“Who is he?”
“A spy.” Stone headed for the shower.
* * *
—
When Stone came downstairs, Rick La Rose seemed to be dozing in his chair. “Good morning, Rick,” he said loudly.
Rick opened his eyes. “Good morning, Stone. Forgive my state. I had a long night.”
“Would you like a second cup of coffee?”
“Please.”
Stone rang for Marie and placed the order. “Now,” he said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I heard a rumor that Yevgeny Chekhov is in Paris.”
“I expect you heard that from Lance. It’s quite true. What do you know about Chekhov?”
“Just what’s in his file. I’m sure you’ve been told that.”
“Have you no personal information about him?”
Rick shrugged. “He likes his women two at a time, and he’s nuts about French wines. That’s about it.”
“I can confirm the part about the wines,” Stone said. “For the past two nights I’ve watched him drink them.”
“Where?”
“At Tour d’Argent and at Peter Grant’s apartment. Grant was his host on both occasions.” He recited the wines served at both dinners.
“Holy shit,” Rick said.
“Me, too. Lance wants to know where Grant got the money. My bet is from Chekhov.”
“You won’t lose money on that bet,” Rick replied.
“Lance wants to know everything about Chekhov,” Stone said. “That’s a job for you, not me.”
“Thanks for your help,” Rick said drily.
“I don’t have any sources for that sort of information,” Stone said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Well, you’re possibly the only person in the Western Hemisphere who’s had a conversation with him,” Rick pointed out. “Not counting Peter Grant.”
“It was a very brief and unproductive conversation,” Stone replied. The phone on the table beside him rang. “Yes? Good morning.” He listened for a moment. “Why me?” Long pause. “All right.” He hung up.
“Anything I should know about?” Rick asked.
“That was Peter Grant. Yevgeny Chekhov has invited me to have lunch with him today, in the garden of the Russian embassy.”
“I thought he didn’t like you.”
“Maybe he wants to poison me,” Stone said.
23
Stone dressed in a blue suit and a sober necktie, googled the address of the Russian embassy, and drove himself there. He looked for a parking space and didn’t find one, so he parked directly in front of the building, practically in the face of an armed, uniformed guard, who spoke to him harshly in French.
“English?” Stone asked.
“Da. Yes.”
“My name is Barrington. I have a luncheon appointment with Yevgeny Chekhov.”
The soldier blinked.
“Please mind my car,” Stone said, getting out. The soldier opened the gate for him. “The keys are in it,” Stone said, walking to the front door, which opened a second before he arrived.
A man in a black suit stood there. “Mr. Barrington?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Will you follow me, please?” He led Stone past the grand staircase in the lobby to a hallway behind it, then to double doors at the end, which opened for them.
“Please,” his escort said, motioning him to a seating area at one end of a large office. “Mr. Chekhov will be with you momentarily.”
Stone took a seat and waited. A stack of Russian newspapers was placed on the coffee table before him, and he picked up one.
“Do you read Russian?” a voice behind him asked.
Stone turned to see a door behind him and Yevgeny Chekhov entering, followed by Peter Grant.
“No,” Stone said. “I was just looking at the pictures.”
“Good afternoon,” Chekhov said, offering his hand.
“Good afternoon,” Stone replied, rising and shaking it. “So you are, after all, the ambassador from the Russian Federation?”
“No,” Chekhov replied, “the ambassador is temporarily in Moscow, for consultations. I am merely borrowing his office and, more important, his garden, where we shall have luncheon.” His accent was still slightly British, and he wore what passed for a small smile.
Peter said nothing, but offered his hand.
“Come this way, please,” Chekhov said, then led them past the ambassador’s desk and through French doors behind it into an enclosed garden, nicely planted, where a table for three had been set. They sat down, and immediately two waiters appeared and served them with bowls of borscht.
“My native cuisine,” Chekhov said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m very fond of borscht,” Stone said. A waiter added a dollop of sour cream to it, and Stone took a sip. “Excellent,” he said.
“I wish to apologize for being abrupt with you last evening,” Chekhov said. “I plead jet lag.”
“Not at all,” Stone said, enjoying his soup. Peter Grant said nothing, just ate.
“By the way, Peter,” Stone said, “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed dinner last night, particularly the wines, which were spectacular.”
“Thank you,” Peter replied. “The wines were chosen by Mr. Chekhov, from his own cellar.”
“That is a cellar I would like to visit sometime,” Stone said.
“Then we will arrange that,” Chekhov said, “on your next visit to Moscow.”
“That would be my first visit to Moscow,” Stone said, “and I would like a visit to your cellar very much.”
“Do you collect wines, Mr. Barrington?” Chekhov asked.
“In a small way—enough for my occasional dinner guests. Marcel du Bois, whom you met last evening, is kind enough to send me a case or two now and then.”
“Ah, Mr. du Bois,” Chekhov said. “I’m told he is the richest man in Europe.”
Stone shrugged. “Moscow is in Europe, is it not?”
Chekhov actually managed a laugh. “I presume you are referring to our president.”