Unintended Consequences

would describe the dosage you received as too much.”
    “Who injected me? I assume that’s why I had tape on my arm.”
    “No, that’s from drawing blood and administering an IV. If you didn’t take the drug yourself, then someone probably gave you something to drink that had been doctored. The right dosage would have made you into a sort of walking, talking zombie.”
    “And destroyed my memory of the last four days?”
    “Presumably.”
    “Including traveling from New York to Paris?”
    “A reasonable assumption.”
    “How did I get to the American Embassy?”
    “A kindly taxi driver picked you up at the airport but couldn’t understand what you were saying, and when you passed out, he went through your wallet.” He got up, went to the door, and returned with the shopping bag that had been hanging there. He reached into the bag and came up with a zippered plastic sack containing what Stone recognized as the normal contents of his pockets, including his passport and wallet, and emptied it onto the table. Keeler opened the wallet, removed a card, and handed it to Stone. It read “Holly Barker, Assistant Director of Intelligence.”
    “That got the attention of a marine guard at the front gate.” He handed Stone a CIA ID with his picture on it. “So did this.”
    “Ah,” Stone said.
    “We’ve been unable to reach Ms. Barker,” Keeler said. “She is away from her office at some sort of retreat.”
    “Retreat? That doesn’t sound like Holly.”
    “In any case, once we had made you as comfortable as we could here and sent your blood for analysis, someone typed your name into a computer and came up with a very interesting CIA file that identified you as a consultant to the Agency, hence the ID card.”
    “That is correct,” Stone said.
    “And you are also an attorney with the New York law firm of Woodman & Weld?”
    “Correct.”
    “Do you have any idea why you came to Paris? Had you been planning a trip?”
    “No, I had not, and I have no idea why I came here.”
    “You had a first-class, round-trip ticket on Air France,” Keeler said, “with two baggage claim stubs but no baggage. We’re checking into that now.”
    “Thank you. Why do you have a room like this in an embassy?”
    “It’s actually in that part of the building dedicated to the intelligence services. Sometimes we have . . . guests.”
    “I see.”
    “The clothes you were wearing have been cleaned and pressed. Why don’t you get into them, and I’ll introduce you to some other people here.” He got up and left the room.
    Stone got dressed.

2
    D r. Keeler returned to the little room. “Come with me,” he said. Stone got into his blazer and followed.
    They walked down a corridor, then into a large room divided into cubicles where men and women were at work. There seemed to be an unusually large number of monitors on their desks. They passed half a dozen glassed-in offices, then stopped at a closed door. Keeler rapped on it, then looked up at the ceiling, where a camera peered back at him. The door made a clicking noise and Keeler opened it.
    They stepped into a large, comfortably furnished office where a man in his mid-forties with thick, graying hair spilling into his eyes was talking with a man and a woman. Stone reflexively appreciated that the woman was in her mid-thirties and quite beautiful.
    “Mr. Barrington,” Keeler said, “this is Whit Douglas, our station chief. The lady is Rose Ann Faber, our chief of analysis, and the other gentleman is Richard LaRose, who does God-knows-what around here.”
    Stone shook their hands, and the group moved to a seating area with a sofa and some comfortable chairs.
    “How are you feeling, Mr. Barrington?” Douglas asked.
    “It’s Stone, please, and I’m feeling reasonably well, I guess, sort of jet-lagged.”
    “It’s the drug,” Keeler said. “Your state of consciousness for the past few days would have prevented jet lag.”
    “Have I really been unconscious for four days?”
    “No,” the doctor said, “as I mentioned before, you were walking and talking for part of the time. You probably weren’t drugged until the day before yesterday.”
    “Why do you say that?” Stone asked.
    “You would have had to be reasonably sober in order to make the decision to travel to Paris, not to mention getting through security and onto an airplane.”
    “But I can’t remember getting on the airplane.”
    “The drug has obliterated four days of your memory,”