Tessa did the Times crossword faster than Stone felt she had any right to, then she set the paper on his belly. “All yours,” she said. “Now, come on, tell me how you know Lance Cabot.”
Stone reached over to the bedside table, found his small pocket wallet, extracted a card from it, and silently handed it to her.
Tessa gazed at it, then her eyes widened. “‘Special Adviser to the Director?’” she read. “You’re a spy?”
Stone took some satisfaction from her wonder, since he had not yet given one of his new cards to anyone. “I am not a spy,” he said. “On occasion, I am asked by the director for advice on one thing or another.”
“You’re a spy,” she said, pointing at the card. “It says so right there.”
“Read it again. It does not say I’m a spy, quite the contrary.”
“But that’s what it means, doesn’t it?”
“It does not. It means what it says. Please don’t misinterpret.”
“I’ve never met a spy before.”
“Of course you have. What do you think Peter Grant is?”
“Peter? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He doesn’t have the brains for it, that’s why.”
“Do you know who Yevgeny Chekhov is?”
“Well, not until last night.”
“Who is he?”
“A Russian? Christ, I don’t know.”
“He was a classmate of President Kronsky at the KGB University, when they were very young. He maintains very close ties with Russian intelligence. Oh, and he happens to be the second richest man in the world, after Kronsky. He has a net worth of one hundred eighty billion dollars.”
“Now, that’s impressive! I don’t suppose he needs a date tonight?”
“If he does, Peter will arrange it. But if he invites you, turn him down—in the most courteous possible way.”
“So why does this make Peter a spy?” she asked.
“Two reasons: One, why else would Chekhov be hanging out with him? Two, where is Peter getting his newfound wealth?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t know.”
The bedside house phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Yes, Marie?”
“A Mr. Rick to see you down here.”
“Thank you, Marie. Give him a cup of coffee and tell him I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” He hung up. “Will you excuse me, Tessa? I have a visitor downstairs.”
“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.