Foreign Affairs (7 page)

I
t was nearly lunchtime when Stone's new cell phone rang, and the caller ID number was blocked. “Hello?” he said cautiously, prepared to hang up again if it was Casselli.

“Stone, it's Lance,” Lance Cabot said.

“Lance, how did you get this number?”

“And good day to you, too. Is there some reason I shouldn't have this number?”

“Yes, I've had it for no more than a couple of hours, and I got it for the specific reason that—”

“Yes, yes, I know about all of that. Mr. Casselli was making a pest of himself.”

“Right, and if you can get the number, can't Casselli?”

“I very much doubt it—after all, I'm the director of fucking Central Intelligence, and I can get
anybody
'
s
number. I don't believe Leo Casselli can. Do you mind very much speaking to me?”

“Of course not, I'm just concerned that I was so easy to find.”

“Oh, all right, when I got an out-of-order recording on your old number, I called your secretary, Joan, and she gave me the new one. I don't think she would give it to Casselli, so stop worrying.”

“All right, I won't worry.”

“Actually, perhaps you should worry just a little, because Casselli called you yesterday and was connected to your old number for a couple of seconds.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that.”

“That was long enough for him to get a fix on your general location, if he has the right equipment, and I'm sure he does, so you should assume he knows you're in Paris.”

“Swell.”

“But, if you hung up immediately, he probably doesn't have your street address.”

“Well, that's a relief.”

“Don't be relieved too quickly, he might have gotten it.”

“Oh?”

“But don't worry, I've got a fix on Casselli's phone, and he's still in Rome.”

“That's good to know.”

“Of course, he may be sending his minions to Paris as we speak.”

“I can't win, can I?”

“Of course, if they don't have your street address, they can't find you, can they?”

“It's always so reassuring to talk to you, Lance.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I suppose you're wondering why I'm calling.”

“That crossed my mind.”

“Rick LaRose is going to come to see you.” Rick was the Paris station chief for the Central Intelligence Agency.

“It's always a pleasure to see Rick.”

“Not this time. He's going to ask you to do something you won't want to do.”

“And what would that be?”

“I can't talk about it on the phone. Rick will explain it all when you see him.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Don't be sarcastic, Stone, it doesn't suit you.”

“Would you prefer irony?”

“That doesn't suit you, either.”

“And what is Rick going to do for me, in return for my doing something for you that I won't want to do?”

“He's going to keep Casselli and his friends from capturing you and barbecuing you on a spit.”

“Is that what Casselli wants to do to me?”

“He did that to someone very recently—last week, I think.”

“You're just trying to frighten me.”

“I am, because you should be frightened. Under Casselli's thin veneer of respectability, he's really a vile and barbaric creature. I wouldn't put anything past him. I could tell you stories from our file on him that would turn your hair white.”

“Don't, please.”

“If you're nice to Rick, I won't.”

“I'll be as nice to him as I can be, under the circumstances.”

“I was looking for a more unqualified response.”

“That's the best I can do—under the circumstances.”

“I suppose. I understand the new girl, Ms. Kiesler, is very nice.”

“You know about her, too?”

“Stone, we've known each other for a long time—when are you going to get used to the fact that I know everything about everybody?”

“Never.”

“Would you like me to tell you something about Ms. Kiesler that you don't know?”

“Thank you, no. I'd prefer to hear it from her.”

“As you wish, but she may prefer to keep it from you.”

“As she wishes.”

“If your curiosity overwhelms you, call me.”

“Goodbye, Lance.”

“Goodbye, Stone.”

H
edy took her easel back into the mews and set it up, while Stone returned to his book. He had been reading for no more than ten minutes when a chime chimed. It took Stone a moment to remember what rang the chime, then it came to him: it rang when somebody opened the door in the big gates. By the time he got to his feet, somebody was ringing the doorbell.

He opened the door to find Rick LaRose, as predicted. “Hello, Stone,” Rick said, smiling and offering his hand.

“How did you get in?” Stone asked.

“I have a key,” Rick replied. “Have you forgotten from whom you bought this house?”

He had bought it from the Paris station, which had formerly used it as a safe house. “How are things at the Paris station?” he asked as he offered Rick a chair.

“Fairly calm at the moment. It's one of those welcome periods where we're not in the middle of a flap of some sort.”

“It sounds restful.”

“Boring, is more like it.”

“Lance said you are going to ask me to do something I won't want to do.”

Rick looked a little embarrassed. “Well, yes. What's more, it's not something that I want to ask you to do.”

“As bad as that?”

Rick shrugged.

“Are you just trying to make things less boring for yourself?”

“Oh, sure, but there's a real purpose in it, too. It's something that could help us make things materially better in Europe.”

“Better for whom?”

“For Europeans.”

“Okay, spit it out.”

Rick was now looking sheepish. “We'd like you to let us leak your location to Leo Casselli.”

Stone winced. “I don't think I could have heard you correctly, Rick.”

“I'm afraid you did.”

“Look, I've just fled Rome in order to get out of Casselli's reach. How far do I have to go? London? Iceland? Home to New York?”

“It's like this,” Rick said. “There's a guy in Rome, Massimo Bertelli, who has just taken over the DIA, the Italian department that is trying to root out the Mafia.”

“I've heard the name,” Stone said.

Rick looked surprised. “Where did you hear of him?”

“From Dino Bacchetti.”

“Dino Bacchetti in New York?”

“Right now he's upstairs taking a nap.”

“I didn't see him on the arrivals list,” Rick said.

“Arrivals list?”

“Every day the embassy circulates a list of prominent Americans who are visiting France. Dino wasn't on it.”

“It's a private visit,” Stone said. “He's just here for the weekend, with his wife.”

“Nevertheless, we like to know who's in town.”

“Now you know. Dino has been in touch with Massimo Bertelli about Marcel duBois's and my problem with Casselli.”

“Oh, good, that will save me the trouble of informing him.”

“I guess so. Are you going to tell me what you—rather, what Lance—wants?”

“It's partly to do with an expansion of my job. The Agency wants station heads to be more concerned with what happens in Europe as a whole, rather than just in our individual bailiwicks. We're beginning to think of the European Union as more of a United States of Europe, rather than a lot of independent countries.”

“Well, that's very cosmopolitan of the Agency, Rick, but what the hell does that have to do with me?”

“It's like this: France has some very comprehensive laws dealing with organized crime.”

“Doesn't Italy?”

“Yes, but it's more difficult for the Italians to enforce them.
The Mafia there has long penetrated government at every level. They're doing the best they can to root them out, but they have a lot of hurdles to overcome.”

“Go on.”

“Bertelli and his people have assembled intelligence indicating that Casselli wants to spread his influence to other European countries, especially France.”

“Why France?”

“It boils down to the recently discovered fact that Casselli wants a personal base here. He particularly likes Paris, but the attitude of French law enforcement toward him would make it difficult for him to live here, even for short periods of time. He would like, over time, to penetrate French society and, eventually the civil service and the legislature, with an eye to making France more hospitable to him and his friends.”

“That sounds megalomaniacal to me.”

“Of course it does, but Casselli has a lot of confidence in his own ability to manipulate things.”

“Once again, how does this affect me?”

“Casselli wants to co-opt people like Marcel and you, who do business here and who move from country to country easily. Casselli can't even visit Paris or London for fear that his name would be on some watch list that would get him detained at the airport.”

“Why doesn't he just drive?”

“Of course that would be easier, if he were just visiting, say, for pleasure, but French hotels collect their guests' passports
and send the names to the police every day, so eventually his name would cross the desk of some civil servant who is on the lookout for people like him, and he'd find himself dealing with the police and the court system.”

“Come on, Rick, get to the point.”

“We know that Casselli has agents in Paris already who are attempting to winnow their way into French society, but we have had trouble identifying them. Now, however, there is someone in Paris who is of great interest to them, someone who might coax them out of the woodwork and into the light, giving us a rare opportunity to identify them and penetrate their organization.”

“And that would be me?”

“Yes.”

“Sort of like the goat that would be staked out to attract the lion?”

“That's not a comparison we'd like to draw.”

“Nevertheless, the comparison is apt, is it not?”

“Neither Lance nor I would be comfortable with that. We know that Casselli is doing his best to locate you—we just want to make it easier for him.”

“Rick, you realize, do you not, that sometimes, in spite of the hunter's best efforts, the lion eats the goat?”

“All we want you to do, for the present, is to start using your old phone again.”

“Just long enough for Casselli to deduce my street address in Paris.”

“Well, yes. We'll take care of the rest, and we will, as we have done in the past, protect you.”

Stone sighed. “I don't know why I don't just go back to Rome.”

“Because in Rome, in spite of the Italians' best efforts, the lion would eventually get the goat.”

S
tone stared at Rick LaRose. “You want me to risk my life—and, incidentally, the life of my girlfriend, who is also here?”

“Stone, I've said we will protect you. There is little risk involved for either of you. Right now there are half a dozen of our people on the street and rooftops whose only purpose is to keep you safe. And right now, all Casselli knows is that you are in Paris, no more. And there's something else: for all practical purposes, this house doesn't exist.”

“How is that?”

“When we owned the property we had it erased from all civic records—city directories, maps, even tax rolls. Have you ever received a bill for taxes for the house?”

“Joan normally takes care of those things, I'd have to ask her.”

“Trust me, you haven't. And we sold the house, not to you, personally, but to a French corporate entity your attorneys
created for the purpose, so your name does not appear in any list of property owners.”

“Well, that's a high level of anonymity,” Stone admitted, “and it could be very useful. I'm not sure I'd want to give that up. Are you going to notify the French authorities that this house exists?”

“Stone, if we wanted to force you to cooperate, we could just let Casselli know where you are. He would kill or kidnap you and we would follow his people to the source and erase him. But that's not how we deal with people we like and who are of value to us, as you have been on a number of occasions.”

“I had no idea the Agency was so fond of me,” Stone said wryly. “What do you want me to do?”

“Where is your old phone?”

Stone opened a drawer in the table next to him and handed Rick the phone.

“May I have your new phone?”

Stone removed it from its holster and handed it to him.

Rick removed the SIM card from the new phone and installed it in the old phone, then handed it to Stone. “Why don't you check in with Joan, see how things are in New York?”

Stone called the number.

“Woodman & Weld,” Joan said.

“It's Stone.”

“Are you safely in Paris?”

“I am. Thank you for alerting Marie of our arrival. How are things in New York?”

“Under control. Strangely, it gets easier to keep it that way when you leave town.”

“Dino and Viv are here for the weekend.”

“Good for them. You seem to be rambling, Stone, is there something I can do for you?”

“Hold on a minute.” Stone turned to Rick. “Is that long enough?”

“Give it another minute or two,” Rick said.

Stone went back to the phone. “Any interesting mail?”

“Nope.”

“Phone messages?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, I know what I wanted to ask you: Have we ever received a bill for taxes for the Paris house?”

She thought about that. “Nope.”

“Okay, then, call me if anything comes up. Oh, and if one phone doesn't answer, try the other one.”

“Goodbye, Stone.” She hung up.

“That should do it,” Rick said. “Now, if Casselli's people traced the call, they'll get a marker on their map, but the marker won't correspond to any known Paris address, which will confuse them. But I would imagine that they would have people in the neighborhood within the next twenty-four hours, looking for you.”

“And what happens when they find me?”

“We'll bag and interrogate them for a few days.”

“Will Casselli know what's happened to them?”

“No, he'll just suddenly be out of touch, and he'll send more people to find them, and when he does, we'll bag and interrogate
them
.”

Stone thought for a moment. “Suppose I could get Casselli to come to Paris? Would that shorten the project?”

“How would you get him to do that?”

Stone's cell phone rang. “I'll bet that's him now.”

“Go ahead, see what you can do.”

Stone pressed the button. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“This is Leonardo Casselli.”

“Hello, Mr. Casselli, what can I do for you?”