“What’s gone wrong?”

“Nothing has gone wrong, that’s what worries me.”

“You’re worried about nothing going wrong?”

“Not exactly. We just got a new private poll, a big one that cost us a lot of money, and we’re trailing Honk among independent likely voters by eight points, with only two percent undecided, and we can’t figure out why. Kate has been brilliant, but for some reason, the very people we’re counting on are drifting away from her. Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody!”

“Certainly not. This sounds like a bad poll to me. They must have made some sort of mistake in the sampling, or something.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” Ann said. “Tell me some good news.”

“I bought a house in Paris.”

“That is good news! I’ll have somewhere to hide from the world next week!”

“You’re not going to need a hideout, but if you did, you’d like this one. It has a little mews all to itself, in the seventh arrondissement, just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It’s walled off from the world, but Paris is just outside the gates.”

“It sounds heavenly. Can I come right now? I won’t even pack, I’ll just go straight to the airport and disappear forever.”

“No, you won’t, you’ll go to work as if that poll didn’t exist, and you’ll win it.”

“When are you coming home?”

“The grand opening gala is later this week. I’m getting on the Strategic Services jet immediately afterward and heading straight for Washington. Kate has offered me the Lincoln Bedroom for election night.”

“I know about that, I’ll be there, too, but down the hall.”

“Then you can sneak in and sleep with me in Abe’s bed.”

“I’d sleep with you in anybody’s bed.”

“I’ll count on that.”

“I’ve gotta run. I have three thousand things to do.”

“Then go do them. I’ll see you soon.”

—

STONE HUNG UP and sighed. That poll sounded like very bad news for Kate.

“You ready for dinner?”

“Yes!” he called back.

“Upstairs or downstairs?”

“I’ll meet you in the study!” He got into a robe and trotted down the stairs, fear for Kate replacing hunger in the pit of his stomach.

50

Stone bounded out of bed, shaved, showered, dressed, and bounded down the stairs, ready for breakfast.

“You slept well,” Holly said, dishing up eggs and bacon.

“You exhausted me,” Stone said.

“That’s a good reason.” She kissed the top of his head. “I’ve gotta run—a meeting about you at the station.”

“I’m flattered, but I don’t believe it for a moment.”

“Believe it—there’s already an office pool on whether you’ll make it as far as the grand opening of l’Arrington.”

“How are you betting?”

“I haven’t decided yet—maybe after the meeting.” She kissed him, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door. “Oh, by the way,” she called over her shoulder, “the pistol Rick loaned you is in your sock drawer.”

“Thanks!”

Stone finished his breakfast alone, then went into the living room, his sense of well-being evaporating. He picked up a book and tried to read; no use. He played some Jerome Kern on the piano; no effect. Cabin fever began to set in.

He got up and paced a bit, then, seeking fresh air, he opened the front door and stepped out into the mews. His guards were, apparently, on the boulevard side of the big doors. He walked carefully around the cobblestoned area in front of the house, then inspected the flowers growing in the center turnaround but quickly ran out of walking space. He heard the phone ring inside the house and ran back indoors to answer it, but when he picked it up, the caller had already hung up.

He collapsed into one of his new/old armchairs and wondered what to do next. Then there was a tapping on the window behind him. He looked around to see one of his guards peering inside.

“Good morning,” the man said when he opened his door. “There’s a man who shouldn’t know where you are, asking to see you, and he has a woman with him.” He handed Stone a card that read “Yves Carrier, Woodman & Weld.”

“It’s okay, you can let him in,” Stone said. “He’s from the Paris office of my law firm.”

“Right you are,” the man replied. He went to the big doors, opened the small inset door, and waved in a man and a woman. The man was young and fashionably dressed; the woman was middle-aged and motherly-looking.

Stone ushered them into the house and offered them chairs.

“I’ve brought some documents for your signature, with regard to the purchase of . . . this house, I presume?”

“You presume correctly, M’sieur Carrier.”

“Please call me Yves,” he said. “Madame Roche has come along to attest to your identity and signature. Is your passport handy?”

“I’ll get it.” Stone went upstairs and rummaged through his things until he found the passport. He also found the gun in his sock drawer and dropped it into his pocket, not that he thought Monsieur Carrier and Madame Roche represented a threat. He ran down the stairs and handed the passport to the woman, then took a seat.

She looked at him, then at the passport, then did it again. “D’accord,” she said.

Carrier began handing Stone documents; he signed them and handed them to Madame Roche, who stamped and signed them. Stone tried to read one, but it was in French.

“I must say,” Carrier said, looking around, “that you have got yourself a very good buy here. Properties of this sort in this neighborhood are going at much higher prices than you are paying.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone said, signing the last of the stack of documents and handing it to Madame Roche. “I love a bargain.”

“And this is a very beautiful room,” Carrier said.

“You should have seen it the day before yesterday,” Stone said.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve done a bit of redecorating.”

“Ah.”

“Is there anything else I need to do?” Stone asked.

“No, we’ll e-mail these to Mr. Cabot right away for his signature. Assuming he signs, the house is yours. And there’s a car, too?”

“Yes, in the garage, but I haven’t bothered to look at it yet.”

“Let’s go and check it for a registration,” Carrier said. He followed Stone to the garage, and they approached the lump under a tarp in one of the two bays. Stone pulled the cover away to reveal a Mercedes four-door sedan of the late seventies or early eighties. Except for some dust, it looked almost new. A pair of wires ran from under the hood to a receptacle in the garage wall: a battery charger, apparently.

He opened the driver’s door and inspected the creamy leather, which was in excellent condition. He sat down, found the key in the ignition, and turned it. The car started instantly. He switched it off quickly, not wishing to be found dead of asphyxiation.

“Do you see a registration anywhere?”

Stone rummaged in an envelope and handed Carrier some papers.

Carrier inspected them, then went to the rear of the car and had a look at the license plate. He came back and handed Stone the documents. “It’s registered to a name at the American Embassy,” he said, “and it has diplomatic tags. Park anywhere you like.”

“I like the sound of that,” Stone said, pocketing the keys and following Carrier back inside the house.

“Well, I hope you’ll be very happy here,” Carrier said. Hands were shaken, and he and his notary left.

Stone found himself again alone with himself. Curious, now, he went through the kitchen into the garage and, using his house key, let himself into the staff flat. It was a small but comfortably furnished suite with bedroom, bath, and kitchenette. He went back into the house and took the elevator to the top floor, where he inspected two en suite bedrooms with a common sitting room between them. One floor down, he found a large bedroom with a sofa and two chairs in front of the fireplace, much like the master. He walked downstairs, found his book again, and sat down beside the fire. He had been there for only a moment when he heard two loud pops from the direction of the boulevard. That brought him to attention, but after a moment he dismissed the noise as a vehicle backfiring and went back to his book.