At ten minutes before one Stone left the house and strolled down the few blocks to Brasserie Lipp, doing some light window-shopping along the way. The restaurant, a longtime hangout for people in the arts, had outside tables and a ground-floor dining room, plus an upstairs one where the tourists were invariably sent, to keep the main room open for regulars. Stone thought of it as Paris’s answer to Elaine’s, his old hangout in New York, until the death of Elaine.

The maître d’ recognized him immediately. “Bonjour, M’sieur Barrington.” The two shook hands. “Your guest has not yet arrived.” He led Stone to a table against the wall, with a good view of the front door. Stone settled in and ordered a bottle of Perrier. “And please,” he said to the waiter, “bring large glasses for the wine and pour generously.” The man nodded and left.

He had not long to wait. Casselli appeared at the front door, apparently alone, then approached the maître d’. Two men then entered the front door. The maître d’ escorted Casselli to Stone’s table, while his assistant greeted the two men and, after a short argument, sent them upstairs.

Casselli apparently didn’t notice. Stone stood to greet him, and they shook hands coolly.

“I hope you had a good flight,” Stone said.

“I did,” Casselli said. “How did you know I flew?”

“I assumed that driving or taking a train would be cumbersome.”

“Quite right. How long have you been in Paris?”

“I’m sure you know,” Stone replied. May as well cut through the niceties.

Menus were brought.

“What’s good here?” Casselli asked.

“It’s an Alsatian restaurant. Try the choucroute.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Assorted meats and sausage on a bed of sauerkraut.”

Casselli turned up his nose. “Oh, all right, after all, when in . . . Paris.”

Stone ordered the food and a bottle of red wine.

“Now,” Casselli said, spreading his napkin in his lap. “If we may speak of business.”

Stone nodded. “Of course.”

“I realize that both you and Mr. duBois are not Italian, and you may not be fully aware of how business is done in Rome.”

Stone shrugged.

“Accomplishing such an enterprise as building a hotel in the city is very complicated . . . and very Italian.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“There are many, many permits issued by separate city departments which are required for building.”

“As there are in Los Angeles and Paris, where we already have hotels.”

“Oh, it is quite different in Rome,” Casselli said with a little smile. “One must deal with different . . . personalities, and in different departments they do not always operate by the same rules. Personal intercession by a knowledgeable intermediary can save much more time and money than the cost of such services. Everything goes more smoothly with the help of a . . . consultant.”

“I should imagine,” Stone said drily.