Stone was awakened the following morning by a scratching noise, which turned out to be the sound of a pencil on paper. Tessa handed him the page. “For Lance,” she said.
Stone rang for breakfast, then turned his attention to her report. “Splendid,” he said. “And what school taught you to apply pencil to paper so beautifully?”
She scrunched down beside him, fondled his genitalia, and said, “I believe we have time before breakfast to put this to use, and it appears to agree with me.”
Stone could not deny her. They were just reaching a climax when the dumbwaiter bell rang.
“What exquisite timing,” Tessa said.
“And, once again, I ask you: How did you learn to take notes so rapidly and perfectly?”
She heaved a sigh as he got out of bed to retrieve their tray. “Oh, all right: I attended a language school, and I spoke the language so badly that they taught me a new skill instead.”
“What was the language?” he asked.
“Russian.”
“And who . . .”
She held up a finger to stop him. “Sorry, I’m eating now.” She took a big bite of muffin and chewed thoughtfully.
Stone shaved, showered, gave Tessa a kiss, and went down to his office, depositing Tessa’s notes on Joan’s desk with instructions to scan and e-mail them to Lance Cabot.
He had hardly sat down at his desk when his iPhone buzzed.
“I’m scrambled,” Stone said.
“These are perfectly beautiful notes,” Lance said.
“I thank you on behalf of the note taker.”
“Ah, it was the lovely Tessa, wasn’t it?”
“I cannot deny that. I think I’m beginning to see at whose language school she learned to do that.”
“It’s a sort of backup skill we teach to those who are not born linguists,” Lance said. “I wish we taught it to all our students, because then I could read their reports so much more easily.”
“Have you found anything of interest therein?” Stone asked.
“Everything,” Lance said. “So much so that I am going to have to deprive you of Tessa’s company with immediate effect.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because she is needed elsewhere, and my need trumps yours.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me she was one of yours?”
“It was a need-to-know thing,” Lance replied. “Now Tessa has a need to travel, though I know you’ll miss her.”
“When can I have her back?” Stone asked.
“Perhaps soon, perhaps not.”
“Did you learn the purpose of last evening’s dinner?”
“I did, and it was the same purpose as the Paris dinner.”
“When speaking to Chekhov, I divined that he was somewhat less enthralled with Peter and his entertainments than before.”
“Some people just don’t wear well,” Lance said. “And Peter is, apparently, one of them.”
“I agree,” Stone said. “There isn’t much there. Don’t order me to accept any more of his invitations.”
“We’ll see.” Lance hung up as he often did, unceremoniously.
Tessa appeared in the office doorway, closely followed by Fred, with her luggage on a cart. “I hope you’ve spoken to Lance,” she said.
“I have.”
“Oh, good, then I won’t have to explain why I have to leave.”
“I did not know until my conversation of a moment ago that you were subject to Lance’s orders.”
“It was a secret,” she said.
“For how long?”
She eyed the ceiling while counting on her fingers. “Let’s see. It was four—no, five years ago. I needed the money at the time. Now I do it because it’s fun.”
“I have not yet discovered that facet of Lance’s personality.”
“He grows on you.” She came over to his desk and planted a lush and lingering kiss upon his lips. “I fly,” she said, and she pretty much did. “I’ll send Fred home soon,” she called over her shoulder, then they were both gone.
Stone waited for a count of about twelve before rising and taking the elevator to the top floor, where he found Vanessa Baker’s card in the pocket of last night’s dinner suit. He sat down on the bed and dialed her number.
She answered on the first ring. “I thought you’d never call,” she said.
“I see your caller ID is working.”
“Just fine.”
“Dinner?”
“Does it matter which night?”
“I was thinking tonight,” he said.
“Funny, so was I. I have a thing earlier in the evening. May we meet at the restaurant?”
“As long as it’s Patroon, on East 46th Street. May I send my car for you?”
“Oh, yes, you may. It’s supposed to rain.”
“Where and when?”
“Isn’t that a song?”
“You’re thinking of ‘Where or When,’ Rodgers and Hart.”
“You’re right. I’ll be at 570 Park Avenue at, let’s see, seven forty-five. I’ll be standing under the awning, keeping dry. What sort of car?”
“A Bentley Flying Spur. I’ll see you at Patroon at eight.”
“Done.” She hung up.
Stone asked Joan to book the table, then he got Tessa’s notes and read them. Lance was right; her precise handwriting made them easy to digest.
Stone arrived at Patroon in a cab at the stroke of eight, just as Fred pulled up and assisted Vanessa Baker from the rear seat. She passed from his umbrella to Stone’s. Then they went inside, checked their rain gear, and were shown to Stone’s usual table.
“What would you like to drink?” Stone asked Vanessa.
“It feels like a brown whiskey evening,” she said.
“Bourbon?”
She nodded. “Excellent.”
Stone ordered Knob Creek for both of them. While they waited for delivery Stone asked her, “Tell me, do you work for the CIA?”
“No,” she replied. “I don’t believe they’re in the baking business.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” he replied, as their glasses were set down. They clinked them and drank.