“Did you enjoy the wines?”
“My God, yes,” Dino replied. “I’m pretty drunk.”
“So am I,” Stone said. “Why don’t you fake a heart attack so we can get out of here?”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Peter Grant nearly shouted. “My friend Mr. Chekhov regrets that he must leave us, and he has asked me to wish you all a good evening.”
Chekhov managed a grimace, then with a backward wave of his hand, pontiff style, he marched out of the apartment, followed by a large man in a business suit with a bulge in his left armpit.
Since the apparent guest of honor had departed, the others began to drift out, and soon Stone and his party were back in the old Mercedes convertible.
“Those were the most spectacular wines I’ve ever drunk,” Tessa said, and there were murmurs of agreement from the others.
“Tessa,” Stone said, “I think Peter spent something like a hundred twenty thousand euros on wine last evening, and probably considerably more tonight. You spoke of him as tight with his money. Can you account for his sudden largesse the past two evenings?”
“I cannot,” Tessa said, “unless he’s broken the bank at Monte Carlo, and we’re a long way from Monte Carlo.”
“Have you ever known him to splurge before?”
“Never at any time,” she replied. “I’ve bought more drinks for him than he has for me. Until tonight.”
“Do you know how he paid his caterer tonight?”
“No, I imagine he’s probably taking care of that about now.”
“Have you ever known him to use a credit card?”
She thought about it. “No, on those occasions when he does pay, he seems always to use cash.”
“In euros?”
“I think so.”
“Have you ever been gambling with him?”
“No. Sorry, yes. Once, in Monte Carlo. He was very cautious, and he managed to win a bit, though not enough to buy those wines. Why are you so interested in his spending habits?”
“Because his behavior is so at odds with what I’ve been told about him, mostly by you.”
“Well, the horses are running at Longchamp,” she said. “Perhaps somebody gave him a tip, or a long shot came in.”
“Do you have any idea who that fellow, Chekhov, is?”
“No, but he was at Tour d’Argent with Peter’s group last night, sitting next to Peter.”
“Have you seen Peter in the company of Russians before?”
“No. Last night and tonight are the only times I’ve seen Peter in company that he assembled himself. All the other parties or dinners were given by others, with their guests.” She turned her body on the car seat to face him. “Tell me, Stone, what is your interest in Peter? We never seem to talk about anything else.”
“I apologize,” Stone said. “Why don’t we talk about something else?”
“I have a question,” she said, as they pulled into his garage and everyone got out of the car.
“Please ask it.”
“Why haven’t you made the slightest pass at me since we met? It’s all right if you’re gay, Stone, just tell me.”
Stone took her upstairs and demonstrated that he was not.
21
Early the following morning, Stone was awakened by a nuzzle from Tessa, which quickly evolved into a fondle. He responded as a gentleman should, and soon they were entwined.
“May we have breakfast in bed?” Tessa asked as soon as they had both caught their breath.
“We may,” Stone replied, and called Marie on the house phone with the request, leaving the menu to her. Another forty minutes of nuzzling and fondling ensued, then there was a ringing noise. “Dumbwaiter,” he said.
He got out of bed, then carried two trays over and set them down on the bedcover. One tray contained dishes, utensils, and the Times, the other contained a single platter adorned with softly scrambled eggs, back bacon, fat Normandy sausages, and small pancakes. A pitcher of syrup stood beside the platter, along with another of orange juice and a silver pot of coffee.
“Let me serve,” Tessa said. Stone got back into bed and watched her build his breakfast. Finally, she returned with her own.
“I’m sorry about what I said last night,” she said. “I didn’t really think you were gay.”
“Quite all right. I had been neglecting you and, given your charms, that was inexcusable.”
“You’ve more than made up for any neglect,” she said, then plunged into her breakfast.
* * *
—
When they had finished, they could only lie there and sip coffee from cups resting on their bellies. Stone’s cell phone rang, and he held a finger to his lips. Tessa nodded, then closed her eyes.
“Yes, Lance?” Stone said.
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“Read me the guest list from last night,” Lance said.
Stone picked up his jotter from the bedside table and read the list, saving Chekhov for last.
“What was that last name?” Lance asked.
“Yevgeny Chekhov, like the playwright.”
Lance sucked in a breath. “I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Well, I didn’t pat him down for an ID, I just took Peter’s word for it. Oh, he was at the Tour d’Argent dinner the night before, too.”
“Do you have any idea who you’re talking about?” Lance asked.
“Ah, middle-aged, strongly built, balding.”
“I mean: Do you know who he is?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Stone replied.
“I expect you are aware that after Kronsky was elected as Russia’s president, he assembled a group of his friends and doled out to them control of previously government-owned industries, at bargain prices. Those men are known, collectively, as the oligarchy.”
“I believe I’ve seen that information in the Times on a few hundred occasions.”
“Well, Chekhov is the closest to Kronsky and, thus, the richest and most powerful among them. We estimate his wealth, spread around the world, to be about a hundred and eighty billion dollars.”
“Gulp,” Stone said. “Did I get the number of zeros right?”