Stone Barrington 06-11

them.

    “Well, isn’t this nice?” she said, keeping the Irish accent.
    Stone wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
    “Come on, Mr. Barrington, I’m here. What d’ya want?”
    Stone started to speak, but the waiter came with the drinks, and he waited for him to leave.
    She picked up her beer, poured some into a glass, and clinked it against his. “So? Yer not very talkative, Mr. Barrington.”
    Stone sipped his beer. “I think you should leave New York immediately.”
    “Oh? And why’s that, if you’d be so kind as to tell me?”
    “I don’t think you should believe that your release from police custody has made you immune,” he said.
    “Immune to what?”
    “To… further action.”
    She glanced at the door, then leaned back into her seat and sipped her beer. “You said on the phone you knew something about me,” she said. “Exactly what?”
    “It’s my understanding that, when you were younger, your parents were killed in an ambush that was meant for someone else, and that after that, you underwent some rather specialized training, then began assassinating various people, with an emphasis on those who were inadvertently responsible for your parents’ death.”
    “My, you are well informed, aren’t you?”
    “Moderately.”

    “ ‘Inadvertently’? Is that what they told you?”
    “Who?”
    “Whoever told you this rubbish.”
    “I think it’s pretty good information, though it may not entirely conform to your view of things.”
    She laughed. “Yes, my view of things is somewhat different. I know for a fact that my mother was the target, and killing her husband and daughter, as well, didn’t faze them in the least.”
    Stone said nothing.
    “You see, there’s two sides to every story.”
    “Perhaps so. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re going to hunt you down and kill you,” Stone said.
    She looked amused. “Oh? Well, that’d take some doing, wouldn’t it?”
    “They have no legal recourse, so they’re going to use other means.”
    “And how do you know this?”
    “I hear things,” Stone said.
    She reached into her handbag.
    Stone sat up straight.
    She came out with a hundred-dollar bill and shoved it across the table. “Put that in your pocket,” she said.
    Stone put it in his pocket.
    “Now you’re my lawyer, right? You’ve been paid for legal advice, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And this conversation is privileged. You can’t disclose it to anyone else.”
    “That’s right.”

    “Okay, Mr. Stone Barrington, what is your advice?”
    “I’d advise you not to spend another night in New York City. I’d advise you not to leave by airline, train, or bus, but to leave by car, and, if you want to leave the country, do that by car, too, or on foot. I’d advise you not to come back for a long time.”
    “Anything else?”
    “I’d advise you to go to ground, establish an identity you can keep permanently, and find a more productive way to live out your life. And to never, ever again identify yourself to anyone as Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”
    “Well, that’s very sound advice, Mr. Barrington,” she said. “I’ll think it over.”
    “Don’t think too long,” Stone said. “And since I’ll deny that this conversation ever took place, I’d be grateful if you’d do the same, because it’s very dangerous for me to be associated with you in any way.”
    “Well, I think I can promise you that,” she said. She gathered up her handbag and shopping bag. “I’m going to be leaving you now, and I don’t expect we’ll be meeting again. You finish your beer. Finish mine, too, and take at least fifteen minutes to do it.” She stood up.
    “Goodbye, then.”
    Her voice changed to something mid-Atlantic. “Goodbye, Mr. Barrington, and thank you for your concern. I’m very grateful to you.”
    She walked to the rear of the room and disappeared through the kitchen door.

    Stone finished his beer, and hers. He knew from her attitude that he’d set out on a fool’s errand. She was going to do exactly what she’d intended to do all along.

38
    Stone and Carpenter met at the Box Tree, a small, romantic restaurant near his house. They settled at a table, and Stone ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame, his favorite champagne.
    “What’s the occasion?” Carpenter asked, when they had clinked glasses and sipped their wine.
    “An entire evening, just the two of us, free of the cares of work. What we in America call a ‘date.”