Unintended Consequences

middle of the night, almost.”
    “Bill, I’m sorry about that, but this is an emergency.”
    “What sort of emergency?”
    “Did you and I meet with a Frenchman named Marcel duBois?”
    “What, you don’t remember?”
    Stone gave the briefest possible explanation of why he didn’t remember.
    “And how much time did you lose?”
    “About four days, starting after Dino’s wedding. Bill, why am I in Paris?”
    “Because duBois invited you, schmuck.”
    “Why didn’t he invite you?”
    “Because he wants The Arrington.”
    “Wants it? What do you mean?”
    “He stayed there for a couple of days when he was meeting with his West Coast dealer for his car, and he was overwhelmed. He wants to buy it—lock, stock, and wine cellar.”
    “Holy shit. Did he make an offer?”
    “He said he’d give you one in writing when you came to Paris. Has he?”
    “No, but I’ve seen him only once, at a dinner party at his house. I’m having lunch with him in less than an hour.”
    “Well, expect to hear a lot of zeros thrown around.”
    “Okay. Did I do anything for him while he was in New York?”
    “Do anything? What do you mean?”
    “I mean favors.”
    “You mean like getting him laid?”
    “No, no. Did I introduce him to anybody of consequence?”
    “Well, there was me.”
    “Besides you?”
    “Not that I know of. Listen, the firm wants his business for everything he does in the States, so sell him the fucking hotel, will you?”
    “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Does Mike Freeman know anything about this?”
    “I don’t know. Did you tell him about it?”
    “I don’t know. I’ll call him after lunch.”
    “Great. Now, can I give this pilot his satphone and go back to sleep?”
    “Sure, Bill, and thanks for bringing me up to date.”
    “Oh, Stone?”
    “Yes?”
    “There was one other thing about our meeting.”
    “What?”
    “I can’t remember. I’m drawing a blank.”
    “Has somebody drugged you, too?”
    “No, I’m just having a senior moment, okay?”
    “Take your time.”
    “I’m sorry, I just can’t remember what it was. I’ll have to call you later.”
    “How are you going to do that without a satphone?”
    “You have a point.”
    “Tell the pilot you’re keeping it and that you’ll send it to Lance when you get back to New York.”
    “Good idea!”
    “Go back to sleep, Bill.”
    “I’ll never get back to sleep now.”
    “Well, go moosing, or something.” But Eggers had already hung up.

19
    M arcel’s car was waiting for Stone when he arrived downstairs, and on the way to lunch he thought a lot. The pieces of his four lost days were falling into place, but he knew only what others had told him. He still remembered nothing, and he was beginning to think he never would.
    They arrived in front of a traditional building of twelve stories or so on a broad avenue. They drove through a gate and into an inner courtyard, where Stone departed the car and was directed to a door. Behind that sat a uniformed security guard.
    “M’sieur Barrington?” the man asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Please travel in this elevator,” he said, pointing to one of three.
    “Which floor?”
    “There is one button only,” the guard replied.
    Stone pressed the only button, and the car rose for half a minute, and the doors opened into a vestibule. A man in a white jacket and black trousers with highly polished shoes greeted him and led him into a living room that Stone estimated to be fifty feet in length, furnished with sofas and chairs in groups, scattered about the room. Stone thought it must be a perfect room for a very large party. They continued toward the rear of the building into a large, paneled library, where a spiral staircase led up to a second level that carried the circumference of the room. A table was set for two in the center of the room, and Marcel duBois sat at a desk at the end before large windows, speaking German into a telephone. He waved a hand, indicating that Stone should sit on a sofa.
    Stone did. While duBois finished his conversation Stone looked at the beautifully bound volumes, perhaps two thousand, he thought, perhaps three, lining the room, and there was still room for a dozen or so large paintings—old masters, mostly.
    DuBois hung up, navigated around the desk, and came to Stone’s sofa. Stone stood and greeted him, and they sat down.
    “Are you well, Stone?”
    “I am very well, thank you.”
    “Have you seen more of the lovely Helga?”
    “I have, and