Stone nodded; he knew that much, at least.
“The other gathering, which will not be publicized, is of a criminal nature, though it will appear to be a conference of business executives. This is an organization of Russian oligarchs, most of them former KGB generals and colonels, who have grown rich and fat in their new, so-called democracy. What was formerly a loose network of old chums, colleagues, and enemies has now gelled into a more formal entity, which they call the Cowl, as in the hood of a monk. The apparent head monk is Yevgeny Majorov, the son of a very, very important KGB general, now thankfully deceased, and the brother of another decedent, Yuri Majorov, in whose death they suspect you of having had a hand.”
Stone raised a finger. “I deny that,” he said.
“Deny it all you like,” Lance replied. “The fact is that Yuri wanted you dead because you would not accept him as a partner in your hotel business, and he had brought with him to Los Angeles a feared mafia assassin, who sometimes worked freelance, for the express purpose of ensuring your demise.”
“I believe I heard something about that,” Stone said.
“Yuri, as we now know, departed Los Angeles in his private jet, bound for Moscow, and arrived in that city, having apparently expired of natural causes en route.”
Stone shrugged. “These things happen.”
“Yuri’s death coincided with that of his hired assassin, in his bed at the Bel-Air Hotel, and his killer used a little something from the gentleman’s own pharmaceutical supply to off both the assassin and Yuri.”
“There’s a certain poetry to that,” Stone observed.
“Yes, and that standard of ‘poetry’ is rarely found outside organizations such as the one I head. In fact, I believe this particular ‘poet’ to be a former member of my flock, one Teddy Fay, but I can’t prove it, and that fact alone causes me to suspect Teddy. That and the fact that Teddy’s name, photographs, fingerprints, and DNA test have recently vanished from every intelligence and law enforcement database in the United States and its possessions, along with the databases of all those nations with whom we share such data.”
“I will have to take the Fifth on that one,” Stone said.
“There is only one way this could have happened,” Lance said. “Not even I could have engineered it, and I can engineer almost anything, if I try hard enough. No, that action originated far, far above my pay grade. One, and only one, personage could have initiated it, and he, coincidentally, is a friend of yours. But, for reasons of both decorum and self-preservation, I will say no more about that.”
“Thank you, Lance, that is a relief.”
“Good, but you have little else about which to be relieved, Stone.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that Yevgeny Majorov has made some of the same deductions I have made, and he believes you, in one way or another, to be responsible for both his brother’s failure to penetrate the ownership of your hotel group and for his brother’s untimely demise.”
“The man must be delusional,” Stone said.
“Nevertheless,” Lance said, “while you are in Paris you are going to have to watch your ass—or rather, Rick and his coterie are going to have to. Do you understand and accept this fact?”
Stone sighed. “If I must,” he said.
“Yes, you must. Good day to you.” The van glided to a stop at a Paris street corner; Lance exited the vehicle and immediately got into a black sedan.
“Now to l’Arrington,” Rick said.