The Short Forever

“It’s beautiful.”

“They’re just about the last of the old London clubs that still bar women from membership,” she said. “I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male membership.”

“Hmmpf,” Stone said. He was drifting off.

He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He looked out the windshield to see the narrow road ahead filled with sheep. One came up to his window and briefly pressed its nose against the glass, and it was eye to eye with him. “Where are we?” he asked.

“In the middle of a flock of sheep,” Sarah replied. “They have the right of way in the country.”

“I mean, where are we?”

“Halfway there. You hungry?”

Oddly, he was. “Yes.”

“There’s a pub round the bend; we’ll have a ploughman’s lunch.” She drove on when the sheep had passed, then turned into a picturesque country pub. They went inside, picked up their lunch—bread, cheese, and sausage, and a pint of bitter each, then made their way into a rear garden and sat down.

Stone drank deeply from the pint. “There, that’s better,” he said.

“The bitter will set you right,” Sarah said.

“That’s the second time today I’ve been told that.”

“And we were both right, no?”

“Yes, you both were. What do you know about Lance Cabot?”

“I told you already—not much.”

“Remember everything you can. Anything ever strike you as odd about him?”

“Only that he seems to fit in awfully well with English people. People I know don’t even seem to regard him as a foreigner.”

“Have you ever seen him with anyone you didn’t know?”

She thought. “Once, in a London restaurant, I saw him across the room, dining with a couple—man and woman—who looked foreign.”

“What kind of foreign?”

“Mediterranean.”

“That’s a big area.”

“Turkish or Israeli, perhaps.”

“Describe them.”

“About his age, well dressed, attractive—the woman, particularly. She was quite beautiful, in fact.”

“Could you hear them talking?”

“No, but they didn’t seem to be speaking English. I couldn’t read their lips, and I’m quite good at that, even from a distance. I don’t know if I told you, but as a child I had some sort of flu or virus that resulted in a sharp hearing loss. My hearing came back after a few months, but during that time I became adept at reading lips. Most people couldn’t tell I was hard of hearing.”

Stone nodded in the direction of a young couple sitting on the opposite side of the garden. “Tell me what they’re talking about.”

Sarah squinted in their direction for a moment, then giggled. “She’s lying to him,” she said.

“How?”

“She’s saying they were just friends, that they never slept together, and he believes her, but she’s lying.”

“How do you know?”

“I can just tell.”

“You’re a woman of many talents,” he said.

“I thought you already knew that.”

“I had forgotten how many.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m going to remind you.”

Chapter 25

THEY DRESSED FOR DINNER AND DINED in a smaller room than last time, at a round table, the heavy curtains drawn to shut out the night, in the English fashion. Stone didn’t understand why the Brits did that; he enjoyed the long summer twilights.

The talk ranged through politics, sport, and the relationship between the English and the Americans. Stone noticed that Lord and Lady Wight, during this part of the conversation, seemed to feel that Lance was on their side of things, while Stone and Erica occupied the other. It was as Sarah had said; the Brits were very comfortable with Lance, considering him one of their own. Stone couldn’t figure out why.

Port was served with Stilton at the end of the meal, and Stone sipped warily from his glass, his hangover having only just disappeared. At some invisible signal, the ladies rose and left the room. Stone nearly went with them, but Lance signaled him to stay.

“Over here, the ladies go somewhere, and the gentlemen stick around for cigars,” Lance explained, lighting something Cuban.

Stone despised cigars—smoking them or smelling somebody else smoking them.

Wight did not light a cigar, but sniffed at Lance’s. “My doctor has taken me off them,” he said. “Bloody cruel, if you ask me.” He looked at a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m turning in early. My respects to the ladies.” He got up and left.

They sat quietly for a moment, Stone playing with his port, Lance puffing his cigar and staring at the windows, as if he could see through the thick drapes and out into the night.

“You asked me a strange question the other day,” he said finally. “I’d like to know why.”

“About Hedger?”

Lance nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I have a lot to tell you about that,” Stone said.

Lance waved the cigar, as if motioning him onward.

“Last week a man showed up in my office, recommended by Woodman and Weld, and introduced himself as John Bartholomew.”

Lance shot him a glance.

“I take it you understand the significance of that name,” Stone said.

Lance shrugged slightly.

“He told me that he was concerned about his favorite niece—his dead sister’s child—that she had run off to England with someone of whom he suspected evil things. He retained me to come over here and see if I could disentangle the girl from the clutches of this ogre. Normally, I wouldn’t take on such an assignment, but he had passed muster with Woodman and Weld, and they had urged me to help him, so I came.”

“And how did he expect you to deal with this ogre?” Lance asked, blowing smoke in Stone’s direction.

Stone waved it off with his napkin. “I told him up front that I would not participate in harming him, and that I would not kidnap his niece. He said he would be content if I could get the ogre put into jail.”

Lance laughed, choking on his cigar smoke. “And how did he expect you to do that?” he was finally able to ask.

“He told me that you were supporting yourself by smuggling drugs into Britain—on your person, no less. I had a police contact; when I confirmed Bartholomew’s charges, I intended to put him onto you.”

“And now that you have been unable to confirm this information, what are your intentions?”

“I have none. I resigned from Bartholomew’s employ yesterday.”

“Oh? Why, pray tell?”

“I discovered that he had been lying to me.”

“And how did you do that?”

“I hired two former policemen—one to follow Bartholomew—”

“I imagine that came to naught,” Lance chuckled.

“Not entirely. My policeman had his pocket picked; that’s how I learned that his name is Stanford Hedger.”

“I don’t imagine Stan took kindly to that.”

“He did not. Some of his acquaintances put one of my policemen in the hospital.”

Lance nodded sagely. “Figures. What about the other one?”

“Oh, he was assigned to follow you; actually, the two of them took turns. I had your phones tapped, too.”

Lance turned and looked at Stone for the first time. “You what?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t learn anything. The conversations were very boring. Except for one, that is.”

“And what was that about?”

“Apparently, someone wants something from you, and you don’t want to supply it. I believe you threatened to kill anyone who pressed the issue.”

Lance was obviously thinking back over that conversation. “No names were mentioned, as I recall.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, having left Stan’s employ, you’re back at square one?”

“No, square one was in New York, and now I’m in England and rather enjoying myself. I’m simply a tourist now; I returned Hedger’s expense money to him, having deducted a sum for the benefit of the injured policeman.”

“What else did Stan tell you about me?”

“He told me of your former, ah, business connection. He told me about the explosion in Cairo, in which, he believes, you were complicit.”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Lance said. “I saved his life, you know. I was about to walk into the building when it blew, knocking me down, and I dragged him out of the ruins, unconscious, and got him to a hospital.”

“Did you think he was dead?”

“That’s what I was told the following day. Then, last year, he turned up at a dinner party in Paris, where I was also a guest. Quite a surprise, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine. Why does Hedger want you in jail?”

“He doesn’t want me in jail; he wants me dead. It would be easy to arrange, of course, if he could get me into a jail; then he could hire somebody to put a shiv in my liver.”

“Why wouldn’t it be easy to make you dead?”

“Because I know too much about him, and he doesn’t know who else I’ve told. For all he knows, there’s a neat little manuscript tied up with red ribbon, waiting in a safe-deposit box at my bank.”

“Is there?”

“Too bloody right there is.”

“Then it’s ironic that he wants you dead for the very same reasons he can’t afford to kill you.”

Lance grinned broadly, the first time Stone had ever seen him do so. “I like the paradox,” he said.

“Tell me some of what you know—not enough for Hedger to want me dead, of course. How does he operate?”

“Oh, Stan manages to use his official connections to arrange unofficial profits for himself.”

“Funny, that’s what he said about you.”

“I use every connection at my disposal,” Lance said readily. “The difference is, I waited until I had left our mutual employer to use them, whereas Stan is still employed and using his contacts to the hilt. There are rules about that.”

“But if you haven’t already made his activities known to his employer, why would you now?”

“That’s what worries Stan, apparently. Personally, I don’t give a shit what he does to make a buck, as long as it doesn’t endanger my own prospects. What Stan fears is that, in competing with him in business, I might turn him in, to get him out of the way. He could end up in prison if I did, you know. At the very least, he’d be bounced out of his job, and without any pension or benefits. He’s only a few years away from retirement, and he wants all that, in addition to the illicit wealth he’s accumulated over the years.”

“These activities have made him rich, then?”

“Not rich enough for Stan’s liking,” Lance replied. “I think he wants to live like a potentate when he retires.”

“Is there that much to be made?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“How much do you know about Stan?”

“I’ve learned that he was something of a wild man in the Company, at least in his youth, and that at least some of his superiors didn’t trust him.”

“That’s accurate information,” Lance said, “as far as it goes.”

“It’s about all I know, so far,” Stone said.

“All right, I’ll tell you about Stan.”

Stone leaned forward, eager to learn.

Chapter 26

LANCE CABOT GOT UP AND LED STONE into the library, then settled into a leather sofa, inviting Stone to join him.

“What about the ladies?” Stone asked.

“They’re in the drawing room nattering away,” Lance said. “If they want us, they’ll hunt us down.” He had brought the decanter with him, and he refreshed Stone’s port glass and his own.

Stone waited patiently for him to begin.

“Stanford Hedger got out of Yale in the early sixties,” he said, “and he went straight into the Company, having been recruited well before graduation by a professor who later recruited me. It was a good time to join up; he was just completing his training when the Cuban invasion came along—hadn’t had a posting yet, so he couldn’t be blamed for what happened at the Bay of Pigs. But a lot of his superiors were blamed, and a lot of them left the Company, leaving an unusual amount of room for early promotion. Stan was good at languages; he had French, Russian, German, and more than a smattering of Arabic. Later he came by Hebrew, which impressed the Israelis. He was still at the military language school in Monterey, California, when the Bay of Pigs invasion came to grief. It’s a wonderful school; they teach you things like perfect military German or Russian, the idea being that when they got ready to put somebody over a border, he’d blend in.

“Stan got put across what was then the East German border, dressed as a colonel—Stan looked a lot older than he was. He wrought havoc on the other side; he’d walk into a military command when the senior officer was out, flash some bogus orders signed by the Soviet commander, issue a lot of ridiculous orders, and it would take them days, sometimes weeks before they’d get everything straightened out again. He was one step ahead of them for three or four months, then, as they were closing in on him, he hit a West German worker on the head, stole his clothes, and rode back into West Berlin on the S-Bahn, the elevated railway that took several thousand essential workers back and forth to the East from the West every day. It was a bravura performance, almost entirely solo, and it brought him to the attention of the higher-ups—got him decorated, it did.”

“Not a bad start for a bright young man.”

“It was a lot better than not bad, and it helped that Stan came out of a background that the agency loved and trusted—Choate, Yale, and half a dozen of the very best clubs. His father worked for Wild Bill Donovan in the OSS during World War Two, and by that time he was the head of an important New York brokerage house. If you’d tossed the two dozen top men at the Company in a room together and told them to design the perfect agent, they would have come up with Stan.”

“What came next for him?”

“Vietnam. By ’sixty-five, he was on the ground there, in Laos, Thailand, wherever he could do the most good. He was one of two or three guys who invented Air America, the CIA-fronted airline that flew people, equipment, drugs, and all sorts of contraband all over Southeast Asia. He made some money out of that, legend has it.”

“Was he motivated by money?”

“Not at first, probably, but agents in that sort of situation suddenly start seeing it lying around on the ground in neatly tied bundles, and it’s hard not to pick up some of it. Stan spent it as fast as he made or stole it, though; he had an establishment in Saigon that included a townhouse that had formerly belonged to a French governor, a chauffeured Rolls-Royce of a certain vintage, and a mistress who was said to be the most beautiful and the most sexually adventurous female for a thousand miles in any direction. He entertained on a scale not often seen outside the loftier regions of French society—a superb cellar had come with the house—and his guests included everybody of importance who came through the city: journalists, presidential advisiors, senior military figures. It was said that the only reason Hanoi never tried to blow the house to smithereens was that all the servants were Viet Cong, and they reported everything that happened there. Stan, of course, maintained he was running them as double agents.”

Stone had to laugh.

“When the whole thing finally came crashing down, Stan got out on the last helicopter leaving the embassy. You remember a photograph of an American slugging somebody who was clinging to the chopper as it rose?”

“Yes.”

“Look closely, allow for age, and you’ll see that it was Stan. It made him more famous than ever, in certain circles.”

“What happened to the mistress?”

“Funny you should ask. Stan abandoned her at the end, but it’s said that, within a week of the fall of Saigon, she was living with the commandant of what had suddenly become Ho Chi Min City. She had the house all ready and waiting for him. Eventually, she got out of the country and ended up in LA, where she is now running the most exotic bordello the town has ever seen. I’ll give you the number, if you’re going to be out there anytime soon.”

“You never know. What did he do after Vietnam?”

“He had a number of dull postings after that, kept his head down until nobody remembered whose fault Vietnam had been. I met him in the early eighties, when I arrived at the Farm.”

“What farm was that?”

“The Farm is the training school for the covert side of the agency, and by that time, Stan was running it. It’s the intelligence equivalent of an army officer becoming the commandant at West Point.”

“I see.”

“I think Stan saw something of himself in me—though, of course, a slightly dimmer bulb—so he did a lot of mentoring with me and got me into the Monterey school.”

“What language?”

“Arabic; I initially learned it in bed from a Lebanese girlfriend at Yale, and after the Monterey school, I was very good with it. Stan saw that I got a Middle Eastern assignment, a good one. I still can’t tell you much about that, but it involved slinking around various deserts, in mufti, listening a lot. I was limited by my Western appearance, but I did all right. I became something of a specialist, too, at listening in on interrogations and interpreting not just language, but all of the subject’s words and actions. The downside was, I had to watch the interrogations through a two-way mirror, and they were never pretty.”

Stone didn’t want to think about that.

“The friction with Stan started when I began to develop my own sources and collaborators. He was working out of the Cairo embassy by then, his cover being something like agricultural attaché, and he ran a tight ship. When I wouldn’t share my contacts with him or anybody else, he began to ride me. I was mingling a lot in the upper reaches of Middle Eastern society, too, so some of my sources were very well placed. I’d write reports giving a lot of good information, which Stan would always say was worthless because I wouldn’t ascribe it to a verifiable source. Then I began getting reports past him, directly to Langley, which is against Company policy, and that drove him nuts. The Company has a chain of command, just like the military, and if you violate it, you have to be very, very careful. Stan’s problem was that my information in these reports nearly always turned out to be accurate, and it made Stan look bad that he hadn’t passed them on to Langley himself.”

“I can see how that might annoy him.”

“Then the explosion of the safe house happened, and after he recovered from that, I’ve been hearing from old friends, he became diminished in the eyes of his superiors and something of a has-been in the eyes of his inferiors. That’s when he really started going for the main chance.”

“And he hasn’t been caught at it?”

“Stan’s too smart to get caught in the usual ways. Somebody would have to turn on him, and that’s why he worries about me. Sometimes I think that if I could sit down at dinner with him, I could put his mind at rest, but he regards me as as much of a business competitor now as a threat to his personal security.”

“I can see that it’s a difficult situation,” Stone said.

Lance looked sad. “One of us is not going to survive this situation,” he said. Then he looked grim. “And it isn’t going to be me.”

Then the ladies came looking for them.

“I think you’re going queer for Lance,” Sarah said. She was lying on top of Stone, having just drained him of most of his precious bodily fluids.

“What?” Stone managed to say, still panting.

“The two of you went into this huddle after dinner, and I think you’d still be there, if I hadn’t come in and dragged you away.” She began toying with his penis.

“You’re not going to find any joy there,” Stone said. “Not after what you’ve just put me through. I may take weeks to recover.”

“Nonsense,” she said, squeezing. “You’re recovering already.”

Stone groaned.

“I’m going to make you forget about Lance,” she said, traveling down his torso with her tongue, until she had him in her mouth.

She was absolutely right, Stone thought. Lance was right out of his mind.

Chapter 27

STONE HAD FINISHED BREAKFAST AND was reading the London papers in the morning room when Sarah came in.

“And how are we this morning?” she asked, in the manner of a visiting nurse. She pecked him on the forehead.

“I don’t know about you,” he said in a low voice, “but I can hardly walk.”

“You’re out of shape,” she laughed. “We’ll have to get you fit again. Come on, we’re going to the market.” She tugged him out of the chair, grabbed a basket by the front door, and led him outside, where an ancient Morris Minor estate car, nicely kept, awaited them.

“Where’s everybody else?” Stone asked, as Sarah started the car.

“Erica’s sleeping in; Lance wanted a drive, so I loaned him the Mini Cooper.”

“Where’d Lance go?”

“I dunno; just for a drive.” They passed through the gates of the estate, and Sarah turned toward the village. Shortly, they had stopped in front of a small grocery.

Down the block, Stone spotted the bright orange Mini Cooper. “You go ahead and shop,” he said to Sarah; “I want to have a look at the village.”

“All right; meet me at the car in half an hour; I’ll be done by then.” She went into the grocery.

Stone started down the street toward the Mini Cooper. It was empty, and he looked around, wondering where Lance might have gone. Then he saw him enter a pub across the street. Stone glanced at his watch; it was just opening time. He dawdled down the street, wondering why Lance would be in a pub before lunch. Wasn’t there enough booze back at the house? He considered going inside himself, but Lance’s behavior was unusual enough that he preferred not to be seen following him. He ducked into a news agent’s across from the pub, bought a Herald Tribune, and pretended to read it. No more than a minute had passed when he saw two people get out of a parked saloon car and head for the pub.

Stone had never seen them before, but their appearance struck a chord. They were Mediterranean in appearance, and the woman was quite beautiful. That matched the description of the people Sarah had seen with Lance in a restaurant, and he remembered Hedger’s saying that two of Lance’s contacts in Cairo had been a young couple. Stone tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street.

The pub had stained-glass windows, and Stone peered through one. He saw the three of them seated at a corner table, and he moved around to the side of the building for a better view. He found another window, one with clear glass, partly protected by curtains. He could stand and look inside through a small opening in the drapes without being seen by Lance and his friends.

There was a very earnest conversation going on, which stopped abruptly when a barmaid brought drinks to the table, then resumed as soon as she had gone. Lance was making a point, tapping a forefinger hard on the table, leaning forward for emphasis. The couple seemed uncomfortable, and the woman placed her hand on Lance’s arm, in a calming motion. He jerked away from her and brought his palm down hard on the table, apparently very close to losing his temper. The couple sat back and listened, not arguing. Then Lance threw some money on the table, got up, and walked out.

Stone flattened himself against the wall until he was sure Lance had left the pub, then started toward the front of the building. From around the corner, he heard the distinctive sound of the Mini Cooper revving, then driving away in a hurry. Stone went into the pub.

The couple were still there, ignoring their drinks, looking worried, talking animatedly. Stone stood at the end of the bar nearest them and ordered a lemonade.

“I don’t care,” the man was saying. “This is getting dangerous.”

“We have to do this,” she said. “What choice do we have? How else are we going to make this kind of money?”

“Why do we have to take all the risks?” he asked.

“We’re not taking all the risks; Lance is doing his part.”

“Let’s get back to London,” the man said, standing up.

Stone turned his back to them, pretending to examine a photograph of the pub on the wall next to him. He didn’t want them to register his face; he might run into them again.

When they had been gone long enough to get to their car and drive away, Stone left the pub and walked back to the Morris Minor. Sarah was just coming out of the grocery with a cart filled with bags, and he helped her stow them in the rear of the estate car.

They were back in plenty of time for lunch, and found Erica had joined the living. After they had eaten, Lance took Stone into the morning room and sat him down.

“I’ve done some looking into your background,” he said, “and I like what I’ve learned.”

“What have you learned?” Stone asked.

“I’ve learned what sort of policeman you were and what sort of lawyer you are now. I’m impressed with the variety and depth of your experience.”

“Thank you,” Stone said, not sure what to make of this.

“I think you and I might do some business together. Interested?”

“What sort of business?”

“Profitable.”

“How profitable?”

“Very.”

“How illegal?”

“Entirely aboveboard,” Lance said. “And the money will be made quickly.”

“In my experience,” Stone replied, “fast money is usually made at the expense of the law and at the risk of prison. I’m not interested in either of those possibilities.”

“I assure you, this would be a straightforward business transaction.”

“Why do you need me to accomplish this transaction?”

“First, there’s some legal work in New York; I need to create a corporation and open banking and brokerage accounts in the corporation’s name.”

“Any attorney could do that,” Stone said. “Why me?”

“Because you’re here, and I’m not in New York,” Lance replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

Stone had a feeling it was not at all simple. “I’d have to know all of what you intend to do and how you intend to do it.”

“Not just yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I won’t be involved unless I know what I’m getting into.”

“I promise, you’ll only be doing what any New York attorney would be doing.”

“You mean, what I don’t know won’t hurt me?”

“That’s quite true.”

“I’ve always found that truism to be a lie,” Stone said. “It’s what you don’t know that can destroy you.”

“I can’t tell you everything just yet,” Lance said.

“Let me know when you can, and then we can talk about it,” Stone replied. “Whatever you tell me will be bound by attorney-client privilege as long as it’s legal, and if we should agree to disagree, you’d have nothing to fear from my talking about your deal.”

Lance stared at him for a moment. “You’re not a very trusting person,” he said.

“Let’s see,” Stone said. “What I know about you so far is that you’re ex-CIA and that you’re involved in, shall we say, unconventional business dealings. And you have a serious enemy who is still inside the Company and who wishes to see you in jail or, perhaps, worse. Does that about sum it up so far?”

“You’re taking Stan far too seriously,” Lance said.

“I’m not sure you’re taking him seriously enough,” Stone said.

“I assure you, I’m giving him the attention he deserves.”

Stone shook his head. “I’m not willing to talk about this, until you’re ready to talk to me a lot more.”

Lance considered this. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.” He got up and left the room.

Stone wondered if he wasn’t getting near the time when he should be calling Detective Inspector Throckmorton. Not just yet, he decided finally.

Chapter 28

STONE ARRIVED BACK AT THE CONNAUGHT and checked his mail and messages, among which was one from Doug Hayward to come back for a fitting. Quick, he thought.

He changed clothes, then left the Connaught and walked up Mount Street toward Hayward’s shop. In the middle of the block he stood, waiting for traffic to subside enough for him to cross, but before he could move, a large black car pulled up in front of him and stopped. He could not see through the darkened windows, and as he tried, a rear door opened and a large man reached out, took him by the lapels, and jerked him forward into the commodious rear compartment of the car. Before he could say anything, he was on the floor, with large feet holding him down, one on the nape of his neck.

“What is this about?” Stone managed to croak, even though his neck was held at an odd angle.

“Shut up,” a man’s deep voice said.

Stone shut up.

The car drove for, maybe, twenty minutes. Stone tried to keep track of the time and the turns, but he couldn’t see his watch, and, not knowing the street plan well enough, he couldn’t figure out where they were going. They seemed to drive around three or four traffic circles, and shortly after the last one, they made a right turn and stopped. The two men in the rear seat hustled Stone through an open door in a narrow back street and into a darkened hallway. They marched Stone along, making a couple of turns, then he was propelled forward into a small room, bouncing off the rear wall, and the door was slammed behind him.

“You have one minute to strip off all your clothes, or we’ll do it for you,” the deep voice said.

Stone thought about this for half a minute, then he got out of his clothes and laid them neatly on a bench along one wall. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and he could see that he was in a windowless room with a steel door. There was a bucket in a corner and the bench, no other furniture. A moment later, a small door in the larger one opened, then closed, then the two men came into the cell, took away his clothes, and slammed the door behind them.

Stone thought about it. These people did not seem like the police. Surely the London police had procedures about arrest and detention, just as the New York department did, and what he was experiencing did not seem to conform to any set of procedures in any civilized country. This was more like something out of a World War II film about the Gestapo, or a spy novel.

Perhaps three minutes passed, then the cell door opened again, and someone threw his clothes at him.

“Get dressed,” the deep voice said. “You have one minute.”

Stone was tying his necktie when the door opened again and he was half escorted, half dragged down another series of hallways, then pushed into a brightly lit room, the door slamming behind him.

Blinking rapidly, he discovered that all the room was not brightly lit, just the part containing a wooden stool. The other side of the room, some twelve or fifteen feet away, contained a table behind which sat three men. They were in deep shadows and he could see only their forms, not their faces. It seemed to be arranged as some sort of Stalinist tribunal.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Barrington,” a smooth male voice said.

Stone went and sat down on the stool. There was something odd about the man’s voice, but he couldn’t figure it out.

The smooth voice spoke again, and Stone figured it was coming from the man in the middle, who was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. “Tell us, please, if you have ever heard the following names, in any context: Robert Graves?”

“What?”

“Robert Graves.”

“Yes. The poet.”

“Any other context?”

“No.”

“Maureen Kleinknect?”

“No.”

“Joanna Scott-Meyers?”

“No.”

“Jacob Ben-David?”

“No.”

“Erica Burroughs?”

“Yes.”

“In what regard?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“How well do you know her?”

“I’ve had lunch with her once, dinner with her a couple of times, in a group.”

“Lance Cabot?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Stone said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I’ve just told you what we want, for the present. Lance Cabot?”

“If you are acting in some sort of official capacity, tell me now; otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”

“Lance Cabot?”

Stone said nothing.

“If you would prefer it, Mr. Barrington,” the smooth voice said, “I can arrange for the two gentlemen who brought you here to come and persuade you to answer.”

Stone said nothing. The voice was very English, but the speaker was not. There was an underlying accent.

“Just once more; Lance Cabot?”

“He is the companion of Erica Burroughs; I’ve seen him when I’ve seen her.”

“How does Mr. Cabot earn his living?”

“He styles himself a business consultant; I have no idea what that means.”

“Did you know him before arriving in London?”

“No.”

“Ali Hussein?”

“Pardon?”

“Ali Hussein?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Sheherezad Al-Salaam, also known as Sheila.”

“Nor her.”

“Sarah Buckminster?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“I knew her when she lived in New York; we renewed our acquaintance after I arrived in London. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Monica Burroughs?”

“The sister of Erica. Art dealer. Spent part of one weekend in her company.”

“John Bartholomew?”

“No.”

“John Bartholomew?”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“Mr. Barrington, don’t try my patience.”

Stone said nothing. The man made a small movement with one hand, and Stone heard a buzzer ring in another room. A moment later, the door opened and the two thugs entered.

“John Bartholomew?” the smooth voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell us.”

“Mr. Bartholomew visited me in New York and asked me to come to London to persuade his niece to return with me to the United States.”

“What is the name of his niece?”

“Erica Burroughs.”

“And why did he want her returned to America?”

“He said he was concerned that her boyfriend might involve her in illegal activities.”

“What sort of activities?”

“Drug smuggling.”

Stone heard a low laugh. “What is the real name of John Bartholomew?”

Stone tried to sound puzzled. “Real name? I know him only by that name.”

“Are you still in his employ?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I discovered that Miss Burroughs is not his niece, and that he seemed to have other motives for hiring me.”

“What motives?”

“He seemed to have some animus for Mr. Cabot.”

“For what reason?”

“He did not confide that to me. When I discovered he was lying to me, I resigned from his employ.”

“Have you seen him since that time?”

“No.”

There was a scraping noise from the table in front of him, and Stone realized that the contents of his pockets were on the table. A hand picked up the satellite telephone and held it in the light for Stone to see.

“What is this?”

“It’s a telephone.”

“What kind of telephone?”

“A cellphone, like any other.” Stone heard beeps as a number was tapped into the phone. A moment later, a phone rang in another room. The phone was returned to the table.

“Describe John Bartholomew.”

“Six feet three or four, heavyset, dark hair going gray, sixtyish.”

“Nationality?”

“American, as far as I know.”

“Why do you carry a false passport?” A hand held it in the light.

“If it’s false, then they’re handing out false documents at the passport office in the London embassy of the United States of America. If you’ll check the date of issue, you’ll see I got it last week.”

There was some whispering among the three men, then the smooth voice spoke again. If you have left Mr. Bartholomew’s employ, why do you remain in Britain?”

“Tourism.”

“Mr. Barrington, you are trying my patience again.”

“A woman, as well.”

“What woman?”

“Sarah Buckminster. Don’t you read the papers?”

“You are interested in her?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Miss Buckminster and I lived together in New York. We have renewed our acquaintance.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah.”

“Miss Buckminster has recently become very rich.”

“Ah, you do read the papers.”

“Are you interested in her money?”

“What do you think?”

“Ah.”

“If you say so.”

“Mr. Barrington, I can’t say that I like your attitude.”

“I can’t say that I like being abducted on a public street, imprisoned, and interrogated by a group of people who have read too many bad novels.”

“Mr. Barrington, this is your final opportunity to tell us what we want to know.”

“Have I denied you anything so far? I have no idea what you want to know.”

“According to your papers, you were once a policeman.”

“That’s correct.”

“Surely you conducted interrogations.”

“Many times.”

“Didn’t you always find out what you wanted to know?”

“No, I didn’t; unlike you, I was constrained by the law.”

“We are constrained by nothing.”

“No kidding.”

The man made a motion with his hand; one of the two thugs stepped forward, swept Stone’s belongings into a paper bag, and stepped back.

“Get rid of him,” the smooth voice said.

Stone did not like the sound of that. Before he could move, the two men were on him, one at each arm, dragging him back down the series of hallways, outside, and into the car. Once again, he was facedown on the floor of the limousine, with a foot on his neck.

The car drove away, turning this way and that. Stone lay still, knowing that he had no chance until the car stopped and they took him out. Then he would give them the fight of their lives.

Twenty minutes later, the car came to a halt; Stone was picked up and bodily tossed into the gutter. As he started to rise, the paper bag with his belongings hit him in the back of the head. By the time he got to his feet, the car had turned a corner and was gone. People looked at him oddly as he dusted himself off and returned his belongings to his pockets. He looked around. The Hayward shop was across the street; he was back where he had been abducted.

He walked across the street and into Hayward’s. Doug Hayward rose from a leather sofa, and a small dog began to bark at Stone.

“Shut up, Bert,” Hayward said. “Come on back, Stone; we’re ready for you.”

Stone silently followed Hayward to the rear of the shop and the dressing room, where he removed his jacket.

“Stone,” Hayward said, “are you aware that you have a footprint on the back of your shirt collar?”

Chapter 29

STONE LET HIMSELF INTO HIS SUITE and got out the satellite telephone. He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.

“Yes?”

“I have to see you now.”

“Can’t do it; how about tomorrow?”

“I’ll be in New York tomorrow, if I don’t see you now.”

A brief silence. “Where?”

“The lounge at the Connaught will do. Ten minutes.”

“All right.” He rang off.

Bartholomew/Hedger bustled into the lounge and sat down next to Stone, who was sipping a cup of tea.

“Some tea?” Stone asked.

“What is it?”

“Earl Grey.”

Hedger made a digusted noise and raised a finger to a waiter. “Bring me a pot of English Breakfast,” he said.

Stone waited while the tea was brought.

“All right, what?” Hedger said.

“Earlier today, I was grabbed by two men, stuffed into the back of a car, driven to an unknown location, stripped, searched, and interrogated by three men. By one man, really; the other two just sat and listened.”

Hedger stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear anything I said? I want an explanation.”

“Why do you think I know anything about it?”

“I believe you are a member of a group who indulges in such activities; you were my first thought, even though they asked me about you.”

Hedger held up a hand. “What did they want to know about me?”

“Whatever I knew; your name, for instance.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“If they didn’t know my name, how did they ask about me?”

“They asked about John Bartholomew. Obviously, they didn’t get the joke. They wanted to know Bartholomew’s real name.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them about our initial meeting and told them I had left your employ.”

Hedger looked relieved. “All right, now I want you to take me through this incident, step by step, and tell me exactly what happened and exactly what they asked you.”

“It was a big car, black, with blackened windows; a limousine, I believe. Plenty of room for me to lie facedown on the floor with some palooka’s foot on my neck.”

“Describe the two men who took you.”

“Big, muscular.”

“What did they say to you?”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“They told me to shut up. Oh, one of them told me to undress, once we reached their location.”

“Accent?”

“Pretty hard to determine from the words ‘shut up,’ but I’d say British.”

“Class?”

“I didn’t ask them where they went to school.”

“No, class; social class: upper or lower?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, but it’s hard for me to believe that members of the upper class indulge in broad-day-light kidnapping. Lower, I guess.”

“What about the other men, their accents?”

“Only one of them spoke. His voice was smooth, cultivated, definitely upper class, but there was some sort of accent underneath it.”

“You mean a foreign accent?”

“You know the actor Herbert Lom?”

“Yes.”

“An accent like that, sort of—foreign, but British upper class at the same time. It’s as if he were born elsewhere but educated here.”

“Do you know anyone else, an Englishman, with the same kind of upper-class accent?”

Stone thought about it. “James Cutler,” he said, “and his solicitor, Julian Wainwright.” Also Sarah and her parents, but he didn’t mention that.

“Do you know where Cutler and Wainwright went to school?”

“Eton, I believe.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“Just ah. That would indicate someone fairly high up in the food chain.”

“What food chain?”

“The food chain in whatever country he’s from. They don’t ship out butchers’ sons to be educated at Eton.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me exactly what they asked you.”

“It was a list of names, nothing else.”

“What were the names?”

“Robert Graves was the first.”

“The poet?”

“They asked me if I knew the name in any other context.”

“Who else?”

“Two women’s names—an Irish first name, and the last name was odd—Klein something or other.”

“Maureen Kleinknect?”

“Yes, that’s it. Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter; she’s dead. What was the other one?”

“Joanna with a double-barreled last name.”

“Scott-Meyers?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Then there was Erica and Monica Burroughs, Lance Cabot, Sarah Buckminster, and you.”

“And what did you tell them about each of these people?”

“The bare minimum.”

Hedger sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Once again, describe the two men who dragged you into the car. This time I want every detail.”

“I told you—big.”

“What else?”

“Come to think of it, they both had dark skin—not very dark, but a little, and black hair.”

“Describe the three men who interrogated you.”

“They were seated behind the lights in the room, in shadows, so I could only see silhouettes.”

“Tell me about the silhouettes.”

“The two on the ends were just shadows, lumps, but the one in the middle—the one doing the interrogating—was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. That was all I could see of him, really.”

“That’s interesting; you were very good to pick that up, in the circumstances.”

“Thank you. Now give me a good reason why I should continue to work for you while this sort of thing is going on.”

“Two reasons. First, this won’t happen again; they believe they have everything you know. Second, I’m doubling your hourly fee.”

Nobody had ever doubled his hourly fee before; Stone was impressed, still . . . “That won’t do me any good, if I’m dead.”

“They’re not going to kill you.”

“Why not? What’s their motive for keeping me alive?”

“These people are from a foreign country—probably a foreign intelligence service, or at least some clandestine group. It’s a lot of trouble to kill people and dispose of their bodies, and they won’t do anything that will call attention to themselves. Anyway, if they’d wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Think about it; what do you know that you haven’t already told them?”

“Not much, just your name.”

“Exactly, and they don’t believe you know that. They believe they’ve milked you dry, so you’re of no further use to them. They’ll leave you alone, now.”

“If you say so,” Stone replied doubtfully.

“Trust me,” Hedger said.

Yeah, sure, Stone thought. But double his hourly fee sounded awfully good. It wasn’t until Hedger had left that Stone remembered that he had forgotten to mention the two Arab names he’d been asked about. What were they . . . Ali and Sheherezad, also known as Sheila? He couldn’t remember the last names.

Chapter 30

STONE’S NEXT THOUGHT WAS TO HAVE the same discussion with Lance Cabot that he’d had with Stanford Hedger. Rain had begun to beat against the Connaught’s windows, so he retrieved his new raincoat and umbrella from his suite, and the doorman got him a cab. It was only a short way to Farm Street, but Stone was not going to dance over there in the rain.

The cabbie was just turning into Farm Steet, when Stone stopped him. “Just hold it right here for a minute,” he said. Lance Cabot and the couple he’d met with in the village pub were leaving the house, getting into a cab of their own. “Follow that cab,” Stone said, “but not too closely.” He could see the driver in the rearview mirror, rolling his eyes.

“Right, guv,” the cabbie said. “It’s your money; I’ll follow them to Cornwall, if you like.”

“I doubt if they’ll go that far.”

Lance’s cab set off. Stone’s driver reversed for a few yards, then drove up another mews. Stone thought the man had lost the other cab, until it appeared ahead of them. “Very good,” he said to the driver.

“It’s what I do,” the cabbie said. “You know about The Knowledge?” Lance’s cab turned into Park Lane, and Stone’s followed.

“What knowledge is that?”

“The Knowledge is what every London cabdriver has to have before he gets a license. You drive all over town on a motorbike for a year or two, taking notes on addresses, public buildings, pubs, theaters and tube stops—whatever you see; you go to classes at night; and finally you take the exam. A question would be, like, ‘A passenger wants to go from Hampstead Heath to Wormwood Scrubs Prison. Describe the shortest route, and name every cross street, public building, and tube stop along the way.’ Miss one cross street, and you’ve missed the question. Miss too many questions, and you’ve failed the exam. Get it right, and you have The Knowledge, and you get your license.”

Lance’s cab drove around Hyde Park Corner, through Belgrave Square, on to Sloane Square, and started down the King’s Road. Stone glanced at side streets as they passed and wondered if he could ever memorize them all. “That’s pretty impressive,” he said.

“I had a mate once, went through all that, passed The Knowledge, got his license, then he went out to celebrate that night, had a lot to drink, and got stopped by the police on the way home and Breathalyzed. Lost his license; he’d taken two and a half years to get it, and he kept it only a few hours.”

“Poor fellow,” Stone said. They were past World’s End now, continuing down the King’s Road, past dozens of antique shops. A large, black car overtook Stone’s cab and drove on.

“Who’s in the other cab?” the cabbie asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“My wife’s boyfriend, I think,” Stone replied.

“Don’t you worry, guv, I won’t lose the bastard.”

Up ahead, Lance’s cab was signaling a left turn. The black car turned, too. It was starting to look familiar to Stone. Lance’s cab approached a large building that had probably once been a warehouse but now bore a large sign declaring it to be an antiques market. Down the block, Lance’s cab came to a halt, and its three occupants got out. The black car stopped half a block behind them.

“Stop here,” Stone said. The cabbie stopped. Stone watched as two large, swarthy men got out of the back of the limousine and followed Lance and his companions into the building.

“Is there another entrance to this place?” Stone asked.

“Just around the corner, there, in the King’s Road,” the cabbie said.

Stone got out of the cab and handed the driver a ten-pound note.

“Thanks, guv,” the driver said. “You want me to wait for you? Won’t be easy getting a cab in this weather.”

Stone handed him another tenner. “Wait ten pounds’ worth, and if I haven’t come back, forget it.”

“Righto, guv.”

Stone walked around the corner and into the building. The place was a warren of antique shops, some large and rambling, some no more than a yard or two wide. It was uncrowded, with only a few shoppers wandering about. He had to make an effort not to window-shop; he worked his way quickly through the building, looking for Lance, and then he saw him and his two friends turn a corner down a long corridor and walk toward him. Stone ducked into a shop and pretended to look at a piece of statuary. After a two-minute wait, when they hadn’t passed the shop, he looked down the corridor again; they had disappeared.

Must have gone into a shop, Stone thought. He made his way slowly down the corridor; then he saw a small sign, hung at right angles to a shopfront: A&S ANTIQUITIES—MIDDLE EASTERN SPECIALISTS. Ali and Sheila? Stone stopped and peered through a corner of a window. The woman was sitting at a desk writing on a pad. He could see the back of Lance’s head in a small office behind her. Stone wondered how long it would take for the two men to find them and what would happen when they did. It wouldn’t be good, he thought.

He stood back from the window and read the phone number painted on the shop window, then went back the way he had come. When he was at the King’s Road entrance, he called the number on his satellite phone.

“A&S Antiquities,” the woman’s voice said.

“Let me speak to Lance at once,” Stone said.

“I beg your pardon? There’s no one here by that name.”

“He’s in the back room with Ali, and this is an emergency. Put him on and quickly!”

“Yes?” Lance’s voice said, warily.

“It’s Stone Barrington. Two very large Middle Eastern gentlemen are in the building looking for you at this moment. I’ve met them before, and they are not friendly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If I were you, I’d get out of there right now. I have a cab waiting at the corner, near the King’s Road entrance to the building. You don’t have much time.”

Lance’s voice could be heard, but muffled, as if his hand were over the receiver, then he came back on. “We’ll be right there,” he said.

Stone put the phone in his pocket and ran through the rain to the cab, not bothering with his umbrella.

“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

“Just wait. We’re being joined by some other people.”

“Whatever you say, guv.”

A moment later, Lance and his two friends dived into the cab. “Get us out of here,” Lance said to the driver. He turned to Stone. “Now,” he said, “what’s going on?”

They drove past the black limousine. “You recognize that car?” Stone asked.

“No.”

“The two gentlemen I described were in it; they followed you from your house.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was on my way to see you when you came out of the house; they followed you, so I followed them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I had a rather unpleasant encounter with them and some friends of theirs earlier today,” Stone said. “I wanted to spare you the same experience, or worse.”

“Who are they?”

“I had hoped you could tell me. The man they work for is bald, with a bullet-shaped head.”

“Does that sound familiar?” Lance asked Ali and Sheila.

Both shook their heads.

They had driven around the block and were now on the opposite side of the antiques market building. As they drove toward the King’s Road, a section of the building exploded outward, followed a split second later by a huge roar. The cabbie, without a word, executed a speedy U-turn.

“I believe that was your shop,” Stone said to Ali and Sheila.

Lance was suddenly on a cellphone, punching in a number and waiting impatiently for an answer. “Erica,” he said, “I want you to leave the house right this minute; go to Monica’s gallery; take nothing with you. Do you understand? I’ll explain later; just get out of there immediately!” He ended the call and turned to Stone. “Thank you,” he said.

“Not at all,” Stone replied. “But now perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”

Chapter 31

LANCE STARED OUT THE CAB WINDOW at the rainy streets. He had not answered Stone’s request. “Tell me about your encounter with these people,” he said.

Stone related his tale of being abducted and interrogated. When he had finished, Lance still said nothing for a long moment. “Sounds like the Mossad to me.”

“We’ve got to get out of the country,” Ali said. “They just proved that to us.”

“No, not yet,” Lance replied, still looking out the window. Once Erica is out of the house, they won’t know where to find us.”

“Where are we going?” Sheila asked.

Lance opened the partition and gave the driver an address. “To Monica’s gallery; we’ll figure it out there.”

The gallery was in Dover Street, off New Bond Street; it was a wide building with a limestone front and had a single word, BURROUGHS, painted on the front window. Stone was impressed; he’d imagined something smaller.

“Can you wait for us?” Lance asked the cabbie.

“As long as you like, mate,” the cabbie replied. He lowered his voice. “The other bloke knows you’re having his wife off, you know; I can’t wait to see what happens.”

Stone heard this and laughed.

“What is he talking about?” Lance asked as they turned toward the gallery.

“I had to tell him something,” Stone said. They went inside.

Monica Burroughs was sitting at a desk in the large gallery, talking to Sarah Buckminster, who was seated next to her, looking at some slides. “Oh, hello,” she said, as Stone and Lance approached.

“Is Erica here?” Lance asked.

“No, is she supposed to be?”

Lance went to the window and looked out into the street.

Sarah came around the desk and pecked Stone on the cheek. “What’s up? Lance looks worried.”

“There’s been a little trouble,” Stone said. “Lance asked Erica to meet him here.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Lance was pacing up and down, checking outside often. He came to where Stone and Sarah stood. “I’m going to go and get her,” he said.

“Wait a few minutes,” Stone replied. “She’s probably on her way; she wouldn’t be there when you got there.”

As if to prove his point, Erica came through the front door, breathless. “I’m sorry to take so long; I couldn’t get a cab in this rain. What’s happening?” she asked Lance.

“We have to move, and right away,” Lance replied.

“Why?”

“There’s been . . . some trouble; I don’t want to go into it right now, but our house isn’t safe at the moment. We can go back later and pick up some things.”

Erica looked at Stone. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s best if you just do as Lance says for the moment,” Stone replied. “Lance, do you have anywhere to go?”

“I’m thinking,” Lance said. “I suppose we could find a small hotel somewhere.”

“James’s house,” Sarah said suddenly.

“What?” Lance asked.

“James’s house; there’s no one there but the housekeeper; there’s plenty of room for, what, the four of you?” She nodded toward Ali and Sheila.

“Are you sure that will be all right, Sarah?” Lance asked.

“Of course.” She began rummaging in her large handbag. “I’ve got the key here somewhere.” She came up with it, handed it to Lance, and gave him the address, in Chester Street.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Come on, everybody, let’s move.”

Stone walked out with them and gave the cabbie a fifty-pound note. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “Forget about all this, especially where you’re taking these people.”

“What people?” the driver asked. “Thanks, guv; good luck.” He handed Stone a card. “There’s my cellphone number, if you need me again.”

Lance slammed the door, and the cab took off. Stone went back inside the gallery.

“Now, will you tell me what happened?” Sarah asked.

“Lance’s friends Ali and Sheila have—had an antique shop in a market in the King’s Road. It was bombed a few minutes ago, and he’s concerned for their safety, and his own and Erica’s.”

Monica spoke up. “What has Lance gotten Erica into?”

“I don’t know the details,” Stone said. “I expect we’ll hear about it in due course, but they’ll be safe at James’s house, I’m sure.”

“Will the police be coming ’round?” Monica asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s all I need, to have a lot of policemen crawling all over my gallery.”

“Monica, you are unconnected with all this,” Stone said. “In the extremely unlikely event that a policeman should drop by, just tell him everything you know, up to, but not including, the past ten minutes. You don’t know where Erica is, all right?”

“All right,” Monica said uncertainly.

“More likely than the police is that someone more . . . unofficial . . . might ask Erica’s and Lance’s whereabouts, and your answer should be the same. That’s very important.”

“All right,” Monica said. “And who would these unofficial people be?”

“Whoever bombed Ali and Sheila’s shop. And by the way, you’ve never heard of either of them.”

“That suits me just fine,” she replied. “I didn’t like the look of them. And Lance didn’t even introduce them.”

“I’d better phone James’s housekeeper and let them know that Lance is coming,” Sarah said. She picked up the phone on Monica’s desk and began dialing.

Monica took Stone aside. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is somebody going to throw a bomb through my gallery window?”

“Monica, really, you have nothing to be concerned about.”

“Should I call the police?”

“Certainly not; what would you tell them?”

“I don’t know; I could ask for protection, or something.”

“Protection from whom? You’re better off ignorant of this whole business. Practice being ignorant.”

“I always knew Lance would get Erica into some sort of trouble.”

“What made you think that?”

“Lance is always getting these mysterious phone calls on his cellphone, or going off to meet people in pubs or other odd places. He doesn’t have an office, like a normal businessman; he travels at odd times and on short notice, and Erica thinks this is all perfectly normal.”

“Lots of people do business out of their homes,” Stone said. “I, for one, and a lot of what you’ve just said would apply to me, too.”

Monica laughed. “I wouldn’t want you mixed up with her, either. Mixed up with me, on the other hand, would be different. When are we going to have that dinner?”

“I think we’d better postpone that indefinitely,” Stone said.

Sarah hung up the phone and joined them. “That woman—Mrs. Rivers, James’s housekeeper—is a pain in the ass; I’m going to fire her at the first opportunity.”