“Almost anything you need.”
“Almost?”
“It’s best to reserve a little wiggle room.”
“Wiggle? Is that like wriggle?”
“The same, only more colloquial.”
She laughed again. “You are fun to talk with.”
“I’m so glad, I would not like to bore you.”
“I will let you know when you are boring me.” She looked at her wristwatch.
“Ah, already,” Stone said.
“No, no, I just have an appointment in twenty minutes, and there is the rush-hour traffic.”
“Then you had better finish your eggs.”
She pushed back from the table. “No, only half my eggs are on my diet. I must continue to be able to wear my own designs.”
“Would you like to have dinner this evening?”
“Just the two of us?”
“I prefer conducting business during the daylight hours, reserving the evening for more intimate occasions.”
“When and where?”
“Eight o’clock? At your favorite restaurant.”
“Eight is good. I don’t have a favorite, there are too many in Paris.”
“Your favorite today.”
“All right. Do you know Brasserie Lipp? In Saint-Germain-des-Prés?”
“I do.”
“Eight o’clock then.”
They rose, bussed, and she departed.
Stone sat down and finished his eggs.
7
The new black Mercedes supervan was indeed waiting for him in l’Arrington’s courtyard at the appointed hour, and it got through the midday Paris traffic with few delays. Stone noted the second man up front, and he could see the short barrel of an automatic weapon protruding from the man’s cradled arms. He found that reassuring but unsatisfying, since it apparently indicated that Rick believed any opposition would be similarly armed. If bullets started flying, he would prefer single squirts to spraying, even if the vehicle was armored.
The van was stopped at an archway for a security check, then allowed to drive into a courtyard, much like that at l’Arrington, but smaller. There were three large trees in pots arrayed against the walls, and next to each stood a man in black body armor, booted and helmeted, with an automatic weapon slung from a shoulder. The concrete tree pots would provide cover, he assumed.
Inside the front door of the office building of, perhaps, fifteen floors, he was stopped at a desk and required to place his right thumb on a sensor while gazing into a lens with his right eye. The equipment indicated its assent by displaying two photographs of him on a screen: one taken the year before and one taken just now. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” a female voice said from the speaker. “M’sieur duBois is expecting you. Please take the elevator at your left to the top floor.”
“Thank you,” Stone replied to the mass of electronic equipment. Stone knew the building housed Marcel’s business operations and that he lived on the top two floors. As the car rose a piece of music, a particular favorite of his, began to play: the Dave McKenna Quartet with Zoot Sims, playing “Limehouse Blues.” The car reached the top floor before McKenna’s piano solo was over, but as he stepped off the elevator, the music continued from unseen speakers. By the time Zoot began his soprano saxophone solo, he was seated in a comfortable chair, a perfect Bloody Mary in his hand, being told by a minion that M’sieur duBois would be with him shortly. He sat back and luxuriated in the wonder of Zoot Sims. Superb. The vodka didn’t hurt, either.