Paris Match(18)
“I’m going to pay in cash,” Stone said, “and then I think we should run for it while the opposition is dealing with credit cards.”
“I’m on my mark,” she said.
10
Stone glanced at the check, threw some euros on the table, got up, grabbed Mirabelle’s hand, and hurried toward the door. He glanced at the two bald men and saw one of them signing a credit card chit and the other rising and heading toward them. Stone hit the door running, passed the tables outside, and stopped on the sidewalk. No van. Then he remembered the panic button.
“Come on,” he yelled, and started running through Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He groped in a pocket, then another but couldn’t find it.
“Don’t go down this street,” Mirabelle shouted. “Too few people!”
Stone turned and ran back into the open plaza and into traffic. A huge black shape appeared in the corner of his eye, and there was a screeching of brakes and a chorus of horns.
“Get in here!” a man shouted.
Stone turned and saw the van, the rear door open. He pushed Mirabelle inside and heard the door slam behind him. Through the window he could see the two bald Russians running toward them, looking annoyed.
“What happened?” the guard yelled.
“Two Russians,” he panted.
“Why didn’t you use the panic button? We had two men in the restaurant.”
“Couldn’t find it. Two Russians were there.”
There was a banging on the front door of the van, and the guard’s window slid down. He exchanged some words with someone outside, then closed the window. “Were the Russians two bald guys?”
“Yes,”
“Those were our people. You scared them to death.”
“Your people?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I thought they were the Russians.”
“You’re getting paranoid, Mr. Barrington.”
“I wonder why? I’m locked in an armored van with two armed men, two others are watching me in a restaurant. Why would I be paranoid?”
The man ignored the question. “Where to?” he asked.
“The Arrington?” Stone said to Mirabelle.
“I think we’ll be safe there,” she said sardonically. She picked up her phone. “I have to call my car.” She spoke in French for a moment, then put the phone away. “They’ll follow,” she said.
The ride home was much like the earlier ride—fast and down side streets. They were at the hotel sooner than Stone had anticipated.
—
STONE CLOSED the suite door behind him.
“That was quite funny,” Mirabelle said.
“I’m glad you were amused.”
“The sight of an American spy running from his own bodyguards must have amused any Russians present.”
“Champagne?”
“Perfect.”
Stone found a bottle of Marcel’s favorite Krug in the bar fridge, opened it, and filled two flutes. He sat down next to Mirabelle on the sofa; she didn’t move over.