Unintended Consequences - By Stuart Woods

6





They were served three more courses after the caviar, and Stone had to restrain himself. Then, just when he thought the dining was over, footmen with large trays of cheeses appeared. He accepted a chunk of Pont l’Évêque and found it to be à point. A decanter of port was passed from his right; he poured himself a glass and passed the decanter on to his host. He sniffed and sipped. “Mmmm,” he said to duBois, “what is it?”

“A Quinta do Noval, 1972,” duBois replied. “It has been waiting patiently in my cellars for forty years just to please you.”

“I’m much easier to please than this,” Stone said. “I’m more in the line of overwhelmed.”

“You have a good palate,” duBois said. “Look at others around the table—most of them haven’t even noticed that they have been given something wonderful.”

“If I begin to buy vintage ports now,” Stone said, “I’ll be a very old man when they’re ready.”

“Fortunately, I bought well when port was out of fashion,” duBois said, “and I bought enough to keep me for all of my life.” He raised his glass. “I hope to drink the last bottle of this on my deathbed.”

Stone smiled. “I hope God gives you that favor.”

“Would you like to experience something else beautiful?” duBois asked. “You may bring your port with you.” He stood and rapped a knife against a wineglass. “My friends, please bring your glass with you and adjourn with me to my forecourt. I have more beauty to offer you.”

Stone gave Helga his arm and followed duBois through some French doors and out of the house. On the way, he brushed past Rick LaRose. “See if you can find out why I’m at this party,” he whispered to the man.

Then there before him, gorgeously lit, Stone saw perhaps the most beautiful automobile he had ever seen. It was somewhat larger than a Porsche or Ferrari, but smaller than the usual sports sedan, like the Panamera or the Maserati. It was a gleaming black, and as Stone and Helga approached an open door, he looked inside and saw an interior of soft, glowing leather, so perfectly cut and stitched that it might have been the inside of an Hermès handbag. There was much oohing and aahing among the guests.

DuBois reached past them, flipped a lever, and pulled the front passenger seat forward. “Helga, I would be grateful if you would assist me in making a point. Please climb in.”

A footman took her port glass. Helga put a foot inside, turned, and was swallowed by the seat. DuBois allowed the front seat to slide back into place. “Are you quite comfortable?” he asked.

“Very comfortable,” she replied. “I even have plenty of legroom.”

“So you see, my friends, that the rear seat of the Blaise can accommodate even so statuesque a person as the lovely Helga. Stone, take the driver’s seat, please.”

Stone gave the footman his glass, walked around the car, and lowered himself into the bucket seat, even as duBois got in on the passenger side.

“Wait a moment,” duBois said. “The seat will accommodate itself to you.”

Stone felt the seat move in all sorts of ways for perhaps two seconds. He put his hands on the wheel. “Perfect,” he said.

“Press the start button, here,” duBois said, pointing. “The key is in my pocket.”

Stone pressed the button and the engine came alive; he had not even heard the starter button. The headlights came on, as well.

“Now,” duBois said, “drive to the end of my road and turn right.”

Stone did so.

“Now just follow your nose and drive,” duBois said. “At this time of night there will be little traffic.”

Stone goosed the accelerator, and the car pressed him into his seat as it leaped forward, making a noise like a distant Ferrari. Stone took a very sharp curve without touching the brakes, then gained more speed. For a moment he was at 180 kph, with effortless acceleration. “It’s so quiet and smooth,” he said.

“The windows and windscreen are double-glazed,” duBois replied, “and we have paid close attention to noise abatement. What you are experiencing is active noise cancellation, as if you were wearing a noise-canceling headset. Except the whole interior of the car is like a headset.” DuBois touched the instrument panel and symphonic music flooded the cabin. “The electronics also have the effect of enhancing the music.”

“I can hear nothing from outside the car,” Stone said, “except the muted sound of the engine.”

DuBois pressed another button on the dash, and suddenly the vehicle sounded like a race car, and there was road noise from the tires. “If you want the pleasure of hearing the car perform, there you are,” duBois said. He pressed the button again, and serenity was restored.

“What’s under the bonnet?” Stone asked.

“A twin-turbocharged V12-producing six hundred and fifty horsepower,” duBois said. “Top speed, two hundred ten miles per hour, zero to sixty in two-point-nine seconds.”

“I’ve never felt anything quite like this,” Stone said.

“Neither has anyone else. It has taken me six years to bring it from a clean sheet of paper to production.”

“What sort of price will you put on it?”

“In New York, with various taxes and dealer fees included, the MSRP would be about three hundred and fifty thousand,” duBois said. “However, if you would like one I will give it to you for, say, two hundred twenty-five thousand? I would like it to be seen being driven in New York.”

“And when would you be able to deliver one?”

“This is the first production model, which I have reserved for myself, so that I can test-drive it every day. We have thirty completed cars at the factory now, waiting to be shipped to various dealers in Europe and the States. One of them has your name on it, if you like. They are all metallic black and equipped exactly like this one. There are no options, so you have no other decisions to make.”

“I’ll send you a check tomorrow,” Stone said. “I have just enough room in my garage for it.”

“Turn right here, and we’ll go back to the house,” duBois said. “I have abandoned my guests, and I imagine some of them would like to have a turn in the car. Your car will be delivered to your home in a week or ten days,” he said to Stone. “The cars for the U.S. are being flown over.”

• • •

Stone pulled back into duBois’s driveway and stopped before the gathered guests. He got out and called to the crowd. “You won’t believe this!” he said to the group.

DuBois assisted Helga from the car, and Stone took her arm. His driver from earlier in the evening appeared.

“Mr. Barrington, I will drive you back to your hotel whenever you wish,” he said.

“Thank you. Helga, may I give you a lift?”

“Yes, thank you, but I’d like to visit the powder room first.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She went back into the house.

Rick LaRose approached. “I’ve brought your name up a few times, and all that I could learn is that duBois considers you a very special guest.”

“He just sold me one of his cars,” Stone said.

“Then you are a very special guest indeed,” Rick replied, “because he has declined even to take orders for the car before it reaches showrooms. Billionaires all over the world will be clamoring for it. Tell me, have you recollected anything of the past few days?”

“Not a thing,” Stone replied, “and I’m wondering what I could possibly have done for Marcel duBois to make him so grateful to me.”