“I’ve heard that myself. I hope the party you’re referring to is the grand opening of l’Arrington and that you are accompanying me.”

“I was hoping you were hoping that. Where should I start the hunt?”

“Google ‘party frock, Paris,’ and a world will open up to you.”

“No personal recommendations?”

“Chanel? Armani? Ralph Lauren? I believe they all do business here, along with several dozen other designers. Shall I arrange a hotel Bentley for you?”

“That would be gallant of you.”

“How about a personal shopper?”

“What a good idea! Would you like to act in that capacity?”

“I fear that I am a poor judge, until I actually see the frock worn at a party. I can’t stay awake in fancy shops.” He picked up the phone and spoke to the concierge. “There,” he said, hanging up. “Your car and your shopper will be ready in an hour. How may I entertain you until then?”

Holly stood up, unzipped her skirt, and let it fall to the floor, exhibiting a garter belt and stockings, but no knickers, then she sank into her chair and parted her legs, revealing a fresh Brazilian. “Improvise,” she said.

And he did.

23

Holly sat back in the comfortable rear seat of the Bentley Mulsanne and sighed deeply. During the past months she had achieved a new high in unrequited randiness, something she had always relied on Stone to relieve, and he had never disappointed. She was alone in the rear seat; the driver and her personal shopper, Monique, occupied the front.

“Where would you like to go first?” Monique asked.

“You choose,” Holly replied. “And please excuse me, but I must make a phone call.” She found the switch that raised the glass panel between them and dialed a number on her cell.

“Research, this is Brian.”

“Brian, this is Holly Barker. Why aren’t you working?”

“Oh, I ah, I mean, I am working, Ms. Barker.”

“Relax, I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh, all right. How may I help you, Ms. Barker?”

“You can begin by calling me Holly, like everybody else but you.”

“All right. Holly.”

“Write down this name: John, no middle initial, Simpson.”

“Got it.”

“This man is an ex–Army NCO, currently assigned as a handyman in our Berlin station, at least, currently until last night, when he died. I managed to get a look at his army service record, which should have been and by now is sequestered, so you can’t call it up. However sequestered it may be, it does not contain every fact of the man’s life, and that is what I want to know.”

“Every fact of the man’s life?”

“That is only slightly hyperbolic. I want to know everything that can be found in a few hours. I want to know about his years in grade school, in high school, his church, if he had one, his hometown newspaper, and his school annual. I want to know about his academics and his athletics. I want to know who he lost his virginity with and if he knocked her up, and if so, what he did about it. I want to know everything his friends know about him, and his teachers and coaches, too.”

“How long do I have?” Brian asked.

“What time is it there?”

“Nine twenty-one.”

“You have until nine twenty-one tomorrow. I want it all e-mailed to me, and I may call you for more. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Have a good time.” She hung up and lowered the glass partition. “Sorry about that, Monique. Where are we headed?”

“To Chanel, in the Avenue Montaigne. There are a number of other fine shops in the same street.”

“Is Ralph Lauren there?”

“No, his store is in the Boulevard Saint-Germain.”

“Let’s be sure and go there after Chanel. His stuff is gorgeous, and it fits me.”

“D’accord.”

—

CHANEL WAS A BUST; the fabrics seemed heavy, and things hung on her body like shrouds. She was shocked to find that a simple party top was €7000! Holly was not short of money, but she wasn’t short of good sense. “On to Boulevard Saint-Germain,” she said to the front seat of the Bentley.

—

AT RALPH LAUREN, everything fell into place. She found a green dress that went with her auburn hair and gave her very nice breasts a free rein, and she found a white double-breasted dress that you could see coming a block away and never forget. She didn’t ask the prices, and she signed the credit card chit without looking at it. She also found some sensational fuck-me shoes, a knockout coat, and a new piece of luggage to hold all the things she was going to take back to New York. What would the folks at the New York station say if they could see her with all this stuff? They thought she was a grubby, workaholic nerd—which, of course, she was—but she harbored an inner babe that had to get out once in a while, and Paris was an awfully good place to cut her loose. She rode back to l’Arrington a happy girl.

—

STONE WASN’T THERE when she returned. She put away her purchases and checked her e-mail. Brian, bless his heart, had been on the job. He summarized:

“Johnny Simps, as he was called, was born and raised in a small Georgia town called Delano, and he was, from all accounts, a nasty little shit from the time he could toddle. He tortured small furry animals and any kid who was smaller than he was, which was most. In high school he was strikingly handsome—see the yearbook photo—but I talked to half a dozen of his schoolmates, and nobody had a good word to say about him. He was a pretty good high school quarterback—not good enough for college—who loved to play dirty and cheat, if he could. I don’t know how you figured it out, but he did get a girl pregnant in high school: she said it was rape, he said, consensual, and he got two older girls to beat her up. A judge ordered him to join the military or go to prison.

“According to a friend of hers, the girl lost the baby but got herself together, got a scholarship to college, and was salutatorian of her class. She did a cosmetic start-up during her twenties, and sold the business for a hundred and twenty million dollars in her thirties, and she’s now running her own business software company.

“Her friend swears she hired three guys to beat the shit out of Johnny Simps, and he arrived at basic training pre-wounded. Weirdly, he found a home in the army and straightened himself out. He had leadership skills and was promoted. He was also a crack shot with all sorts of weapons, and when he applied for Special Forces he got in and did well. An Agency officer spotted him in Afghanistan and encouraged him to apply, and he was accepted quickly. We don’t have a record, of course, because that’s sequestered, but the guy who recruited him said he did well at the Farm and afterward, even though he had a cruel streak, which his superiors overlooked. Says he was smart and street-smart and could run a team. His big fault was he was bad at languages, which, along with his lack of higher education, kept him at low-level tasks. He had no compunctions about wet work.

“I could spend more time on this, but I don’t think it would be productive. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Holly wrote back: “Brian, you done good, and it’s enough. See you in a couple of weeks.” She logged on to the Agency mainframe, called up Brian’s record, and wrote a glowing addendum, resolving to promote him when she got back.

She called Rick LaRose. “You got anything new on John, no middle initial, Simpson?”

“Uh, something came up. I haven’t even started.”

“Never mind, I think I’ve got enough to tell you that he was a tough piece of work who didn’t give a shit for anybody but himself. He did low-level wet work because it was all he was suited for, and he probably kept out of his station chief’s way. I suppose he could have been freelancing for anybody who came along, but he knew how the system worked, and I don’t think he would have left Berlin for Paris, except for somebody he knew and had probably worked with or for. You know anybody in Berlin?”