Stone arrived in his office to find a cream-colored envelope on his desk with his name written on it in beautiful calligraphy. He opened it and read an invitation to dinner from Peter Grant at a suite in the Pierre Hotel. He picked up the phone and buzzed Tessa.
“Talk fast.”
“I’ve received an invitation to dinner from Peter Grant; any interest?”
“Peter’s parties are always interesting.”
“Then I’ll accept.”
“You do that, and I’ll go shop for something stunning to wear.”
“Good.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan. He read the RSVP number on the invitation. “Please accept for me, and mention that Tessa will be coming as well.”
“Will do.”
Stone’s iPhone rang and he answered.
“Scramble.”
“Scrambled.”
“Peter Grant is throwing a dinner party at the Pierre this evening. I want you to be there.”
“I have already accepted,” Stone said.
“Are you taking a female?”
“I’m surprised to hear you ask,” Stone replied. “You always know everything about me, Lance, sometimes before I do.”
“It’s Tessa, is it?”
“See?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass; Tessa is perfect for the evening. She’ll worm everything out of everybody she meets.”
“Probably.”
“Suggest to her that she ask everyone she meets how he or she met Peter.”
“I don’t think I’ll have to suggest that.”
“I want a list this time tomorrow,” Lance said, then hung up.
“I got lucky at Ralph Lauren,” she said, presenting herself to Stone. She looked gorgeous in the long black skirt and a black top with shiny, horizontal gold bands across it.
“You certainly did,” Stone agreed.
They arrived at the Pierre only fashionably late and took the elevator to the floor marked PH.
“Looks as if Peter really splurged,” Tessa said as they rode up. “There must be someone coming that he really wants to impress.”
Tessa was right. As they stepped from the elevator car, past a burly man who looked like security, Stone spotted Yevgeny Chekhov across a fairly crowded room. “I can’t wait to see the wine list,” he said to Tessa.
“Looks like he wants to impress Mr. Chekhov over and over,” she said.
“By the way,” Stone said, “whenever you meet anyone new this evening, ask them how they met Peter.”
“Did Lance Cabot tell you to tell me that?”
“Don’t ask.”
Stone snagged a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, then towed Tessa toward Chekhov.
“Ah, Stone,” Chekhov said when he saw them. “And the lovely Tessa.”
“Good evening, Yevgeny,” Stone replied. “How long have you been in New York?”
Chekhov glanced at his watch. “About six hours,” he said. “And you?”
“A couple of days.”
“I rode his coattails,” Tessa said, flashing him a smile.
“Nice place Peter has,” Stone said.
“I suspect he rented it for the occasion,” Chekhov said. “He’s probably staying somewhere downstairs from here. Have you seen the view?” He indicated that they should explore the terrace.
The lamps in Central Park had already come on, and across Fifth Avenue the Plaza was bathed in floodlights. The faint echo of a police siren and a few horns floated up from the street.
“One doesn’t get views like this in Moscow,” Chekhov said, “unless one is at the top of one of those awful Stalinist apartment buildings.”
“What brings you to New York, Yevgeny?” Stone asked, noting that his English had improved since their last meeting.
“Business,” the Russian replied.
“I never asked you what sort of business you are in.”
“This and that,” Chekhov replied. “Whatever will turn a ruble.”
“Do you have any particular interest in any particular field?”
“I’m interested in money,” Chekhov replied, “especially dollars and euros.”
“Once you’ve earned those, what do you invest them in?” Stone persisted.
“I’m interested in what will make them grow. I do quite a lot of lending, as long as the rates are good. I suppose you could say I’m something of a loan fish.”
“I think you might mean loan shark.”
“Ah, yes, that’s the word. Do you have any borrowing requirements, Stone?”
“No, I manage to operate debt free, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Too bad,” Chekhov said. “I imagine that you are quite credit-worthy.”
“I suppose I am, but I haven’t put my credit status to the test for quite some time.”
“Then I will have to find other chickens to pick.”
Stone and Tessa both laughed at that. “Pluck,” Stone said. “Peter Grant, perhaps?”
“Not at the moment, but after he has squandered his newfound wealth on parties like this one and the one in Paris, I think I may feel certain that he will soon come calling.”
“Is that his pattern?” Stone asked.
“It is.”
“Tell me, if you haven’t already: How did you come to meet Peter?”
“I met him a few years ago at a dinner party at the Kremlin.”
“I suppose there is only one person who is the host there.”
“Quite right. I was intrigued as to how an American adventurer had come to be acquainted with that host.”
“What did you learn about that?”
“Neither Peter nor our host was amenable to the question, especially Peter, who exhibited fright when I asked it.”
“And I thought you would know everything about Peter,” Stone said.
“Oh, I do now, but not then.” Chekhov caught sight of someone across the room and excused himself.
“I’ll bet Lance is going to love that bit of gossip,” Tessa said.
“It’s not gossip when it’s from the horse’s mouth,” Stone replied.