Unintended Consequences

drive to Le Bourget.”
    “You know,” Marcel said, “I believe I have chosen the correct moment to leave Paris for a while.”
    •   •   •
    O n their arrival at Le Bourget, they drove through a guarded gate and drew up next to a Gulfstream 650 business jet, which already had one engine running, on the opposite side of the aircraft.
    Stone got out of the car and found Rick LaRose waiting for him. “Nice driving,” he said. “Is the ambassador going to have to have another chat with the prefect of police?”
    “I think I can handle this one on my own,” Rick said. “Enjoy your flight, and let me hear from you sometime.”
    Stone gave him his card, they shook hands, then Rick got into the van and drove away. Men appeared to take their luggage, and as soon as they had climbed the stairs and stepped into the airplane, the steps were taken away and the second engine started. A moment later, they were taxiing.
    A uniformed young Frenchwoman showed them to seats at the rear of the airplane, an area arranged to look more like a comfortable study than ordinary airplane seating. Shortly after that the airplane accelerated, then they were off the ground and climbing steeply. The stewardess appeared with champagne and orange juice, and Stone had some of each.
    “You know,” Marcel said, “that was really quite a performance with the van and the Mercedes. I suddenly feel more kindly disposed toward your friends at the CIA.”
    “There are times when it’s good to have friends,” Stone said, picking up a phone on the table in front of him. “I’ll see that we’re met at the other end.” He called Mike Freeman.
    •   •   •
    A couple of hours later, after reading the New York and Paris papers, they were served a good lunch, then Stone went forward to a reclining seat and had a nap. The stewardess awakened him as they were descending over Long Island toward Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, and five minutes later they were on the ground.
    A car from Strategic Services pulled up to the airplane and received Stone and Marcel and their luggage, and another car followed as they were driven into Manhattan. Thirty minutes later, they pulled up to Stone’s house. Two watchful men stood by the car as they got out and went inside, where Stone’s secretary, Joan Robertson, and his housekeeper and cook, Helene, and her elder brother, Philip, waited. Philip was a retired butler and driver engaged for the occasion, and he showed Marcel upstairs to his room.
    “I thought Philip could be useful during Mr. duBois’s stay,” Joan said.
    “A great idea,” Stone replied.
    “Mike Freeman and Bill Eggers have arranged a dinner at the Four Seasons at nine o’clock,” she said, “and Dino wants you to call him.” She handed him a card. “He has a new office number.”
    Stone looked at the card, which announced that Dino Bacchetti was the new chief of detectives of the NYPD. “He didn’t waste any time getting started after the honeymoon, did he?” Stone said.
    “And Mrs. Bacchetti has already started her new job at Strategic Services. They’ll be at the dinner tonight.”
    “It’s good to be home,” Stone said. He went upstairs to unpack and call Dino.

32
    A t eight o’clock, Stone rapped on Marcel’s door. His guest was occupying the guest suite overlooking the garden, immediately below Stone’s bedroom. Stone led him down to the study and offered him a drink.
    “What is that you are drinking?” Marcel asked.
    “Knob Creek, a small-batch bourbon. Knob Creek is where Abraham Lincoln was born in a log cabin, in Kentucky.”
    “I’ll try it, then,” Marcel said.
    Stone poured the drinks and handed one to him. “You may find it peculiar at first, but the second one goes down more smoothly.”
    Marcel took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “Interesting,” he said. He looked around the study. “You have a great deal of very fine woodwork in your house,” he said.
    “Thank you. All of it was made by my father.”
    “He was a designer?”
    “A woodworker who later became a designer.”
    “Tell me about him,” Marcel said.
    “My parents were from old families in western Massachusetts, to the north, in New England. My father had been enrolled at Yale, following in his father’s footsteps, but he had always enjoyed working with wood, and he wanted to make a career of it. He and my mother were in love, contemplating marriage by this time.
    “My grandfather was outraged that, instead of