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“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, and the hair was a wig.”
“This could be nearly anybody,” Stone said.
“Exactly. La Biche’s stock-in-trade is looking like anybody. She can walk through the toughest airport security and pass herself off as an American businesswoman or a French fashion designer, an Italian countess, or a Spanish nun.”
“I thought, what with electronics, it was getting harder to use false passports. Every time I’ve used mine, it gets swiped through a reader, and my information pops up on a screen.”
“All true, but over the years there have been numerous thefts of blank passports from embassies and consulates all over the world, which solves the problem of paper authenticity, and if such thefts can be concealed for a few days or weeks, the numbers don’t come up as stolen when going through immigration. It’s very, very tough to catch somebody when your suspect is using real paper.”
“I would imagine,” Stone said.
The phone rang, and Carpenter went to answer it. “Yes? No, absolutely not. It would attract the attention of anybody who knew what to look for. Are you trying to make me a marked woman?” She paused and listened. “Well, that makes sense, I suppose, though the thought doesn’t really appeal. Oh, all right, send them over.” She hung up and returned to the table.
“What was that?” Stone asked.
“First, they wanted to put a team on me, which I thought was a bad idea. Even if they’re very good, they can be spotted.”
“But you agreed to something,” Stone pointed out.
“The CIA is sending somebody over to see me.”
The doorbell rang.
