“In another few seconds I would have been dumped. I just took the shortcut and stayed alive.”

“Why did you pass out?”

“I’ve wondered about that. I think it was just exhaustion, both times.”

“And this woman who took care of you—she was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“In her way, yes, but not the way you mean.”

“I’m trying not to be jealous.”

“You, jealous? I don’t believe it.”

“Somewhere along the way, you seem to have forgotten that I’m a woman.”

“I have never lost sight of that fact—I just thought you were a more liberated woman.”

“I am entirely liberated, right up to the point where another woman enters the picture.”

“Like the ambassador?”

“That’s different—that was just funny.”

“I like this house,” Stone said, waving his bourbon at the beautifully tiled, old-fashioned bathroom.

“A station chief once owned it. The Agency bought it from him, furnished, when he departed for Afghanistan. What with the mews and the big doors, it makes a good safe house.”

“How many bedrooms?”

“Four—three of them are on the top two floors. There’s a little staff flat on the other side of the garage.”

“And the master?”

“Takes up the whole second floor. There’s a nice study, too, that you haven’t seen, yet.”

“I want to live here.”

“Make Lance an offer.”

Stone sighed. “I’m dreaming. I’m an American, and I live very well in New York. And anyway, you’re in New York.”

“No, I’m in Agency purdah. I can’t think of anything else but work when I’m in New York. That’s why it’s so much fun being in Paris: I’m free!” She sighed. “Except for the phone.”

“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?”

“You’re from my mother city, too,” he said. “How long in Paris?”

“Fifty years, next month,” she said. “I’m Chey Stefan.”

“I’m Stone Barrington.” They shook hands. “All those years in this shop?”

“I was an actress. I grew older while the roles grew younger, so I morphed into the stylist business.”

“Stylist business?”

“There are two kinds of stylists,” she said, “one for clothes and the other for rooms. I style rooms.”

“How does that work?”

“Suppose a director shoots some scenes in a house. It’s a nice house, but not nice enough. I make it nicer, then I rent them the furnishings by the day.”

“Do you also sell the furnishings?”

“That’s what this shop is for,” she said. “What do you need?”

“I need to turn a nice room into a great one,” Stone said, “and I need to have it done by five o’clock today. Can you manage that?”

“I’m probably the only person in the arrondissement who can,” she said. “See anything you like?”

Stone walked around a well-used but very handsome leather sofa and sat down. “I like this,” he said. “And that chair.” He pointed, then walked over and sat in it. It was covered in what looked like a Shetland tweed.

“It’s one of a pair.”

“I’ll have them both,” he said. “And those two end tables and those lamps over there. I need a brass reading lamp, too.”

She walked to the back of the room and stood next to one. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

“You’re easy. What else do you need?”

“A good rug, about twelve by eighteen.”

“Feet or meters?”

“Feet.”

“Follow me.” She led him into a back room and to a large rack that held rugs, hung up like towels in a bathroom.

Stone walked over to a rug. “Size?”

She consulted a tag. “Fourteen by twenty-two.”

“That will do.” He turned and saw that the wall behind him was covered by a huge bookcase, filled with leather-bound and good cloth volumes. “And books,” he said.

“I sell them by the yard, in French or English. There are more a couple of rooms back.”

“I’ll take twenty yards of English, a mix of leather and cloth, whatever is beautiful.”

She made notes on a pad.

Another wall was covered in pictures: landscapes, still lifes, nudes, and portraits. Stone began pointing while she took more notes.

“I like the table there, too.”

More notes.

“And I need a grand piano. I don’t suppose you can do that.”

“Right this way,” she said, and led him to yet another room. Three grand pianos stood, covered by sheets. She whisked them away. “Do you play?”

“Some, but not for a long time.”

There was a monstrously French gilt instrument, another black-lacquered, and one of walnut. “The Bechstein has the nicest tone,” she said, indicating the walnut instrument.