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Paris Match(23)

By:Stuart Woods


            “They think I was somehow involved in the death of a man named Yuri Majorov, who, apparently, was their leader.”

            “Him I know about. I heard it was of natural causes, aboard his own airplane.”

            “I heard that, too, but apparently Yuri’s brother, Yevgeny, is a suspicious man, and he needs someone to be suspicious of. I seem to fill the bill.”

            “All right, I won’t dig any more deeply into this with you, but I’m not getting a lot of answers out of the Agency’s Rick LaRose, either.”

            “Rick may be as confused as I am, but he is doing his best to keep my hair from being mussed.”

            “I throw a lot of dinner parties around here,” she said. “They’re good business, and I can always use a spare man. May I invite you to something?”

            “That would be an honor.”

            “You may have to put up with some boring women.”

            “Women are rarely boring,” Stone said. “On the whole, I prefer their company to that of men, who are often boring.”

            “Tomorrow evening at eight, at my residence?”

            “I’d be delighted.”

            “I hear it won’t be necessary to send a car for you.”

            “Rick has seen to that.”

            “Lance Cabot spends money on the oddest things and seems to get away with it.”

            “I’m not surprised.”

            She stood. “Until tomorrow evening, then?”

            “Until then. May I ask, what is the occasion?”

            “I forget,” she said. “The dinners all run together. Someone will hand me a one-page memo and a guest list a quarter of an hour before my entrance, so I’ll know whom I’m talking to and why.”

            “Whatever it is, I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said. He shook her hand again and made his exit.





                     13


            Mirabelle arrived at l’Arrington on time. “May I have a martini before we go?” she asked. “It will make the ride go faster.”

            “Of course.” Stone went to the ice maker where he had stored the bottle of pre-mixed martinis and poured one into a crystal glass. He handed it to her and poured himself a Knob Creek.

            “You should pack a toothbrush,” she said, sipping her drink. “We won’t be back tonight.”

            “What sort of restaurant is this?” he asked.

            “You’ll see.”

            He went and threw some things into a small duffel—a favor of the hotel—and returned. She knocked off the last sip of her martini. “We’re off,” she said.

            —

            THEY GOT into the waiting van, Mirabelle spoke to the driver in rapid French, and he tapped an address into the GPS navigator. “Saves me having to give him directions,” she said, leaning back into the comfortable seat.

            “Tell me where we’re going,” he said.

            “No.” She looked out the window. “I promise you a good dinner and, if you play your cards right, as you Americans say, perhaps me.”

            “What more could I ask?” he said. He watched the city change into forest. “We’re in the Bois de Boulogne, aren’t we?”