Free Paris Match by Stuart Woods Page B

breakfast.”
    Rick typed a short message. “Done.”
    “That was brief. What did you say?”
    “‘Request sequestered service record of John, NMI, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army.’ That’s all he needs.”
    “Would you like some breakfast while we await a reply, Rick?” Stone asked.
    “I’ve already had breakfast. I could use some lunch, though.”
    Stone looked at his watch. “By the time room service delivers, it will be lunchtime.”
    “I’ll have a lobster club sandwich on rye toast, and a Heineken.”
    “Holly?”
    “Corned beef on whole grain with mayo, and a diet Coke.”
    Stone ordered the food and a roast beef sandwich for himself, then hung up. “Half an hour or sooner.”
    “What’ll we do until then?” Rick asked
    “Anybody got a deck of cards?” Holly asked.
    “What do you want to play?” Stone asked, rummaging through the wet bar snacks.
    “I don’t play cards, but I know a card trick.”
    Stone stopped looking.
    “So,” Rick said, “did the ambassador grab your crotch at dinner?”
    Stone rolled his eyes.
    “I rescued him,” Holly said.
    “Was he any safer with you?”
    “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Stone said.
    “Tell us something juicy from your station, Rick,” Holly said. “We all have top secret clearances here.”
    “Juicy?”
    “Juicy.”
    “Well, let’s see: we caught a pickpocket who stole one of our officers’ cell phones and was trying to sell it at the Paris Flea Market.”
    “That’s what you call juicy?”
    “All right, the ambassador grabbed Stone’s crotch at dinner last night. That juicy enough?”
    “We already know about that: surprise us.”
    Rick took a breath to say something, and his cell phone made a musical noise. “That’s an e-mail,” Rick said, digging the phone from its holster. He pressed a button. “It’s from Lance,” he said. “Message is as follows: ‘NO FILE EXISTS.’” He stuffed the phone back in its holster.
    “You’re being stonewalled,” Holly said.
    “Maybe there’s no such file,” Stone said.
    “We already know there’s a file, we’ve read half of it.”
    “But not the good half.”
    “I’ll give you that. What’s your next move, Rick?”
    “What’s my next move? Why is it my move?”
    “It’s your station, so Simpson is your guy.”
    “He’s not my guy—I never saw him before last night.”
    “Have you put any people on this?”
    “Why should I put my valuable people on it? It’s the Paris police’s case, not mine.”
    “Don’t you want to know what the guy was doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked. “Before the Paris police find out?”
    “My bailiwick doesn’t extend to Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”
    “Then what were you doing there last night?” Holly asked.
    Rick pointed at Stone. “He called me.”
    “You’re pointing again, Rick,” Stone said. “When I called you, you came. Why?”
    “I’m supposed to take reasonable steps to keep you alive,” Rick said.
    “ Reasonable steps? That’s all my life is worth to the Agency? What about extraordinary steps?”
    “Getting me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night is an extraordinary step. I answered the call, and look where it got me. The Paris police think John, NMI, Simpson is my guy, and now they know you ’ re my guy.”
    “They didn’t know that before?”
    “Not to my knowledge. Well, there was that incident last year when we thought somebody was trying to kill Lance, but they were really trying to kill you. They can remember that far back, I guess.”
    “So you lost nothing by coming to Mirabelle’s kitchen?”
    “I didn’t gain anything, either.” Rick’s cell phone made the e-mail noise again, and he looked at it. “Oh, shit,” he said.
    “Now what?” Holly asked.
    “Bad news: Lance wants me on a secure video conference at the station in an hour.”
    “Oh, goody!” Holly laughed.
    “The good news is, he wants you there, too.”
    “Not me?” Stone asked.