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.

3

Rick’s van took so many turns down so many narrow streets that Stone lost his bearings. After a time, however, the van slowed for a left turn, and Stone saw, for the first time, the gates to the new hotel. They turned and drove through a handsome archway into a large courtyard. A building that was probably impressive under ordinary circumstances had been concealed by acres of scaffolding and plastic cloth.

“I believe they’re sandblasting the limestone facade,” Rick said.

“I hope the inside looks better,” Stone said.

“What was this place before it was a hotel?” Rick asked.

“It was a hotel,” Stone replied. “Before that it was a hospital that Marcel duBois’s father had bought and turned into a cheap hotel. Marcel has now turned it into an expensive one.”

Stone alit from the big van and discovered that it had been followed by three black SUVs, which now disgorged Dino and Viv Bacchetti, Mike Freeman, and the top policemen of Los Angeles and Boston and their luggage.

Dino came over and peeked into Rick’s van. “I want one of these,” he said.

Stone introduced everybody to Rick, while a team of bellmen erupted from the hotel to collect all their luggage.

“Is this place finished?” Dino asked, looking around.

“Almost,” Stone said. “The paint in your room may still be wet, though.”

There was no check-in process; they were immediately escorted into elevators, and Stone was shown into a large, elegantly furnished suite, while Dino and Viv were put in an adjoining bedroom.

A large crystal vase of calla lilies stood on a table in Stone’s living room, and he read the attached card. Welcome to your new home in Paris, it said, and was signed by Marcel duBois.

Dino and Viv unpacked and returned to the sitting room, where tea and some light food had been brought up.

“When do we see Marcel duBois?” Viv asked.

“You’ll see him at dinner. Dino, when do your meetings start?”

“The day after tomorrow. We’re supposed to get over the jet lag during that time. What was the deal with the white van?” Dino asked.

“It contained Lance Cabot,” Stone explained, “who wanted to tell me that the Russians haven’t forgotten about me.”

“Oh, shit,” Dino said.

“Am I going to have to provide your security?” Viv asked.

“No, Lance has thoughtfully taken care of that. Rick LaRose, who you just met, is the CIA’s Paris station chief, newly in the job.”

“What’s Lance doing in Paris?” Dino asked.

“He says he came to help Rick settle into his new office, but I tend to think that nothing Lance says is ever entirely true.”

“How long do we have until dinner?” Viv asked.

Stone looked at his watch. “An hour.”

“Then please excuse me, I have a lot to do.” She vanished into their room.

“Me, too,” Dino said. “See you later.” He followed Viv.

Stone went to do his own unpacking and freshening.

—

THE WHITE Mercedes van awaited them in the courtyard, sans Rick.

“Where are we going?” Dino asked.

“To a wonderful restaurant called Lasserre,” Stone said. “Marcel duBois is our host, and I understand there will be some other people there, too.”

They arrived at the restaurant, in the Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, and were taken up in an elevator. They walked into a large, square dining room with a sunken center. To Stone’s surprise, all the guests were milling around the room, drinking champagne and talking with each other.

Marcel duBois broke from a knot of people and came across the room, arms spread. There followed the usual kissing of both cheeks, and Stone reintroduced him to Dino and Viv. “Marcel,” he said, “why is no one dining?”

“Because I have not yet told them to,” Marcel replied.

“Do you mean you’ve taken the whole restaurant?”

“I had to. I couldn’t get everyone I wanted you to meet into my dining room at home.”

“Who are these people?”

“The crème de la crème of Paris, of course,” Marcel replied. “Business, show business, hotel business, writing business, you name it. Come and meet them.”

For half an hour they were ushered from group to group and introduced. When they were done, Stone could remember only one name: Mirabelle Chance, who was about five-two barefoot, raven of hair and ivory of complexion.

“Come, let us sit down,” Marcel said.

At a signal from Marcel a chime rang, and the guests began finding their place cards. Marcel headed the table in the very center of the room.

Viv looked up. “The roof is opening,” she said. She was right: the frescoed ceiling slid open to reveal a rose arbor on the roof.

“Whenever it gets a bit too warm,” Marcel explained, “the ceiling opens and lets out the hot air.”

Stone was pleased to see that the place card next to his read MIRABELLE CHANCE, although there was no sign of her. A parade of food and wine ensued.

4