Class Act

43

Stone dropped Tara at the Knightsbridge entrance to the Harvey Nichols store, then drove around Hyde Park Corner, up Piccadilly, down to Trafalgar Square, and into the Strand. He turned into the Savoy Hotel driveway and gave his car to a valet. As he got out of the Porsche, he was approached by a young man he didn’t know. Stone put his hand under his jacket, where his pistol lived.

“Easy. I’m Jeffers,” the young man said.

Stone relaxed.

Jeffers handed him an envelope. “Here are your key cards. You are registered under the names of Mr. and Mrs. John Withers, though I don’t see a Mrs. Withers here.”

“She’ll be along later,” Stone said.

“I’ll park myself in a little cubbyhole outside the Oscar Wilde suite. Shout out should you require assistance. I assume you have a firearm?”

“I do. A small 9mm.”

“Is it equipped for a silencer?”

“It will accept one, but I am not so equipped.”

Jeffers slipped something heavy into Stone’s coat pocket. “You may keep this. It has no identification marks.” He pressed a box into Stone’s hand. “This is a listening device, which can be held against a wall or door, amplifying sound from the other side. You may keep this, too. It is custom-made and carries no markings. There is also a paper surgical mask inside, which might come in useful for not being recognized.”

“Thank you, Jeffers.” Stone made his way into the hotel and down a ground-floor hallway to the end, where the Oscar Wilde suite lay. There was a do not disturb sign hanging on the doorknob. He went next door to the Gilbert & Sullivan suite, let himself in, and had a good look around. It was beautifully furnished and had two large windows in the living room, overlooking the River Thames, with a park in between.

Stone set down the box he had been given and the silencer beside it. He screwed the silencer into the barrel of the pistol; a perfect fit. He opened the box and found an unmarked black box. He flipped a switch on the side, held it to the door between the adjoining suites, and pressed his ear against the other side. He heard the sound of a man turning over in bed, and a sort of snort. The box did a beautiful job of amplifying.

Stone inspected his pistol to be sure it was loaded. He pumped one up the snout and switched on the safety. He listened again at the door and heard nothing. Slowly, he turned the lock on his side of the door, turned the knob, and pushed. The door opened an inch. He still heard nothing.

He opened the door enough to allow him to enter, closing it silently behind him. As an afterthought, he slipped on the surgical mask and adjusted it for easy breathing, then he slipped off his shoes and walked down a short hallway to an open door. He looked inside and saw an empty bed with the covers pushed back. There was no one in the room.

Then he heard a clearing of the throat, apparently coming from the open bathroom door on the other side of the bed. He walked around the bed, then peeked carefully into the bathroom. A man sat on the toilet facing him, his pajama bottoms around his ankles. Stone stepped around the doorjamb, the pistol held out in front of him, pointed at the man’s head. The man’s jaw dropped, but Stone remembered him from Caravaggio. It was Trafficante.

“Shut up and sit still,” Stone said to him.

Trafficante froze and held out his hands, as if to ward off an evil spirit.

“I believe I have you at a disadvantage,” Stone said. “My name is Barrington, and I believe that I have just demonstrated to you that I can find you anywhere in the world and kill you, if I so choose. Do you agree?”

Trafficante nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat again.

“First, I have some information for you,” Stone said. “My brief relationship with Hilda Ross had nothing to do with you. I did not know that you existed at the time. Now you are engaged in an insane attempt to murder me, apparently out of jealousy. Is that correct?”

Trafficante let his gaze drop, as if he didn’t want to answer.

“Would you like me to shoot you in the knee to gain your undivided attention?”

“No,” Trafficante said. “Please don’t do that.”

“If anyone, for any reason, makes an attempt to harm me, I am going to assume that he has been instructed by you, do you understand?”

Trafficante nodded. “Yes, I understand. You will have no further trouble from me.”

“I could doubt your word and shoot you in both knees now, just to prove that I can.”

“Please, don’t do that. I give you my word you will have no further trouble.”

“Good. Remember, I can find you anywhere and kill or cripple you at will.”

“I will remember.”

“Sit there for five minutes before you move again,” Stone said. He stepped out of the bathroom, walked across the bedroom, down the hall, and locked the door to the adjoining suite, then let himself out the front door and closed it behind him, turning over the card on the doorknob to read, service, please. It wouldn’t hurt Trafficante to have another unexpected visitor.

He let himself into the Gilbert & Sullivan suite, picked up the phone, and ordered lunch.

Stone had eaten his lunch and was having a nap on the bed when his cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“It’s Jeffers. Mr. T. has checked out of the hotel. The doorman tells me a car was waiting to take him to RAF Northam, a military base to the west of London that also accepts corporate aircraft. I have a man following him, and I will be in touch.”

“Excellent.”

“By the way, I don’t know what went on in there, but you apparently scared the shit out of him. He looked terrible.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Stone hung up.

Less than an hour later, the cell rang again. “Yes?”

“It’s Jeffers. Mr. T. has boarded a corporate jet and has taken off. The pilot filed for Teterboro, New Jersey, flight time about seven hours. He has a bit of a headwind today.”

“Thank you once again, Mr. Jeffers. I shall let Dame Felicity know that your work was outstanding.”

“Thank you, sir, anytime.” Jeffers hung up.

Stone called Tara’s cell.

“Hello, there!”

“Are you all shopped out?”

“Not quite.”

“Dinner at the Savoy this evening?”

“Yes, please.”

“When you’re done, take a cab to the Savoy. We’re in the Gilbert & Sullivan suite. The subject of our interest has checked out and fled for New York.”

“Oh, good. Another hour?”

“Fine.” They both hung up.