“Why?”

“It’s a long story,” he said.

She shrugged. “Not my business,” she said. “You were very lucky to get on our barge. You did not seem wounded, so we did not call for the ambulance.”

“I certainly was very lucky.” The soup was cooling, and he drank some more. “You make very good soup.”

“Thank you. When you have drink it all, you may get into your clothes. I am having dried them.”

He looked behind her and saw his shirt and underwear, ironed and neatly stacked. “Thank you so much,” he said. His suit hung on a hanger, and his trench coat on a peg.

“Your coat takes a little longer, but you can get dressed.” She turned her back and resumed ironing something.

Stone got into his underwear, socks, trousers, and shirt. “Did I have shoes?” he asked.

She went to the galley oven and produced them, stuffed with newspaper. “They are toast,” she said.

“They’ll do. He put them on, and his feet warmed. He picked up his iPhone and turned it on, but it didn’t react.

“Your Apple does not like our river,” she said.

He put his belongings into his pockets, and she took down his trench coat and began ironing it.

“Our Seine is dirty,” she said, “but we have, how you say, all mod cons.”

“A washer and dryer,” he said.

“Yes. Have you hunger?”

He picked up his Rolex from the table and consulted it. It was just past midnight. “Yes, I’m hungry, thank you.” He slipped the watch on and secured it. He found his signet ring on the table, too, and put it on his left pinkie. “There,” he said, “I’m back together.”

“Your cravat did not fare well,” she said.

“I have other cravats. I’m very grateful for your help.” He offered his hand. “My name is Stone Barrington.”

“I am Madeleine Le Croix,” she said.

A man’s voice boomed out. “Qui est-ce?”

“Mr. Barrington,” his wife said. “Un Americain.”

The two men shook hands.

“We see all things in the Seine,” Pierre said. “This is the first time a guest.”

Madeleine went to the galley and came back with a bowl of dark stew. “Pot au feu,” she said, handing it to him.

They sat down at the table and Stone ate. “You are a wonderful cook,” he said. “Who else is on board?”

“Our son, Jean—he sail the boat,” Pierre said. “You are very tired—go and sleep more. We stop in Rouen to leave some cargo, then to Le Havre. You can go back to Paris from Rouen, if you wish it.” He smiled. “Or perhaps that is not so good an idea?”

“Thank you, I’ll think that over.” Stone went back to the cabin and stretched out on the berth. When he woke again, sun was streaming through a porthole, and he smelled bacon cooking.

44

They docked in an area with a church and shops. Stone met the son, Jean, then the parents walked him down the gangplank to the pontoon.

“There is a taxi stand near the church,” Pierre said, pointing. “It is ten minutes to the station. Not all the trains go to Paris.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Stone thanked them, shook their hands, and walked toward the taxi stand. On the way he passed a wine shop; he went in, chose a case of very good burgundy, paid for it, and asked the proprietor to deliver it to the barge, then he continued his walk. He passed a post office, went in and asked for a telephone. He was sent to a booth where he called the American Embassy and asked for Rick LaRose, since Rick’s direct number was in his dead iPhone.

“There is no such person in the embassy,” the operator replied.

“He’s the CIA station chief,” Stone said. “Tell him Stone Barrington is on the line.”

After a long moment: “Stone, is that you?”

“It is,” Stone said.

“Where the hell are you? We lost track of you yesterday, when you left the hotel. Holly said you didn’t come home last night.”

“I’m in Rouen,” Stone said. “I’ll explain when I see you. Will you have me met at the station in Paris?”

“From Rouen that will be the Gare du Nord.”

“I suppose so. I don’t want to go back to the hotel immediately, and I don’t want another of your Mercedes tanks—they attract attention.”

“We’ll have you met and keep you safe.”

“By the way, that very handy iPhone that Lance gave me has not survived the experience. I could use a new one.”

“What experience?”

“Later.”

“What train?”

“Check the schedule. I’ll get the next available. I’m ten minutes from the station.”

“All right.”

Stone hung up, walked to the taxi stand, and rode to the station. The next train was in twenty minutes, so he bought an International New York Times and sat on a bench to read it. There was a report on page three of an altercation on a Paris bridge involving armed men, and a man was said to have leapt into the Seine and had not been seen again.

—

THE TRAIN wasn’t the fast one, but it was fast enough. Stone did the crossword and kept an eye out for suspicious characters, though it seemed very unlikely that anyone might know where he was. As he got off the train at the Gare du Nord, he saw Rick waiting for him. They shook hands.

Rick waited until they were in the back of an Audi sedan before questioning him. “All right,” he said, “let’s have it.”

Stone told him about breakfast with Yevgeny Majorov.

“I would have not thought that possible,” Rick said, “what with the security arrangements at the duBois building.”

“Neither would I. I’ll have to explain it all to Mike Freeman.”

“Oh, they were not Mike’s people,” Rick said. “Marcel reverted to his own means, to his regret, I’m sure.”

“When I left I decided to have a day on the town.”

“In a cab?”

“It felt more normal. I did some shopping and saw a movie, then, when I was walking back across a bridge, they blocked traffic and came at me from both ends. I took refuge in the Seine.”

“Good God! Do you know how fast and how cold that river is?”

“I do now. I caught a ride on a barge, and the crew were kind to me. They docked at Rouen, and I called you. Where are we going?”

“Not to the embassy or the hotel,” Rick said. “We have a safe house for you.”

“Does Holly know I’m alive?”

“I let her know. I had the impression she thought you had gotten a better offer.”

Stone laughed. “Hardly!”

—

AFTER a few minutes’ drive they stopped at a pair of tall, oaken doors, where two men stood guard, and Rick identified himself. The doors were opened and closed behind them; they were in a mews, and they pulled into a garage. Once the door was closed behind them, Rick used a key to let them into the adjoining house. He handed the key to Stone, along with a new iPhone. “The phone already has your contacts and apps in it.”

Stone gave him the dead phone. “Maybe it can be resurrected.”

“Don’t leave the mews except in the company of the two men on guard,” he said. “We’ll talk later.” He left by way of the garage.

Stone walked into the house and found himself in a small kitchen. He continued into a living room where there was a fire going. Holly sat in a chair beside it, sipping something from a cup.

“All right,” she said, “let’s have it. I’m looking forward to your explanation.”

45

Stone sat in water up to his chin, a glass of Knob Creek resting on the rim of the tub, the heat soaking into his bones, Holly’s foot in his crotch, doing things with her toes.

She took a sip of her martini. “A likely story,” she said. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Go take a look at my suit and trench coat,” Stone replied. “And remember, what you see is after they were cleaned and pressed.”

“You have other suits,” she said. “I packed your things and brought your luggage here. Everything is in the master dressing room. Are you sure you jumped and were not pushed?”