“Turn it off,” Stone said.
“I daren’t. If I don’t answer, people come looking for me.”
“You’re a slave to the CIA.”
“I know it, and they know it.”
“Why do you go on like this?”
“Because what I do matters—bad people die and good people live. I make the world a better place.”
“Really?”
She gave a rueful shrug. “Well, sometimes, and sometimes is good enough for me.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Stone said. “Nothing I can offer you is as good.”
“If we were together all the time, it wouldn’t be as good as it is right now: it’s the desert that makes the oasis so attractive.”
“I think I’ve soaked enough, outside and in,” he said. “Now I want to dry you with a big, soft towel and take you to bed. I want to sleep, because I can’t stay awake any longer. When I awaken, I’ll make it all up to you.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Holly said, standing up in the tub, the water streaming from her body.
Stone stood up, too, and went to work with the towel.
—
STONE WOKE early the next morning—at least, it seemed early. There was light coming through the space between the curtains. He got up and pulled the cord, and cloudy daylight filled every corner of the room. There was the canopied bed and the sofa before the fireplace, now cold. There were a couple of comfortable chairs, with reading lamps beside them, bookcases on either side of the fireplace, bare of books.
There was a note on the bedside table. I had to run and I was loath to wake you—you were sleeping like a small boy. There’s breakfast in the kitchen fridge. All you have to do is switch on the coffeepot and warm the croissants. Lunch is there, too. For God’s sake, don’t leave the house, not until we’ve cleared the Paris air. I’ll be back in time for dinner.
Stone got into a robe and slippers, went down to the kitchen, and made breakfast, then he went into the living room. He found it the least attractive room in the house; the furnishings had been overused and underrepaired. He walked into the adjacent study; he liked that a lot better.
He had plans to make; he had to turn anger into revenge; he had to end this. He had no idea how, but it would come to him. In the meantime, he had some shopping to do.
46
Stone walked out of the cottage and down the mews to the big doors. There was a small door inside one of them, and he let himself out. His two guards were surprised.
“Mr. Barrington,” one of them said, “you’re not supposed to go out.”
“Not true,” Stone replied. “I’m not supposed to go out without you two. Follow me, but don’t crowd me.” He started down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, window-shopping along the way. He had previously noted the home-furnishing shops in the street, and he stopped before an unusual one. Instead of the latest in modern design, this one was filled with older, more interesting things. He walked in.
A tall, gray-haired woman got up from a rocking chair and put her book down. She regarded him, up and down, for a moment, then, in American English, she said, “What can I do for you?”
“Ah, you speak my mother tongue,” Stone said. He guessed she was in her seventies.
“That’s because I’m from your mother country,” she replied. “New York. How about you?”