“Paris awaits,” Mike said.
“Are you looking forward to it?” Stone asked.
“I always do. By the way, Stone, you won’t be driving into the city with us.”
“Why not?”
“Because I had a call from Lance Cabot this morning.” Cabot was the director of Central Intelligence. “His people will be transporting you.”
“That’s very weird,” Stone said.
“I thought so, too,” Mike replied.
And then they were eating a big breakfast.
2
Stone stepped out the door of the Gulfstream 650 and, from the top of the stairs, viewed what seemed a whole lot of badly parked SUVs. They were there to transport the occupants of the G-650 and their detectives, bodyguards, and the police officers who had come to greet them. One vehicle stood out: a white Mercedes van that was bigger and taller than the usual van. Leaning against it, grinning, was one Richard LaRose, known as Rick, who was the newly appointed Paris station chief of the Central Intelligence Agency. As Stone walked toward the man he caught sight of a Gulfstream 450 being towed into a nearby hangar, and he saw something familiar painted on an engine nacelle, a symbol he had seen before.
“Stone!” Rick yelled.
Stone turned and waved, then pointed out his luggage to a lineman, then pointed at the big van, then he strolled over and shook hands with the grinning Rick, forgetting the Gulfstream. “Rick, how are you?”
“Better than fine,” Rick replied, “and I rate better transportation these days.” He jerked a thumb toward the van. Rick’s former transport had been a battered gray Ford van that he had done terrible things to.
“Congratulations on the new job,” Stone said. “Lance mentioned it.”
Stone’s luggage was stored in a rear compartment, then Rick slid open the door of the van to reveal an interior that was more jetliner than van: four seats, two abreast, facing across a burled walnut tabletop. The cabin was swathed in soft beige leather. On one of the seats sat Lance Cabot, director of Central Intelligence, offering Stone a small, cool smile.
Stone got in and shook hands. “What a surprise to see you in Paris, Lance,” he said. He always was wary around Lance, today no less so.
“In my line of work I try to surprise,” Lance said. “When people expect you, bad things can happen.”
Rick slid in beside Lance and closed the door, then rapped sharply on the bulkhead behind him. The van moved smoothly away
“What brings you across the pond?” Stone asked, genuinely curious.
Lance gazed out the window at the passing scenery. “Oh, I thought I’d come over and help Rick get settled into his new office. And into his new job.”
“And that is very much appreciated, Lance,” Rick said, somehow avoiding sounding obsequious.
“Also, I wanted the opportunity to speak with you privately before you reach your new hotel,” Lance said.
“Well, here I am, and this looks private to me. Assuming we can trust Rick, of course.”
“Of course,” Lance said. “Stone, your arrival in Paris coincides with two notable gatherings in the city: one is the meeting of that group of important policemen, now called the Congress of Security, or in the way of the world these days, CONSEC. Although many of these gentlemen have met at one time or another, this is the first time all of them have met at once. The importance of that meeting is indicated by the place of their conference, the Élysée Palace, which, as you know, is the seat of the president of France.”