The Short Forever

“Find that car,” Carpenter said, “and be quick about it.”

“It’s not so easy,” the tech said. “It’s one thing to track the A car when you’ve got him in your sights, but finding him in a landscape is going to be nearly impossible.”

“I don’t care, do it!”

Stone watched the lone cyclist as she pedaled down the little lane. “Anybody got a map of the area?” he asked.

“Here,” Plumber replied, spreading a large-scale map of the area on a table. “She came up here from her house to the roundabout,” he said, pointing, “and then she left it here.” He ran his finger up the road. “She exited the paved road here, and she’s going up this lane.”

“What’s this?” Stone asked, pointing to a green area up the lane.

“It’s a copse of trees, with a clearing in the middle.”

“Look at this,” Carpenter said, pointing at the trees.

Carroll had cycled into the clearing, and a car was waiting for her. A man got out.

“Here’s the buy,” Carpenter said. “Get me Mason.” Somebody handed her a cellphone. “Mason? Close on the following map coordinates.” She read them off.

“We’ve got a problem here,” Plumber said, pointing at the map. Everybody gathered around him. “There are three roads out of the clearing, in different directions.”

“Dammit,” Carpenter said. She spoke into the cellphone again. “Mason, check the coordinates; there are three exits from the clearing; you’ve got to cover them all. I don’t care, pull your men off Morgan’s house and get them out there; I am not going to lose the device, and I am not going to lose Cabot. Do it!”

Stone went and stood behind the tech. “Are you having any luck locating Morgan?”

“Not yet,” the young man said.

“I think it’s very important that you find his car.” He turned to the other screen. “What’s Carroll doing?”

“See for yourself,” Carpenter said. Carroll and the man she had met were embracing. “Looks as though Cabot gives this lady a lot of personal attention. Any luck on Morgan’s car?”

“Not yet.”

“Zero in on Morgan’s house,” she said. “Let’s see if he returned home.”

“That’s easy,” the tech replied, tapping his keyboard. “Here we are; all is quiet.”

“Work outward from the house in circles; see if you can find him in the neighborhood. Maybe he stopped at the pub, or for groceries.”

“Will do,” the tech replied.

Carpenter moved back to Carroll’s screen. She stared at it for a moment, then laughed. “I don’t believe it!”

“What?” Stone asked.

“They’re fucking.” She pointed at the screen. They had spread out a blanket, and the principal view was of a man’s bare back.

Then the tech widened the view. “Here come our people,” the tech said. Cars could be seen approaching the copse from three directions.

Mason drove the lead car, and he was moving fast up the unpaved lane. Ahead, the trees beckoned, and inside them, the clearing. He was going to make this bust himself, he thought; it was going to be the high point of his career. He entered the trees, and ahead, he could see the clearing in the evening light. Simultaneously, three cars entered the clearing from each access road. A couple were lying on a blanket, naked, and they looked up. “Oh, God,” he moaned. He picked up the cellphone.

Carpenter’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe it. He’s who?” She snapped the phone shut. “Carroll is fucking her immediate superior at Eastover.”

“Then Morgan is our man,” Stone said.

“Find him!” Carpenter said to the tech.

“He’s not in the neighborhood,” the young man replied.

“Get somebody over to Morgan’s house,” Carpenter snapped at Plumber.

“We don’t have anybody; they’re all on Carroll.”

She picked up the cellphone. “Mason? It’s Morgan, no doubt, and we’ve lost him. Get over to his house and arrest him. Report back.”

“How long will it take him to get there?” Stone asked.

Plumber spoke up. “Four, five minutes.”

“I don’t believe it,” Carpenter was saying. “All this bike ride was in aid of was fucking her boss!”

“They couldn’t meet at either of their houses,” Plumber said. “These facilities frown on extramarital relationships.”

“Carroll is married?”

Plumber was checking a list. “Divorced, but her boss is married.”

“How about Morgan?” Stone asked.

Plumber checked his list again. “Never married.”

“So he lives alone?”

Plumber checked his sheet again. “No; he has a cat.”

Carpenter was back on the cellphone. “Mason, where are you? Well, hurry up!” She closed the phone. “He says he’s two minutes out.”

“Morgan won’t run,” Plumber said. “He has no idea we’re onto him. He plans to take his retirement on schedule, then retire somewhere with his new money, probably Spain, where we can’t get at him. I’ll bet he’s home watching telly right now.”

Dino came out of the bedroom. “What’s happening?”

“Lots,” Stone replied. “Who won the cricket match?”

“I have no idea,” Dino said. “Bring me up to date.”

Stone gave him a sixty-second recap.

“Mason’s at the house,” Carpenter said. “Get it onscreen,” she said to the tech.

The tech had it up in seconds; two cars pulled into Morgan’s driveway, and men spilled out of them. One opened the garage door; the others ringed the house, while someone at the front kicked in the door.

“Mason, report,” Carpenter said into the cellphone. “Mason? Where are you?”

Stone stared at the screen. He didn’t like this at all.

“Mason!” Carpenter shouted. “What? What’s happening?” She listened. “It’s still there?”

“The car,” Dino said. “I’ll bet it’s in the garage.”

Stone held up a hand for silence; he was listening to Carpenter.

She closed the phone. “Morgan’s gone,” she said. “His luggage is gone, and most of his clothes. The Morris Minor is in the garage, empty.”

“Is it a two-car garage?” Stone asked.

“Yes.”

“Then he had another car. The device was in the back of the Morris Minor; while Morgan painted, Lance took it and left the money in the car. Morgan drove home, garaged his car, then got into the other car, which was packed and ready to go, and just drove away.”

Carpenter turned to Plumber. “Full-scale alert—every airport, every seaport, every police patrol car. Photographs of Cabot and Morgan faxed everywhere, the continent, too. Call Interpol and explain the situation. I want them both back, and the device, too. Especially the device. What’s the longest Cabot and Morgan could have been gone?”

Plumber looked at his watch. “Forty minutes for Cabot; Morgan would have needed another, say, fifteen minutes to return to the house and leave again.”

“Establish a perimeter at eighty miles,” Carpenter said. “Right now, Cabot could be, say, forty miles away, driving fast, and Morgan less. Every road blocked; turn out the local police, but don’t tell them why we want these two.”

Stone picked up a photograph. “Is this Morgan?”

“Yes,” Plumber replied.

“I want to see his house.”

“Me, too,” Dino said.

Carpenter handed Stone the keys to the Jaguar. “Give them a map,” she said. “I can’t spare anybody to go with you, Stone.”

Stone took the keys and ran for the car.

“I want to drive,” Dino said.

Chapter 55

DINO GOT THE CAR STARTED AS STONE got in. “Don’t waste any time,” Stone said.

Dino hung a right out of the carpark and found himself staring at a moving van coming straight at him in his lane. “Shit!” he yelled, whipping to the other side of the road and nearly running into the ditch.

“Sorry, I forgot to warn you about that first right turn.”

“Maybe I don’t want to do this after all,” Dino said.

“Shut up and drive,” Stone said. “Just remember which side of the road you’re supposed to be on.”

“Very weird, driving on the left,” Dino said. “But I’ll get the hang of it.”

“Soon, please.”

They followed the map into the small village and to Morgan’s street. All the houses seemed identical.

“It’s gotta be the one with no front door,” Dino said, whipping into the driveway.

They walked into the house to find Mason and his people pulling the place apart. A man appeared from the kitchen. “I found a safe in the garage,” he said.

Everybody trooped through the kitchen to the garage. There was, indeed, a safe, the door open, empty.

“He put that in for the device,” Mason said. The group started to pull the garage apart.

Stone motioned Dino back into the house.

“What are we looking for?” Dino asked.

“Anything that might give us a hint where Morgan has gone—travel brochures, reservation forms, anything. You take the desk.”

Dino began going through the desk drawers, while Stone walked around the living room slowly, looking at everything. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it. There was a large television set, and an easy chair and ottoman parked in front of it. On the ottoman was a stack of magazines; Stone began to go through them.

A television guide, a well-marked racing form, a couple of girlie magazines, and a travel magazine. Stone flipped through the travel magazine twice before he found something. A corner of one page had been dog-eared, then flattened again. The page was a continuation of an article on country inns that began earlier in the magazine; there was only one ad. “Take a look at this,” he said to Dino.

“Nothing in the desk,” Dino said. “No secret compartments, no travel receipts, nothing.”

Stone held out the magazine. “This page has been marked,” he said.

Dino looked at the ad in the lower right-hand corner. A photograph of a large country house dominated it. “What’s Cliveden?” he asked, pronouncing it with a long i.

“Cliveden, with a short i, was the country house of Lord Astor, before the war. His wife, an American woman named Nancy, who was a member of parliament, ran a very big salon there. Everybody who was anybody showed up at one time or another—George Bernard Shaw, Charlie Chaplin—and every literary or political figure of the time.”

“How do you know this stuff?”

“I read a book about it.”

“So why is this important?”

“It’s a hotel now, and it’s near Heathrow. Suppose Morgan wanted to lie low for a few days, until the heat was off at the airports, then beat it out of the country? He’s got to know everybody will be looking for him.”

“Could be,” Dino said. “You want to check it out?”

“Have we got anything else to do?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s do it.”

They were on the M4 motorway, driving fast.

“Why aren’t we looking for Lance instead?” Dino asked.

“Two reasons: First, Lance is a lot smarter than Morgan, I think, and he’s going to be a lot harder to find; second, Morgan has my money.”

“And that’s the important one, huh?”

“You bet your ass; I don’t give a damn about the device, whatever it is, but Carpenter and her people don’t give a damn about my money, either.”

Following a small map in the magazine ad, they found the house.

“Jesus Christ,” Dino said, as they drove up the drive and came to the place. “I didn’t expect it to be so big.”

“Neither did I,” Stone said, getting out of the car. He took the photograph of Morgan from his pocket and showed it to Dino. “This is our guy.” Morgan was late fifties, heavyset, balding, with graying hair and a military mustache.

“I’ll bet he shaved before he left the house,” Dino said.

They walked into the building, into an enormous living room, ornately decorated.

“Wow,” Dino said under his breath. “This Astor guy knew how to live, didn’t he?”

They approached the reception desk. “Show them your badge,” Stone whispered.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” the young woman behind the desk asked.

Dino flashed his badge. “We’re looking for a man,” he said.

Stone handed her the photograph. “His name is Morgan, although he may be using an alias. It’s possible he’s shaved his mustache, too.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sir William Mallory, and no mustache; he booked in a week or so ago, sent a cash deposit, checked in half an hour ago.”

“Where can we find him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the young woman said.

“What’s his room number?”

“He didn’t check all the way in,” she replied.

“Pardon?”

“He came to the desk; a porter brought his luggage; he registered, then he left. He seemed very nervous; he was sweating, I remember.”

“Did he show you any kind of identification?”

“Yes; he didn’t want to use a credit card, insisted on paying cash in advance, so I asked him for identification. He showed me a British passport.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said he’d forgotten something at his London house; he’d have to go back for it.”

“How was he dressed?”

“A raincoat and a trilby hat, which I thought was odd, since the weather is so nice at the moment.”

“How much luggage did he have?”

“Two large cases and a sort of canvas bag.”

“Describe the canvas bag, please.”

“A kind of satchel, roomy, like a Gladstone. The porter told me after he’d gone that he’d insisted on carrying it himself.”

“Where would I find the porter?”

The young woman raised a finger and beckoned a man in a uniform. “These gentlemen have some questions about Sir William Mallory,” she said.

“Yes, sir?” the porter said.

“How did he arrive?”

“By car, sir.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Jaguar from the sixties—dark blue—quite beautifully restored, inside and out. His luggage was fitted to the boot, except for the valise.”

“Did you, by any chance, take note of the number plate?”

“It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Back to London; he said he’d forgotten something important.”

“Thank you very much,” Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.

“Good call, Stone,” Dino said, “but now we’re going to have to get Carpenter’s people on the case; he could be anywhere.”

Stone dialed Carpenter’s cellphone.

“Yes?” She sounded harried.

“It’s Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?”

“Yes, it’s famous, but how did you know he went there?”

“He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he’d forgotten something in London and had to go back for it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes; he’s traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He’s driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot.”

“Stone, that’s very good. Would you like a job?”

“I’d like my money back,” Stone replied. “And if I were you, I’d double your effort at Heathrow; it’s very near here, and that’s where I’m going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?”

“Which terminal? There are four.”

“International departures?”

“Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”

“Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”

“Right.”

Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”

“This is a long shot,” Dino said.

“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”

Chapter 56

LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.

The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.

Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.

Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.

“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”

“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”

“Any particular altitude?”

“Ten.”

“Ten thousand?”

“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”

“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”

Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”

“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”

Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”

The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”

“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”

The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.

“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.

“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.

“What do you sell?”

“Whatever’s in demand.”

They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.

“Come right to one niner five degrees,” Lance said. He reached forward and turned a knob on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected “create user waypoint,” and entered some coordinates. “Climb back to a thousand feet,” he said.

The pilot leveled off at a thousand feet, and Lance reached forward, switched on the autopilot, and pushed the NAV button. The airplane swung a few degrees onto a new heading. “Let it fly the airplane for now,” he said. He checked the distance to waypoint; one hundred eight miles.

“What are we landing on?” the pilot asked.

“A farmer’s field,” Lance replied. “You’ve got about three thousand feet of length and all the width you need.”

“Any lights?”

Lance pointed to the rising full moon. “That,” he said, “and some car headlights.” He tuned the number one communications radio to 123.4 MHz and held the microphone in his lap.

Forty-five minutes later, Lance spoke again. “Descend to five hundred feet.” He spoke into the microphone. “It’s me; you there?”

“I’m here,” Ali’s voice said.

“Wind?”

“One eight zero, light. I’m already parked.”

“Switch on your headlights, and put them on bright; turn them on and off, once a second.” Lance scanned the horizon.

“Five hundred feet,” the pilot reported.

“We’re five miles out,” Lance said. “Look for headlights, flashing on and off, and land into them, on a heading of one eight zero.”

The pilot leaned forward and searched the ground ahead of him.

“Four miles,” Lance called out.

“I don’t see anything.”

“They’re there. Three miles.”

“Nothing.”

“Dead ahead, see them?”

“Got them!”

“A mile and a half; get lined up; can you see the tree line?”

“Yes, the moonlight is good.”

“Just miss the trees and aim for the car. You should have a soft touchdown.”

The pilot punched off the autopilot, swung right, then back left, lining up on the headlights. He put in full flaps and reduced power.

“Minimum speed, and for God’s sake, don’t hit the trees,” Lance said.

The pilot switched on both the landing and taxi lights, faintly illuminating the grass beyond the trees. He floated over the treeline, chopped the throttle, and put the airplane firmly down on the field, standing on the brakes. He swung around in front of the car and stopped.

“Keep the engine running,” Lance said, reaching behind him for the catalogue case. He got out, opened the door to the luggage compartment, and started handing bags to Ali. “Tell Sheila to turn off the headlights,” he said.

Ali went to the car, and a moment later, the lights went off.

Lance leaned into the airplane. “Wind’s light,” he said to the pilot; “you should be able to take off due north. Keep it low all the way.”

The pilot nodded. “Good luck,” he said.

“Enjoy the bike,” Lance replied. “The registration’s in the saddlebags.” He closed the door and watched as the pilot ran the engine up to full power, then released the brakes. Lance winced, thinking he might not make the trees, but then the little airplane was off the ground and climbing steeply. He ran back to the car and got into the passenger seat, while Ali got into the rear.

Sheila put the car in gear and drove slowly off the field. When she was into the trees, she switched on the headlights and found the track through the woods.

“How long until we hit the autoroute?” Lance asked.

“Less than half an hour. Driving at a steady eighty we should be at the Swiss border before dawn.”

“Got the passports?” he asked Ali.

Ali handed the three forward, and Lance inspected them. “Good,” he said.

Ali handed him a small leather case. “Here’s your makeup and beard,” he said.

He had tried out the makeup and beard when they had taken the passport photographs. He’d apply it after they were on the smooth autoroute. Then he would be Herr Schmidt.

“Meine damen und herren,” he said, “mach schnell!”

Sheila joined the paved road, put her foot down, and the car roared off into the European night.

Chapter 57

MORGAN PARKED HIS CAR IN THE short-term lot at Heathrow, fastened his luggage to a folding hand trolley, and walked into terminal four. He found a men’s room, let himself into the handicapped toilet stall, then took off his hat, got out of the raincoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his small suitcase, took out a loud Hawaiian shirt and put it on, followed by a tweed cap and sunglasses with heavy black rims. He wadded up his shirt and wrapped it in the raincoat, then stuffed the bundle behind the toilet. He left the stall, dug into his bag, and found a small bottle of pills marked VALIUM 5MG. He took one, then looked at himself in the mirror. “Keep calm,” he said. He grabbed his luggage cart, left the men’s room, and walked to the ticket counters.

From the departure board, he chose a flight, and, a minute later, he was standing in a ticket line. Then it occurred to him that he was going to have to go through security, and that the money in his valise might be discovered. As he stepped up to the counter, he made a snap decision. “Check everything,” he said to the ticket agent.

“Of course, sir,” she replied. “You’re going to have to hurry; your flight leaves in twenty-five minutes, and it’s already boarding.”

“I’ll hurry,” Morgan replied, accepting his ticket and boarding pass.

Dino screeched to a halt in front of terminal four. Before Stone could open his door, a man clutching a handheld radio opened it for him.

“My name’s Bartlett,” he said. “Heathrow security.”

Stone introduced himself and Dino, then showed him the photograph of Morgan.

“I’ve already circulated it,” Bartlett said.

“He’s shaved the mustache, and he’s wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat,” he said. “And he’ll be carrying a canvas valise, I’m sure of that. He’s calling himself Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name.”

Bartlett used his radio, passing on the new description. “Let’s go,” he said to Stone.

“How many people have you got working right now?” Stone asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but I’ve pulled every available man and woman off nearly everything else. We’re concentrating on the security checkpoint, since every passenger has to pass through it.”

“Let’s start there,” Stone said.

With Bartlett leading the way, they made off across the busy terminal.

Morgan reached the security checkpoint, and immediately he was approached by two men in suits, one of whom flashed an ID card.

“Please step over here, sir,” one of them said, taking his arm and moving him out of the line.

“What’s going on?” Morgan asked, as innocently as he could.

“May I see your passport and ticket, please?”

Morgan produced both.

“You are . . .” The officer looked at the passport. “Mr. Barry Trevor?”

“That’s right,” Morgan said. “What’s this about?”

“Just a routine security check, sir. And is this your current address?” The officer held up the passport.

“Yes, it is, and I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“We won’t be a moment, sir. Would you remove your sunglasses, please?”

Morgan took them off and gave the officers a big smile. He knew his security photograph at Eastover made him look dour.

The officers compared him to a photograph one of them produced. They looked at each other; one shook his head. The officer handed back Mr. Barry Trevor’s passport and ticket. “Thank you, sir; sorry for the inconvenience. Here, let me get you through security.” He led Morgan to one side of the checkpoint and signaled to the officer on station, who ran a detector wand over Morgan’s clothes, then waved him through.

Morgan headed for the gate. With a little luck, his timing would be perfect.

Stone arrived at the security checkpoint, and Bartlett called two men over.

“Any sightings?” he asked.

“No; we’ve checked three men, but all seemed okay.”

“Any of them carrying a canvas valise?”

“No; one of them had a briefcase, but there were only business documents inside.”

“Any of them wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat?”

“No, sir.”

Bartlett turned to Stone. “Anything else you want to try?”

Stone nodded. “I hear Spain is a favored destination for fugitives.”

“That’s right; we’ve no extradition treaty with them.”

“Let’s go to the gates that have flights departing for anywhere in Spain.”

Bartlett looked up at a row of monitors next to the security checkpoint. “Three, no, five flights departing in the next two hours, from three gates.” He led the way through the checkpoint, then flagged down an oversized golf cart driven by an airport employee. Bartlett, Stone, and Dino boarded the vehicle, and, on Bartlett’s instructions, it began to move down the long corridor.

Morgan walked along the people mover, dodging other travelers who were happy to stand still and ride. He tried to move quickly, without looking as though he was hurrying. He checked his watch; seven minutes to go.

Bartlett was on the radio, summoning officers to the three gates with departing flights to Spain. “I want two men at each gate, scrutinizing every male passenger even remotely resembling the photograph.” He turned to Stone. “If he’s bound for Spain, we’ll get him at the gate.” His radio squawked, and he held it to his ear. “Say again?” He turned back to Stone. “One of my men has found a raincoat, a shirt, and a trilby hat, discarded in a men’s room. A British passport bearing the name Sir William Mallory was in the raincoat pocket.”

“Costume change,” Stone said. “This guy is starting to do everything right.”

The cart pulled up to a gate, and Stone got out, followed by Dino and Bartlett. The first person he saw was Stan Hedger.

Hedger walked up to him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It’s a public airport; none of your business.”

“Have you seen Lance Cabot?”

“Is that why you’re here? You’re looking for Cabot?”

“That’s right.”

“So is half the country, from what I hear.”

“I thought you had gone back to the States, Stone. Why are you involved in this?”

“It’s personal,” Stone said. “See you around, Stan.”

“Come on,” Dino said, “we’re wasting time.”

Morgan reached his gate two minutes before the flight was scheduled to take off. He went to the counter for a seat assignment.

“You’ll have to hurry, Mr. Trevor,” the young woman said. “We’re about to button up the airplane.”

“I’ll hurry,” Morgan said, and made for the boarding ramp. There was no line, and a moment later he was strapping himself into a first-class seat.

Stone, Dino, and Bartlett made their way quickly from gate to gate, coming up empty-handed at each one.

“That’s it,” Bartlett said. “We know he’s in the airport, but we don’t—”

“What are other likely destinations for fugitives?” Stone asked.

Bartlett shrugged. “Could be anywhere. There are more than a hundred international flights taking off in the next two hours; I don’t have the manpower to cover them all, and I’m not about to shut down this airport, unless I get a personal call from the Home Secretary.”

“Shit,” Stone said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Bartlett replied. “But let’s keep looking.”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said. “We are now pushing back from the gate, and in a few minutes we’ll be taking off for our flight to Honolulu. While we’re taxiing, we direct your attention to the video, which will explain the emergency procedures for this aircraft.”

Morgan picked up a magazine. Fuck the emergency procedures, he thought. He wanted a double Scotch.

Stan Hedger left the airport in disgust, along with one of his people, and got into a waiting car. He did not notice, nor did his driver, that the car was followed by another, which kept a respectful distance.

Stone and Dino stuck it out until nearly midnight, when departures slowed dramatically, then they drove back to the Brewer’s Arms.

Carpenter, Mason, and Plumber were all in the suite when they arrived. “Anything?” Carpenter asked.

“Morgan was at the airport,” Stone said. “One of the security people found his discarded hat, coat, and passport in a men’s room. We covered the departures for Spain all evening, but there were too many departing flights to cover them all. What have you heard about Lance?”

“A farmer about eighty miles west of here reported that a light airplane landed and took off again at a disused RAF airfield near his house. Two local police officers found a brand-new BMW motorcycle abandoned there.”

“You think it was Lance’s?”

“It was wiped completely clean of fingerprints,” she said, “and it was properly registered to someone in London. We’re checking it out now, but who else would abandon an expensive motorbike at an old airfield and wipe off the prints?”

“I doubt if he’s coming back for it,” Stone said.

“The police are keeping a watch, to see if anyone picks it up.”

Stone sank into a sofa. “This hasn’t gone well, has it?”

Carpenter sat down next to him. “No, it hasn’t, but it’s not your fault; you were a big help. And you’ve lost all that money.”

Stone raised a hand. “Please, don’t mention that again.”

“I’ll do what I can to get you reimbursed, but I’m not very hopeful. My management are very annoyed that we’ve let these people get away.”

“Can I give you a lift back to London?”

“I have to stay here, but I’ll walk you downstairs.”

They walked through the inn to the parking lot, and Dino got behind the wheel.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing each other again,” Carpenter said.

“Oh, I don’t know; I might get to London, from time to time.” He handed her his card. “You might even get to New York.”

“Possible, I suppose. Let me give you a telephone number; memorize it, don’t write it down.” She gave him the number, then repeated it. “If you call that number at any hour of the day or night, you’ll hear a beep; leave a message for Carpenter, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”

“I’m sorry about the device,” he said.

“Spilt milk,” she replied. “They don’t have the electronics to make it work, and they don’t have the software—especially the software. It will take them months, hopefully years, to figure out how to use it, and by that time we’ll have something better.”

Stone offered her his hand, but she snaked an arm around his neck and planted a wet kiss on his ear. “Hope I’ll hear from you,” she said, then she turned and walked back into the Brewer’s Arms.

Stone got into the car, and Dino drove off. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, gone,” he sighed.

Dino laughed. “And I was looking forward to a finder’s fee.”

As they drove back along the M4, Stone looked out at the rolling landscape. He’d heard that the road had been planned to show off the countryside. “I love this country,” he said. “I feel as though I’ve been here forever.”

“A pretty short forever,” Dino replied.

Chapter 58

LANCE CABOT WOKE UP IN HIS ZURICH hotel room at noon, wakened by his travel alarm. He showered, shaved, dressed, and applied his false beard, which on inspection in the mirror, he thought very becoming. Maybe he’d better grow one, he thought, since he was going to be hot for a while, even though no one had anything on him. Stan Hedger was his only real worry; Hedger wanted him badly, and he wouldn’t stop looking. He felt sorry about Erica, but he couldn’t contact her for a long time, he knew.

He called Ali’s room. “I’m off,” he said. “As soon as the transaction is complete I’ll pick you up here. Our flight to Cairo isn’t until five o’clock. We’ll change passports again.” He hung up.

Lance arrived at the bank on time. He gave the appropriate name to an officer and was escorted into a conference room. Two men of Middle Eastern appearance sat at the large table. They stood up when he arrived.

“There’s a buzzer on the table, there,” the bank officer said. “Ring when you need me.”

Lance nodded and sat down.

“You have the item?” one of the men asked.

Lance set the catalogue case on the table and opened it. He handed over the device, wrapped in tissue paper.

Nervously, the man on the other side of the table tore away the paper, then held the device in his hands and weighed it. “It’s very light,” he said.

“Very advanced metallurgy,” Lance said. “Are you ready to make the transfer?”

“How do we know this is the device you promised?”

“I would have thought that your people would have been smart enough to send someone with the skills to authenticate it.”

He handed the device to his companion, who inspected it for, perhaps, two minutes, then nodded.

“All right,” the first man said, “we are ready to make the transfer.”

“I think, perhaps, you should put that away,” Lance said, nodding at the device and pushing the catalogue case across the table. When the device was safely in the case, Lance pressed the button.

The bank officer returned with a file folder and sat down at the table. “Have you successfully completed your transaction?” he asked.

“We will have when the funds have been transferred,” Lance said.

“I have made out the paperwork as per your instructions,” the banker said. “Five million dollars to be transferred to your numbered account.”

“That’s correct,” Lance said.

The banker laid the documents before the two Middle Easterners. They examined them, and one of them signed.

“I’ll just be a moment,” the banker said. He took the documents and left the room.

Lance sat and looked at the two men, who impassively returned his gaze. No one said anything.

Presently, the banker returned. “Gentlemen, your transaction is complete.”

The two men rose and left the room without a word.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the banker asked Lance.

Lance thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied.

Ted Cricket stood in a light rain outside the Guinea pub and restaurant, in a mews off Berkeley Square. It was nearly eleven o’clock. The door to the restaurant opened, and Cricket stepped back into the shadows and looked around. The mews was empty.

Hedger left the restaurant alone, weaving a little, and started up the mews toward Berkeley Square. He walked right past Cricket, no more than six feet away.

Cricket stepped from the shadows, reached out, cupped a hand over Hedger’s mouth, and ran the slim blade into his back, thrusting upward. Hedger’s knees gave way, and when Cricket released him, he collapsed onto the wet cobblestones.

Cricket looked up and down the mews again; empty. He rolled Hedger over, switched on a tiny flashlight, and shone it into Hedger’s face. He was still alive. “This is for Bobby Jones,” Cricket said. He placed the knife point on Hedger’s chest, over the heart, shoved it through the flesh, twisted it ninety degrees, and pulled it out, wiping the blade on Hedger’s fine Savile Row jacket. Hedger coughed up some blood, then was still.

Cricket walked up the mews into Berkeley Square, then around the square and into the warren of streets that was Mayfair. He waited until he reached Park Lane before hailing a taxi.

The telephone was ringing as Stone let himself into the house.

“Hello?”

“It’s Sarah,” she said. “I’m at Monica’s gallery; Erica is here, and she’s very upset.”

“Bring her here for the night,” Stone replied. “Don’t take her back to the Farm Street house for any reason.”

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked.

“I don’t want to tell you on the phone,” Stone said. “Get here as soon as you can; I’ll wait up for you.”

The two women arrived in a rush, carrying Erica’s luggage.

“I moved out of the house,” Erica said. “It seemed very strange with Lance not there, and I was hearing clicking noises on the phone.”

“You did the right thing,” Stone replied. “I think you should fly back to New York tomorrow.”

“It seems the only thing to do,” Erica said.

“Stone, what is going on?” Sarah demanded.

“Lance has been involved in some sort of smuggling, I think, and they’re looking for him.”

“Who’s looking for him?”

“Just about everybody.”

“Good God.”

“I’m going home tomorrow, too,” he said. “Dino, will you call British Airways and book the three of us on the Concorde?” He still had some of Stan Hedger’s money.

Dino went into the kitchen to use the phone.

“Why don’t you get Erica to bed?” Stone asked Sarah. “I’m pretty bushed myself.”

By the time Sarah crawled into bed with him, he was out.

Chapter 59

STONE AND DINO WERE HAVING BREAKFAST when the doorbell rang. Stone answered it, to find Detective Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton standing there with another officer, looking grim.

“Good morning,” Stone said.

“No, it isn’t,” Throckmorton replied, brushing past him and walking into the drawing room. “Come in here and sit down.”

“I was about to call you; how on earth did you find me here?” Stone asked.

“I had Miss Burroughs followed,” Throckmorton replied, “and my people weren’t the only ones doing so. Where is she?”

“Upstairs, asleep,” Stone replied.

“No, I’m not,” Erica said from the doorway.

Stone introduced her to the two men.

“I have only a few questions for you, Miss Burroughs,” Throckmorton said, and he proceeded to ask them. Ten minutes of grilling her produced nothing, and he told her she could go.

“Get some breakfast,” Stone said to her. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

“Well, Barrington,” Throckmorton said, “you’ve certainly managed to mix in a number of things, haven’t you?”

“I suppose I have,” Stone replied.

“How about Stanford Hedger’s death; did you mix in that?”

Stone had no trouble looking surprised. “He’s dead?”

“Knifed outside a Mayfair restaurant late last evening.”

“I saw him at Heathrow earlier in the evening,” Stone said, “and he was perfectly fine.”

“He was looking for Lance Cabot?”

“Yes.”

“And so were you, I suppose.”

“No.”

“Look, I know very well that you’re up to your ears in the Eastover matter, and I’m not in the least convinced that you had nothing to do with Hedger’s death.”

“May I speak to you alone for a moment?” Stone asked.

Throckmorton motioned for the detective to leave them.

“I think we both have a pretty good idea who might have dispatched Hedger, don’t we?” Stone asked when they were alone.

Throckmorton sighed. “Yes, I suppose I do. He had all the skills; he was ex–Special Air Services, you know.”

“I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised. I don’t suppose there’s anything but suspicion to link him to Hedger’s death?”

“He has half a dozen witnesses, all retired policemen, who swear he was in a card game at the time.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to leave it.”

“I wish I could; the Americans are very upset.”

“Then let them solve it; they don’t seem to have any compunctions about operating on your soil.”

“No, they don’t, do they?”

Stone didn’t say anything for a moment. “May I have my passport back, please?”

“Oh, yes.” Throckmorton stood up, took it from his pocket and handed it to Stone.

“And my raincoat?”

“No. That’s evidence. You’ll be returning to New York, then?”

“Yes, today.”

“Thank God,” Throckmorton said. “I hope you never come back.” He walked out of the room and the house without another word, followed by his detective, bumping into Mason as he entered the house. The two men exchanged a long glance, but said nothing to each other.

“Good morning,” Stone said to Mason. “Any news?”

“None I can give you,” Mason replied. “I’ve come for your car, your pen, and your button.”

“Oh, yes.” He had forgotten. He went into the kitchen, found a knife, and cut the button from his sleeve.

“What are you doing?” Dino asked.

“I’ll tell you later.” He went back into the drawing room and handed Mason the button, pen, and car keys.

“Thank you,” Mason said, then turned to go.

“There’s nothing you can tell me?” Stone asked.

“It’s not my place,” Mason replied. “Thank you for your assistance; you got your passport back?”

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t delay leaving the country, if I were you.”

“I’ll be gone before sundown,” Stone replied.

“Yes, sundown; that’s when you Americans get out of town, isn’t it?”

“Only in Westerns.”

“Well, I suppose this has been a sort of Western, hasn’t it? Except we didn’t get the bad guy in the end.”

“Will you?”

“A personal opinion?”

“Sure.”

“We’ll get Morgan one of these days. As for Cabot, I doubt if Morgan can identify him, so we don’t actually have anything concrete on which to base a prosecution. And to tell you the truth, I doubt if my management would prosecute him if we did. This whole business has been terribly embarrassing for them, as well as for Carpenter and me.”

“I’m sorry,” Stone said.

Mason shook his hand. “Don’t be; in a week or two, the whole thing will have blown over for us. Take care.”

“You, too.” Stone showed him out.

Stone went into the kitchen, where Sarah had joined everybody. “I want everybody ready to leave for Heathrow in an hour,” he said, checking his watch.

Sarah drove them, and walked Stone as far as the security checkpoint. “I had hoped you might stay for a long time,” she said.

“I’m an American and a New Yorker. As much as I like it here, I know where home is.”

“And after I went to all that trouble,” she said.

Stone frowned. “Trouble?”

“Well, I had to, didn’t I? Daddy is nearly broke, and if he’d lost any of the lawsuits, he’d lose everything, even the house. I had to do something; then you turned up, and it became even more imperative.”

Stone stared at her. “Jesus, Sarah, you didn’t . . .”

“Didn’t I?” she asked. She kissed him and walked away.

Dino and Erica joined Stone. “You don’t look so hot,” Dino said.

“Just a little shaken,” Stone said.

“What, she told you the truth?”

“Yes, in a way; nothing that I could testify to, though.”

“Jesus, Stone, I knew all that; why didn’t you?”

“I guess I didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah, you’re good at that. Come on, we’ve got a rocket ship to catch.”

As the Concorde roared down the runway, Stone looked at Erica sitting beside him, reading a magazine. “You don’t seem terribly upset about Lance,” he said.

She shrugged. “He told me something like this might happen someday. I’ll hear from him, eventually.”

Stone reflected that he was finally doing what “John Bartholomew” had hired him to do: bring home Erica Burroughs. He settled into his seat. What with the time change, they’d arrive in New York before they left London.

Chapter 60

STONE WAS AWAKENED EARLY THE following morning by the telephone. For a moment he was disoriented, thinking he was at the Connaught or in the late James Cutler’s bed. He glanced at the clock; he had slept for twelve hours. “Hello?” he croaked into the phone.

“It’s Carpenter,” she said. “You sound awful.”

“I was asleep,” he said.

“Oh, yes, the time difference; it’s lunchtime here.”

“Right.”

“Mason said you wanted an update?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“There’s good news and bad news; which do you want first?”

Stone groaned. “The bad news.”

“My management have categorically refused to reimburse you for your monetary loss. They feel no responsibility.”

“That’s sweet of them. Tell me the good news.”

“It comes in two parts: first, we caught Morgan in Hawaii.”

Stone sat up in bed. “Did he have my money with him?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Stone fell back into the bed. “Why are you torturing me?”

“I said the good news came in two parts.”

“All right, what’s part two?”

“Morgan checked in for his flight only shortly before it departed, so his luggage didn’t make it aboard the aircraft.”

Stone sat up in bed again. “The valise?”

“Heathrow security found it, waiting patiently to be put aboard the next flight. There was nearly half a million dollars in it.”

“Yeeessss!” Stone shouted, punching the air.

“It will take a little sorting out, but I imagine that, in a few days, I can transfer it to your New York bank. Do you have the account number?”

Stone gave her his brokerage account number. “Send it there,” he said, “back where it came from.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll be able to buy me dinner the next time I’m in New York.”

“Yes, I suppose I will be able to afford that. Soon, I hope.”

“You never know.”

“What about Lance Cabot? Any word on him?”

“He was too slick for us. The motorcycle turned out to be his; we picked up his pilot when he returned for the machine; Cabot had given it to him, apparently.”

“What did the pilot tell you?”

“He delivered Cabot to a farmer’s field in France, he isn’t sure where, since Cabot erased the coordinates from his GPS computer before leaving the airplane. He was met by two people, one of them answering to the description of Ali. We haven’t been able to trace him from there, so we have to assume that both he and, ah, his luggage reached their destination. We don’t know where that was.”

“Mason said he probably wouldn’t be prosecuted.”

“That’s right, but we would certainly make it difficult for him if he ever returned to Britain. I expect that he won’t; he’ll enjoy his ill-gotten gains in a more hospitable climate.” She paused. “Well, I must run.”

“May I know your name, now?”

She laughed. “All in good time. You take care of yourself.”

“Listen, when do you think . . .” But she had gone.

Stone got out of bed, and by the time he had dressed and breakfasted, his secretary was at her desk, working away.

“Good morning!” she said. “And welcome back!”

“Thank you, Joan,” he said. “Will you let my broker know to expect the return of some funds I took out of my account? In a few days, I think.”

“Of course,” she said. She handed him a stack of message slips. “Here are your phone calls, and this was in the fax machine when I came in yesterday.”

Stone looked at the paper. It was from his Swiss banker.

Sir, it read, I take pleasure in reporting the receipt of the following funds into your account. Stone looked at the bottom of the form. The amount was one million dollars.

“Good God!” Stone said.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing; Lance kept his word.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” Stone stood and thought about the ramifications of receiving this money. Should he return it? If so, to whom?

“You look puzzled,” Joan said.

Stone nodded. “I think you’d better get my accountant on the phone.”

“That doesn’t really mean what it says, does it?” she asked, nodding at the document in his hand.

“I’m afraid it does.”

She picked up the phone. “I’ll get your accountant,” she said.

“You know,” Stone said to her, “it’s amazing what can happen in a short forever.”

She stopped dialing. “What?”

“Never mind,” Stone said. He was trying to figure out how he was going to explain all this to his accountant.

He’d had worse problems.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to express my thanks to my editor, David Highfill, for making this the first manuscript in my career where an editor asked for no revisions whatever. It takes a highly discerning editor to know when something doesn’t need fixing.

I am very grateful to my publisher, the remarkable Phyllis Grann, now gone on to other things, for her interest in my career and for her efforts to do the best for each of my titles that she published. I wish her well in whatever she undertakes.

My agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, continue to manage my career with care and thoughtfulness, and always produce excellent results. I am very appreciative of all their efforts.

I thank Maldwin and Gilly Drummond for lending me the site of their wonderful house, if not the house itself, to use for the Wight home.

And I am always grateful to my wife, Chris, for her acute observations when reading my manuscripts and for her affection.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

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A list of all my published works appears on http://www.stuartwoods.com . All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the on-line bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.