very valuable commodity on their hands, and they strung her along by telling her they were making progress in learning the names and locations of her parents’ killers. They were lying, of course.
“Finally, she became impatient. She kidnapped the head of our Cairo station and tortured him until he gave the names of everyone involved in the operation,” Carpenter said calmly. “Then she cut his throat and watched him bleed to death. The body, naked and very damaged, was deposited on the steps of the British embassy.”
“Then she started hunting them?” Stone asked.
“Yes. The Americans were the first and easiest target. They were husband and wife. Both worked in their embassy in Cairo, and she fire-bombed their apartment while they slept.
“The British contingent, four of them, took longer. She garotted one in a railway station men’s room in Bonn. The other, she stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip as he walked across Chelsea Bridge, in London.” Carpenter started to continue, but stopped.
“Go on,” Stone said.
“She murdered Lawrence Fortescue the night before last,” Carpenter said quietly.
“Larry Fortescue was a member of your service?”
“He was the man I told you about, the one I had a relationship with who decided to work abroad. He came here two years ago, married Elena Marks, and resigned from the firm.”
“So she got them all,” Stone said. “One by one.”
“No,” Carpenter said, “not all. She hasn’t gotten me yet.”
“You?”
“It was my first assignment abroad,” she said. “I went along merely as an observer.”
Stone gulped. “Does she know you’re in New York?”
“I don’t know,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m moving out of your house tonight, and into a hotel.”
“But why? You’re safe with me.”
“Stone,” Dino said, tapping the newspaper on the table, “if little Marie-Thérèse, or one of her friends, happens to read today’s Post, she’ll know that the taking of her picture was instigated by a certain lawyer with a ‘hard’ name.”
“But that’s not enough to identify me, surely.”
“And,” Dino said, “she knows where you’re dining tonight.”
Stone looked slowly around Elaine’s. He saw half a dozen women who could have been the woman in the photograph.
“Do you think this Marie . . . what’s her name . . .”
Carpenter spoke up. “She picked up a sobriquet in Paris, after murdering a member of the French cabinet. Interpol calls her ‘La Biche.’ And yes, she could be here tonight.”
Stone pushed back his chair. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
15
Dino’s driver took them to Stone’s house, where Carpenter packed her bags, then they were driven to the Lowell, a small, elegant hotel on East Sixty-third Street, off Madison Avenue.
They were met at the door by the night manager, who, without bothering to register Carpenter, took them directly to a suite on the top floor.
“Are you known here?” Stone asked when the manager had gone and the bellman had deposited her luggage in the bedroom.
“My firm is,” she said. “We’ve used the hotel often. We missed out on dinner; should we order something?”
They dined in the room on Dover sole and a good bottle of California Chardonnay, and without much conversation.
“So Dino,” Stone said when the dishes had been cleared, “I guess you’ve put out an APB for this woman.”
“Pretty tough, putting out an APB without a description,” Dino replied, looking at the dessert menu.
“Description? You’ve got a photograph of her!”
“Yeah, well,” Dino replied.
Carpenter went to her purse and brought back a sheet of paper. “Here’s what the CIA’s photo people were able to come up with,” she said, handing it to Stone.
He opened the paper to see a rather bland face, framed by long, dark hair—straight nose, big eyes.
“The photograph Herbie took was of her looking up, so only her hair, forehead, eyes, and nose were visible, no jaw,
“Finally, she became impatient. She kidnapped the head of our Cairo station and tortured him until he gave the names of everyone involved in the operation,” Carpenter said calmly. “Then she cut his throat and watched him bleed to death. The body, naked and very damaged, was deposited on the steps of the British embassy.”
“Then she started hunting them?” Stone asked.
“Yes. The Americans were the first and easiest target. They were husband and wife. Both worked in their embassy in Cairo, and she fire-bombed their apartment while they slept.
“The British contingent, four of them, took longer. She garotted one in a railway station men’s room in Bonn. The other, she stabbed with a poisoned umbrella tip as he walked across Chelsea Bridge, in London.” Carpenter started to continue, but stopped.
“Go on,” Stone said.
“She murdered Lawrence Fortescue the night before last,” Carpenter said quietly.
“Larry Fortescue was a member of your service?”
“He was the man I told you about, the one I had a relationship with who decided to work abroad. He came here two years ago, married Elena Marks, and resigned from the firm.”
“So she got them all,” Stone said. “One by one.”
“No,” Carpenter said, “not all. She hasn’t gotten me yet.”
“You?”
“It was my first assignment abroad,” she said. “I went along merely as an observer.”
Stone gulped. “Does she know you’re in New York?”
“I don’t know,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m moving out of your house tonight, and into a hotel.”
“But why? You’re safe with me.”
“Stone,” Dino said, tapping the newspaper on the table, “if little Marie-Thérèse, or one of her friends, happens to read today’s Post, she’ll know that the taking of her picture was instigated by a certain lawyer with a ‘hard’ name.”
“But that’s not enough to identify me, surely.”
“And,” Dino said, “she knows where you’re dining tonight.”
Stone looked slowly around Elaine’s. He saw half a dozen women who could have been the woman in the photograph.
“Do you think this Marie . . . what’s her name . . .”
Carpenter spoke up. “She picked up a sobriquet in Paris, after murdering a member of the French cabinet. Interpol calls her ‘La Biche.’ And yes, she could be here tonight.”
Stone pushed back his chair. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.
15
Dino’s driver took them to Stone’s house, where Carpenter packed her bags, then they were driven to the Lowell, a small, elegant hotel on East Sixty-third Street, off Madison Avenue.
They were met at the door by the night manager, who, without bothering to register Carpenter, took them directly to a suite on the top floor.
“Are you known here?” Stone asked when the manager had gone and the bellman had deposited her luggage in the bedroom.
“My firm is,” she said. “We’ve used the hotel often. We missed out on dinner; should we order something?”
They dined in the room on Dover sole and a good bottle of California Chardonnay, and without much conversation.
“So Dino,” Stone said when the dishes had been cleared, “I guess you’ve put out an APB for this woman.”
“Pretty tough, putting out an APB without a description,” Dino replied, looking at the dessert menu.
“Description? You’ve got a photograph of her!”
“Yeah, well,” Dino replied.
Carpenter went to her purse and brought back a sheet of paper. “Here’s what the CIA’s photo people were able to come up with,” she said, handing it to Stone.
He opened the paper to see a rather bland face, framed by long, dark hair—straight nose, big eyes.
“The photograph Herbie took was of her looking up, so only her hair, forehead, eyes, and nose were visible, no jaw,
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