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?”
“You did. What is more, this is the first occasion, of which I am aware, that he has been seen outside of Russia, and I tend to keep track of such things. He is also very strongly connected with Russian intelligence. He and Kronsky were classmates at the KGB University.”
“All right, I’m impressed. What do you suppose brings him to Paris?”
“How should I know? That’s what I want you to find out!”
“Lance,” Stone said. “I spoke with Mr. Chekhov briefly last evening, and he exhibits a rather regal mien. He does not suffer fools gladly, and he has clearly assigned me to membership in that group.”
“What on earth did you say to him?”
Stone took Lance through their conversation. “He seemed to think he spoke for the Russian people in all things. I’m afraid that amused me.”
“You laughed at Yevgeny Chekhov?”
“I’d like to think I laughed with him. But it’s entirely possible, in fact probable, that he did not see it that way.”
“And I thought I could count on you to be discreet,” Lance groaned.
“I had no instructions regarding discretion, or on how to kowtow to a Russian oligarch,” Stone said. “So I treated him like a normal human being.”
“He is not a normal human being,” Lance said, “as I assume you now understand.”
“I understand that he does not regard himself as a normal human being,” Stone said, “and that he may have come to regard me as less than one, since he is obviously accustomed to a level of obsequiousness that I have not yet attained in my dealings with the superrich.”
“Oh, stop being such a pompous ass,” Lance scolded.
“I believe that, on this occasion, Mr. Chekhov more resembled the referenced creature.”
“He’s entitled to behave like an ass: he has a hundred and eighty billion dollars! Do you realize that makes him the second richest person on earth, after President Kronsky himself, whom we believe to have two hundred and twenty billion?”
“In my passing experience with a handful of persons of very lofty wealth, I have found them, for the most part, to be kind, charming, and endearingly modest about their station in life.”
“Were any of them Russian?”
“Well, no, but . . .”
“Endearing modesty is not a detectable trait of Russians who have accumulated great wealth through nefarious means,” Lance said. “If you insist on that sort of behavior from them, you will soon find yourself reposing in a barrel of fish in the Black Sea.”
“All the more reason for me to never again clap eyes on Yevgeny Chekhov,” Stone replied firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my breakfast is getting cold.” He hung up.
Tessa was staring at him. “Was that Lance Cabot on the phone?”
“How did you know that?” Stone asked.
“It came to me in a flash when you called him ‘Lance.’”
“I don’t believe I called him that.”
“I believe you did. Do you know who Lance Cabot is?”
“Of course I know who he is. Why else would I be on a transatlantic call with him?”
“You were talking on the phone with Lance Cabot about Yevgeny Chekhov?”
“We were discussing his relation to the playwright, Anton Chekhov,” Stone replied. “I believe they are fourth cousins, twice removed. Lance disagrees.”
“How do you know Lance Cabot?” she asked.
“How do you know him?”
“I don’t, but I read the New York Times’s international edition every day,” she said, grabbing the newspaper from the breakfast tray. “You don’t mind if I do the crossword, do you?”
“Help yourself,” said Stone, who minded a very great deal.