amnesia attack, or at least, of the full extent of it. To continue, Marcel flew home that night, then the following day he called you and asked you to come to Paris for further talks. He arranged your travel and hotel and sent your ticket and expense money, and you departed that evening. We had a watch on Aldo, and we saw him onto the airplane. Lance had arranged for the first-class compartment to be confined to our people, Aldo, and you. Aldo was to have received the drug that rendered you unconscious, as Lance explained to you earlier. As it was, the ambulance we had arranged for him was used to transport you to the embassy.”

“So that business about the cabdriver delivering me was a fiction?”

“It was.”

“And it was Aldo who was to occupy the room given to me?”

“Yes, but he managed to elude us at the airport. Dr. Keeler, whom you met, is a forensic psychiatrist, who would have been in charge of the interrogation of Aldo. But he was quite interested in the effects of the drug on you, so it wasn’t a total loss for him.”

“I’m so happy to have been of help,” Stone said drily. “What now?”

“Ah, now,” Lance said, “there is more to do.”