While Hedy was getting ready for bed—a process that took half an hour—Stone took the elevator to the top floor, then walked up to the roof with a flashlight.

He opened the door and called out, “Hello? Anybody there? It’s Barrington.”

“Step out the door,” a voice said, from nearer than Stone had expected. He switched on his flashlight and walked outside. Another flashlight came on, pointed at his face. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. What brings you up here tonight?”

“A little fresh air, and I like the view.”

“Everything all right down below?”

“Everything’s just fine, thanks. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

“No problem.”

Stone took in the view, including the Eiffel Tower, for a few minutes, then went back downstairs and got into bed. Hedy came in and snuggled up. “Are we safe?”

“We are safe.”

“Are we going to stay that way?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Then I feel safe.”

They made love for half an hour and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

—

The following day was sunny, and they drove out to Versailles in the old Mercedes convertible that had been part of the deal when Stone bought the house. They toured the palace, then had lunch at a local restaurant, and when they got back late in the afternoon, Rick LaRose was waiting for them in a black SUV, parked inside the gate.

“What’s up?” Stone asked.

“We picked up some chatter. Casselli is, apparently, going to show up tomorrow,” Rick replied. “He plans to have lunch, then return to Rome.”

“If I can reason with him, do you still want to bag him?”

“I’ll have to ask Langley.” That meant Lance.

“I’d like to try, anyway.”

“I came over to brief you on tomorrow’s lunch.”

“So, brief me.”

“We’re going to have a significant presence in and around the restaurant, that is, we and the Paris police.”

“Good.”

“Also, we’ve had a word with the maître d’ about seating arrangements. Any apparent entourage of your luncheon companion will be shunted upstairs.”

“Good idea.”

“I also want you to record your conversation.”

“I don’t mind doing that.”

Rick handed him a small jeweler’s box. “This is what you’ll use.”

Stone opened the box to find a small American flag pin. The red stripes were rubies, the white ones diamonds, and the blue field diamonds on a background of sapphires.

“Just put that in your buttonhole,” Rick said. “No visible wires or batteries. As soon as you plug the pin into the little clamp that holds it on, it activates. It’s good for about three hours, which should be plenty.”

Stone put the pin back into the box and the box into his pocket. “Okay.”

Rick handed him another box. “This goes into your left ear,” he said.

Stone opened the box and found what appeared to be a lump of plastic. There was also a sort of tool with a hook on the end.

“Push it into the ear as far as it will go. To get it out, use the little hook.”

Stone examined the thing carefully. “You’ll be able to talk to me?”

“Only if I have suggestions. If you can lead him into an admission of a crime, that would be a nice bonus.”

“I doubt he’s going to pour his heart out to me.”

“Maybe he’ll brag.”

“Who knows?”

“Exactly. If he does, encourage him.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You might also encourage him to threaten you. That would be helpful to the French. Tomorrow, you won’t see any of us. Just leave the house and walk down the street to Lipp.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want a weapon?”

“What would I do with it? Shoot him in the middle of a popular restaurant? I’d never get a table again.”

“Lance says to be careful.”

“Lance always says that. He doesn’t really think I’ll be exposed to harm, does he?”

“Lance always expects that. It’s not a bad policy. One more thing: when you’ve wrapped up your lunch, don’t leave the restaurant with him. Make an excuse to stay.”

“Okay.”

“Good luck.”

“Will I need it?”

“We’ll see.”

22

At ten minutes before one Stone left the house and strolled down the few blocks to Brasserie Lipp, doing some light window-shopping along the way. The restaurant, a longtime hangout for people in the arts, had outside tables and a ground-floor dining room, plus an upstairs one where the tourists were invariably sent, to keep the main room open for regulars. Stone thought of it as Paris’s answer to Elaine’s, his old hangout in New York, until the death of Elaine.

The maître d’ recognized him immediately. “Bonjour, M’sieur Barrington.” The two shook hands. “Your guest has not yet arrived.” He led Stone to a table against the wall, with a good view of the front door. Stone settled in and ordered a bottle of Perrier. “And please,” he said to the waiter, “bring large glasses for the wine and pour generously.” The man nodded and left.

He had not long to wait. Casselli appeared at the front door, apparently alone, then approached the maître d’. Two men then entered the front door. The maître d’ escorted Casselli to Stone’s table, while his assistant greeted the two men and, after a short argument, sent them upstairs.

Casselli apparently didn’t notice. Stone stood to greet him, and they shook hands coolly.

“I hope you had a good flight,” Stone said.

“I did,” Casselli said. “How did you know I flew?”

“I assumed that driving or taking a train would be cumbersome.”

“Quite right. How long have you been in Paris?”

“I’m sure you know,” Stone replied. May as well cut through the niceties.

Menus were brought.

“What’s good here?” Casselli asked.

“It’s an Alsatian restaurant. Try the choucroute.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Assorted meats and sausage on a bed of sauerkraut.”

Casselli turned up his nose. “Oh, all right, after all, when in . . . Paris.”

Stone ordered the food and a bottle of red wine.

“Now,” Casselli said, spreading his napkin in his lap. “If we may speak of business.”

Stone nodded. “Of course.”

“I realize that both you and Mr. duBois are not Italian, and you may not be fully aware of how business is done in Rome.”

Stone shrugged.

“Accomplishing such an enterprise as building a hotel in the city is very complicated . . . and very Italian.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“There are many, many permits issued by separate city departments which are required for building.”

“As there are in Los Angeles and Paris, where we already have hotels.”

“Oh, it is quite different in Rome,” Casselli said with a little smile. “One must deal with different . . . personalities, and in different departments they do not always operate by the same rules. Personal intercession by a knowledgeable intermediary can save much more time and money than the cost of such services. Everything goes more smoothly with the help of a . . . consultant.”

“I should imagine,” Stone said drily.

“You must have a permit for the foundations, then for the structure, then the roof—electrical, plumbing, all sorts of things.”

“’Twas ever thus, ’twill ever be.”

“What?”

“Please go on.”

“Our services extend even to supervising the building’s workforce and that of subcontractors.”

“Mr. Casselli—”

“Leonardo, please.”

“Leonardo, perhaps you are not aware that we have obtained all the required permits so far with little trouble with the bureaucracy. We, in fact, have already employed . . . consultants . . . who are performing satisfactorily.”

“Ah, but you have had a major fire, which complicates things.”