Stealth

57

Thursday morning, Felicity’s boatman delivered two bottles of claret to the kitchen, and Stone inspected them: a Château Palmer 1961 and a Mouton Rothschild 1978. He set them upright in a corner of the kitchen. “I’ll decant these at table tomorrow night,” he said to the cook. “Please leave them as they are until then.”

Lance got into his office on Friday morning at eight, as usual. He was surprised to find the deputy director for operations, his DDO, awaiting him in his reception room, sipping coffee.

“Good morning, Hugh,” Lance said. He unlocked his office door with his code. “Come in, please. You’re up early.”

The two men took seats on the sofa in Lance’s office, and he poured himself coffee from a thermos his secretary had left there. “More?”

“Thank you, yes,” Hugh English said, pushing his mug over.

Lance poured the coffee. “What brings you to see me?”

Hugh handed him two sheets of paper. “This came in late yesterday. I’m afraid the transmission was very broken, but what’s there is of concern.”

Lance read down the two sheets, trying to mentally fill in the gaps. He did not like what he saw. “Where was this recorded?”

“In the basement workshop at a book bindery and antique-book store in London.”

“The one in the Burlington Arcade?”

“That’s it. Owned and operated by Wilfred Thomas, the Earl of Chelsea.”

“Ah, yes, the duke’s third. What do you make of it?”

“It sounds very much, in the earlier part of the transcript, as if the earl has intentions where Felicity Devonshire and Stone Barrington are concerned.”

Lance read the two pages more carefully. “I see what you mean, but I’m unable to discern when, where, or by what means — not from this.”

“Yes, we did better with the early part of the meeting, though we could not identify the second party, and we have been unable to fully read or hear the latter part.”

“Can the recording be enhanced?”

“That is the enhanced version,” English replied.

“Well, there is nothing here that would allow us to mount a defensive operation.”

“That is my opinion, as well.”

“All I can do is warn Stone and Felicity to exercise care in their movements. I will make those calls.”

“Lance, may I ask: Why is Barrington of interest to you?”

“He has been very useful in the past, and I expect him to be more so in the future.”

“To the extent of giving him the deputy director rank?”

“In my judgment, yes. It gives him credibility.”

“But you’ve not made an official announcement.”

“Word will get around quickly,” Lance said. “I’ve seen to that.”

English slapped his knees and rose. “Well, then,” he said, “I suppose I will just have to rely on your judgment.”

“That is so,” Lance said.

“Good morning, then.”

Lance waited for the door to close behind him, then moved to his desk and called Stone on his Agency iPhone. The phone rang six times, then there was a beep.

“Call me,” Lance said, then hung up. He could not leave a longer message because Stone was not at the other end to scramble.

Stone asked for the gelding and rode alone around the property and that of the adjoining country hotel, which he looked upon as an extension of his estate. The weather was glorious and promised to be until Saturday evening, when a front would move in. Finally, he turned back toward the house and rode slowly, to cool down the animal.

At noon, Lance, having not heard back from Stone, called him again and again got no answer. He waited for the beep, then said, “Urgent.”

A van marked BRITISH GAS pulled up at the rear of the house, and a man in a work uniform got out carrying a canvas bag and went to the kitchen door, which stood open. He stepped inside and found the workspace deserted. He looked carefully around and his eye fell on two bottles of wine on a corner counter.

He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and walked over to the corner. Clearly, they were old and quite dusty. He picked up a bottle and wiped the label with his thumb; it was very old. He set the bottle down, reached into the canvas bag and withdrew a small, zippered leather case, then unzipped it. It held a syringe containing a colorless liquid and a capped needle. This particular needle would not be long enough to penetrate the corks of the bottles, so he replaced it with a longer, thinner needle.

He held the syringe perpendicular to the cork and slowly pushed it through the lead capsule and into the bottle. He pressed the plunger and squirted half the liquid into the bottle, then he began to slowly withdraw the needle. His fingers slipped momentarily, and the needle snapped off, leaving half of it in the cork, its end concealed by the capsule. “Shit!” he said.

He had only the short needle left, and that wouldn’t do. He would need another, more accessible, container to use the other half of the liquid. He replaced the kit in the canvas bag and ventured into a long hallway from the kitchen toward the front of the house. He stopped every few feet and listened but heard no sound. He ran up the main staircase, keeping to the inside of the treads to avoid squeaking, and found what was clearly the master bedroom. He set the canvas bag on the bed and carefully removed two leather-bound volumes, then he knelt, placed the dictionary on the floor, and pushed it under the bed as far as he could reach. That done, he retraced his steps to the kitchen, and as he went down the back steps to the garden, a man on horseback came from behind the house, headed for the stables. The man gave him a little wave, and he waved back. Then he got into the van and drove away.

Stone greeted Rose at the front steps, as she was driven in from the station. They embraced, and her luggage was taken upstairs.

“I’d like a nap, if you can do without me for an hour or so,” she said.

“Of course. Felicity won’t arrive until around seven. I’ll come up and change after you wake up.”

She went upstairs, and he went back to his book.

Lance was about to call again, when he was interrupted by his secretary. “Senator Bond is here to see you,” she said. “He’s a little early.”

Lance put away his phone. “Send him in.”