“I can remember all that,” she said, handing back the notebook.
Stone gave it to her again. “This will prevent your having to recite the list to Lance on the phone tomorrow morning.”
She sighed and accepted the jotter, then started writing rapidly. “There,” she said, “that should hold Lance for a while.”
Stone read the list. “Where did you learn to write so fast and so legibly?”
“In school,” she replied.
“What school?”
Tessa ignored the question and nodded toward the door, where the governor of New York was entering the room.
“Excellent,” Stone said. “Now, as George Sanders said to Marilyn Monroe in that movie, ‘Go do yourself some good.’”
Tessa rose and made her way through the crowd, where she managed to collide with the governor. A conversation ensued, and she returned to the sofa. “Give me the jotter,” she said, then sat down and wrote half a page.
Stone read over her shoulder. “The governor met Peter at a soccer match last year?”
“That’s his story.” She handed back the jotter.
“Where would he find a soccer match in New York?”
“At some place called Randall’s Island,” she replied. “Where is that?”
“In the middle of the East River,” Stone replied. “That’s the river to the east, not the one to the west, which is the Hudson River.”
“I think I knew that. There’s a soccer stadium there?”
“I’m not going to argue soccer geography with the governor,” Stone said.
“Isn’t there a Governors Island, too?”
“Yes, but that one comes under the purview of the federal government, not the state. It’s much nicer than Randall’s Island, though. That’s where they train garbage collectors to do their work, or used to. I can’t keep up with these things.” Stone looked toward the door in time to see Bill Eggers enter. “Ah,” he said, “there’s someone worth talking to.”
“Who is he?”
“My boss, or more accurately, the managing partner of the law firm in which I am a partner.”
“I thought Lance Cabot was your boss.”
Stone pulled her to her feet and guided her toward Eggers. “I keep telling you. I don’t work for Lance, I just advise him on occasion.”
“You seem to have done nothing else since I met you,” Tessa said.
“Bill,” Stone said, stopping him in his tracks, “I’d like to introduce you to my friend Tessa Martindale, who hails from across the Great Pond.”
The two shook hands and exchanged greetings.
“Bill,” Tessa asked, “where did you meet Peter Grant?”
“Who?” Eggers asked.
“Your host,” Stone explained.
“Oh. My wife accepted the invitation, then she got mad at me about something or other and refused to come—this after I was already tuxedoed to the gills, so I decided to come on my own. Which one is Peter Grant?”
Stone spoke up. “See the Venus de Milo? Third male to her missing left.”
“Looks familiar,” Bill said.
“Think about it, Bill. Is he really familiar, or have you already had a couple of drinks?”
“Both, I think. I believe I shook his hand at a dinner at the Friars Club last night.”
“That must have stamped him permanently on your frontal lobe.”
“He spilled a drink on my other tuxedo,” Eggers explained. “You don’t forget people who do that.”
“Did anyone pick your pocket while you were dealing with it?”
Eggers felt himself all over. “Nope, not unless they replaced my wallet, which is in its usual place. Is that Yevgeny Chekhov over there, talking to the redhead?”
“It is; how do you know him?”
“He had just been introduced to me by Grant, when he spilled the drink on me.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“I did, vaguely, so I had my secretary look him up this morning. I believe he’s someone important in the Soviet . . . Oops, what’s it called now? The People’s Republic of Russia?”
“The Russian Federation, I believe.”
“One of their oligarchs, I think. They’re a nasty bunch, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but you’d better not let Chekhov hear you say that.”
“I suppose not. I had a phone call from him this morning, but I didn’t call him back.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a nasty piece of work.”
“I think that’s a reasonable description.”
“How did you meet him?” Eggers asked.
“At a function very much like this one, in Paris. He asked me to lunch.”
“Did you go?”
“Lance Cabot insisted,” Stone replied.
“Then he must be a really nasty piece of work.”
33
Somebody rang a little silver bell, and the guests began looking for their place cards among the tables in the dining room. Stone found himself sitting beside the redhead he had seen Chekhov talking to before dinner. Tessa was at another table, seated next to Chekhov. Peter Grant came in and sat on the other side of the redhead.
“Good evening, Stone,” Peter said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to greet you and Tessa earlier.”
“You were very busy, Peter, but good evening to you.”
“Have you met Vanessa Baker?” Peter asked, referring to the redhead.
“I was just about to,” Stone said, offering his hand. “I’m Stone Barrington.”
Hers was cool, with long fingers, befitting her height. “How do you do?” she said, in a thoroughly American accent.
“Stone does very well,” Peter interjected. “He’s an important New York attorney.”
“That’s flattering,” Stone said. “And like most flattery, not quite true.”
“Well, Peter,” she said, “Stone is modest.”
“At times,” Peter replied.
“And how do you earn your daily bread, Vanessa?” Stone asked, hoping to exclude Peter from the conversation.