Unintended Consequences Read Free Page A

party, then. Gotta run. I’ll be back in the office in a couple of days if you need to reach me.”
    They said goodbye and hung up. Stone sat at the desk, staring into his briefcase. He didn’t know what to do; he had no business to conduct in Paris; he had no social events to attend; he didn’t know anybody in Paris, except the people he’d met at the embassy earlier. He was hungry, though, so he ordered a sandwich from room service, then he phoned Woodman & Weld’s managing partner, Bill Eggers, with whom he was supposed to have met three or four days ago. Maybe Bill could shed some light on why he was in Paris.
    “Mr. Eggers’s office,” the secretary said.
    “Hi, it’s Stone. Is he in yet?”
    “No, and he won’t be.”
    “Can I reach him on his cell?”
    “I’m afraid not. He’s fishing or shooting moose or something in the wilds of northern Maine and can’t be reached.”
    “I’m in Paris. Ask him to call me when he returns.”
    “That won’t be until the end of next week.”
    “Never mind, then.” Stone hung up.
    He was eating forty-five minutes later when he heard the doorbell, and an envelope was slid under his door. He put down the sandwich, opened the door—nobody there—then closed it and picked up the envelope. His name was written on it in beautiful calligraphy, but there was no return address. He opened it and extracted a card.
    Dinner is at eight o ’ clock this evening , black tie. A car will call for you at your hotel at seven-forty-five. The same calligraphy, but it was unsigned. The paper appeared to be expensive.
    Stone went back to his sandwich, but the phone rang, and he had to get up again. “Hello?”
    “Stone, it’s Amanda Hurley. How are you?”
    “Very well, thank you.” Who the hell was Amanda Hurley?
    “From the plane, remember?”
    “Of course.”
    “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?”
    “Certainly.”
    “I’ve booked a table for us at Lasserre, on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. Do you know it?”
    “I went there once some years ago.”
    “Is that all right, then?”
    “Yes, fine.”
    “I’ve got to go somewhere for drinks first, so I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty.”
    “Good.”
    “The table is in your name. See you then.” She hung up.
    Stone went back to his sandwich, reflecting that he was now attending a dinner party at an unknown place with unknown people, then having dinner with a woman he couldn’t remember.
    His calendar was filling up.

4
    S tone tied his black bow tie and began filling his pockets with the detritus that travels with every man: wallet, cash, keys, cell phone, linen handkerchief, comb—the works. He stopped when he picked up the envelope containing the stack of euros from his briefcase, took them out and counted them. Apart from the €100 used to pay his taxi from the airport, it was mostly €200 and €500 notes. It came to €20,000, less the €100 for the cabdriver. He was shocked; he would never travel with that much cash; what were credit cards for? He locked the stack in the safe in his closet and got into his jacket.
    Ten minutes later he was standing in front of the hotel when a black Maybach, the Mercedes-built limousine, glided to a halt. The doorman tapped on the passenger-side window. “For Mr. Barrington?” He got his answer, then opened the rear door for Stone.
    “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the driver said.
    “Good evening.” He didn’t ask where they were going or who his host might be; after all, he was supposed to know. The car moved silently down the street, and he made himself comfortable in the large, reclining seat.
    Nearly half an hour later the car was in the Bois de Boulogne, the forested park on the outskirts of Paris, more than twice the size of New York’s Central Park. They passed a couple of women standing next to parked cars.
    “Damsels in distress?” Stone asked the driver.
    “Hardly, sir, they are prostitutes, what you call in America ‘hookers.’ The