Unintended Consequences

expect.”
    “I think I should just conclude my business in Paris and get back to New York,” Stone said.
    “I was going to suggest that, but I didn’t think you’d go for it.”
    “I’m having lunch with Marcel tomorrow. I think after that I will wend my way home.”
    “And happy contrails to you,” Rick replied.

28
    S tone and Helga arrived back at the Plaza Athénée and got on the elevator.
    “Excuse me,” Helga said, pressing both her button and Stone’s, “but I’m tired, and I’d rather sleep alone. Please don’t take offense.”
    “Of course not,” Stone said. “That party made me pretty tired, too.” The elevator arrived at his floor; he kissed her, then the doors closed, and she continued up to her floor.
    Stone let himself into his suite, got undressed, and fell into bed. He was asleep almost instantly. He began dreaming.
    He was back on the Air France flight from New York, sitting in his seat, reading a magazine and sipping a mimosa—orange juice and champagne. Amanda Hurley was across the aisle, and the sixtyish woman in the Chanel suit was making her way down the aisle. He turned and looked over his shoulder: Aldo Saachi was seated directly behind him. Then he looked across the airplane, past Amanda, and saw Majorov across the other aisle. The Chanel woman came closer, then suddenly a chime was ringing. He looked ahead at the sign on the bulkhead, expecting the seat belt light to be turned on, but it was not. The chime seemed to get louder. The Chanel woman came closer and seemed to lose her balance, teetering toward Stone.
    He jerked awake, but the chime was still ringing, and someone was knocking loudly on his door. He got out of bed, grabbed a robe, and looked through the peephole. Two men in suits stood outside. “Yes?” he yelled. One of the men held up an identity card, and Stone was able to read the words “Préfecture de Police.” He opened the door. “Yes?”
    “Mr. Barrington?”
    “Yes.”
    “We must speak with you. May we come in?”
    Stone turned on the master light switch, illuminating his sitting room. “Yes, come in.” What the hell could the police want with him?
    “Please be seated, Mr. Barrington,” the older of the two, a man in his forties, said. His companion, who was perhaps ten years younger, stood silently and watched, a notebook in his hand.
    “Have a seat yourself,” Stone said, and everybody got comfortable. “Now, how may I help you?” He glanced at the digital clock on the desk: 3:40.
    “I am Detective Inspector Claire,” the older man said. “Would you kindly account for your actions of earlier this evening?”
    “Why? What is this about?”
    “Please, Mr. Barrington, indulge us.”
    Stone sighed, then recalled that he had spent many an evening of his youth in their position. “I spent the evening at a party at the Russian Embassy,” Stone replied.
    “And who at the party can confirm your presence there?” Claire asked.
    “Oh, let’s see,” Stone said, staring at the ceiling as if to concentrate. “The American ambassador; the commercial attaché at our embassy, Mr. LaRose; the Russian ambassador; oh, and M’sieur Marcel duBois.”
    At the mention of that name the younger detective, who had been writing in his notebook, stopped and looked up at Stone.
    “Anything else?” Stone asked.
    “Were you in the company of a woman at this party?” Claire asked.
    “Yes, I was.”
    “And her name?”
    “Helga Becker. She lives on the top floor of this hotel.”
    “Did you return to the hotel in her company?”
    “I did.”
    “At what time did you arrive here?”
    “I think around ten-thirty.”
    “Did you go to her suite with her?”
    “No, we took the elevator up together, but I got off at this floor, and she continued upstairs.”
    “Mr. Barrington, do you possess a firearm?”
    Stone nearly said no, but reconsidered. Lying to the police was not a good idea. “Yes, I do.”
    “May I see it, please?”
    Stone got up, went to the desk, opened a drawer, and removed the small pistol Lance had given him. He also picked up his passport and slipped it into the pocket of his robe before returning to his seat.
    Claire accepted the pistol in its holster. He popped out the magazine and worked the action to be sure it was unloaded, then he smelled the breach and the barrel. “How is it that you, a foreign visitor, would be armed?”
    Stone decided to give him a short version: “An official of the American government was