“Of course.”
“Perhaps he may be. I have not seen his financial statement.”
“Has he seen yours?” Stone couldn’t resist asking.
“Mr. Kronsky knows all,” Chekhov said.
“I find it unusual that both you and he have names from Russian literature.”
“We Russians love our literature,” Chekhov replied. “My name at birth has too many syllables to be comfortable for Westerners and, indeed, for many Russians. I chose a new one when I entered university.”
“What university did you attend?” Stone asked.
Chekhov hesitated before answering. “A military one,” he replied finally.
“Is it true that you and Mr. Kronsky were classmates there?”
Chekhov looked at him sharply. “You are the first person ever to ask me that,” he said.
“Am I?” Stone asked.
“You are, and the answer is yes. The president and I first became acquainted there—actually, on the day we took our entrance examinations. We were numbers one and two in the rankings of the examinees.”
Stone wanted to ask who was number one, but he resisted.
“Kronsky was first,” Chekhov said.
“What was your major course of study there?” Stone asked.
“Western languages,” Chekhov replied, “and economics, a subject that has always interested me. And you? Where did you study?”
“At New York University, which was a few blocks from my home. Both undergraduate and law school.”
“Ah, the law. That has always interested me, too, but in the Soviet Union of my day, the law was rather a fluid subject. Or, at least, fluidly applied.”
“After law school I was a policeman for some years,” Stone said. “Perhaps we share that?”
“Yes, I was a policeman, too, but . . . How shall I put it? A political policeman.”
Stone didn’t need that explained.
Their soup bowls were replaced with plates of chicken breasts, which a waiter took a knife to, and garlic butter flowed. Chicken Kiev.
Stone tasted his. “Delicious.”
“I understand that you also have an interest in economics,” Chekhov said. “Or rather, perhaps, in investment.”
“I do. I belong to a partnership that invests for both my son’s trust fund and for me.”
“I trust you both profited handsomely from the recent IPO.”
That stopped Stone in his tracks. How could Chekhov know about that?
“Peter and I did rather well with it,” Chekhov said, with another of his almost-smiles.
The subject then changed quickly to racehorses, where Stone was out of his depth, then to American movies.
“My son is a movie director,” Stone said, “and I serve on the board of Centurion Studios.”
“Centurion!” Chekhov erupted. “They have a distinguished catalog! I have seen it all in my time. What is your son’s name?”
“Peter Barrington.”
“Aha! I have seen two of his. Excellent! He will have a long and successful career.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
They were served ice cream, then moved to some outdoor furniture for coffee.
“Tell me,” Chekhov said. “Any tips?”
“Movie tips?” Stone asked.
Chekhov’s eyes narrowed. “Investment tips,” he said.
“I’m afraid that, as a partner in my investment firm, I am unable to discuss that with you under penalty of a law called insider trading.”
“I am familiar with the term,” Chekhov said, “but it seems to me something that should not stand between friends.”
So they were now friends? “Even if I were inclined to break the law—for friends—I am held somewhat at arm’s length by my investing partner, who is a stickler for following the law.”
Chekov’s smile disappeared, and his eyes grew cold. “I am disappointed to hear that,” he said. “It smacks of distrust between friends.”
“I hope we will become friends, in spite of that,” Stone said, glancing at his watch. “If you will kindly excuse me, I have another appointment. I thank you so much for the delicious lunch and the agreeable company.”
He shook both their hands and turned toward the main building, where the previous attendant led him from the building.
His car was parked where he had left it, and the guard handed him his keys. Stone extended his hand to be shaken, startling the guard. “I thank you for your kind attention to my car.”
The guard shifted his automatic weapon to his left hand and extended his right. Stone shook it, pressing a fifty-euro note into the man’s palm, which he did not reject.
Stone drove away, enjoying the Paris afternoon in the open car.
24
Stone’s cell phone was ringing as he walked into the house.
“Yes, Lance?”
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“Tell me all,” Lance said.
“About what?” Stone asked innocently.
“Did I explain that I have the facility of sending a powerful electric shock to your new iPhone?”
“You mean about Yevgeny Chekhov?”
“However did you guess?”
“We had a very pleasant lunch in the ambassador’s private garden, that gentleman being in Moscow for consultations. We had borscht, then Chicken Kiev, then ice cream.”
Lance remained silent, waiting.
Stone told him all.
“You mean, all he wanted was stock tips?”
“That was all. He said that both he and Peter had done well on our latest IPO, which explains Peter’s recent largesse—except for the wines, which I was told came from Chekhov’s own cellar.”
“Last night’s, not those at Tour d’Argent.”
“Quite right, Peter would have had to pay for those, but then he did very well with the IPO.”
“How did you react to Chekhov’s request for stock tips?”
“I explained to him the law against insider trading,” Stone replied.
“How did he take that?”
“He called me his friend, and tried again.”