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.”
“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.