by Stuart Woods
“More, please.”
Stone crooked a finger at the proprietor and signaled for more whisky. “Now,” he said, after the man had complied, “I am Stone Barrington, as it says on my chart. I am an American . . .”
“Well, there’s a shock,” she said mockingly.
“. . . from New York City, on the northeastern seaboard of our Atlantic coastline.”
She made a motion for him to continue.
“I am an attorney at law, by profession. Although, after attending university and law school, I became a New York City police officer, serving mostly as a homicide detective for fourteen years, before I was invalided out, after a bullet wound to a knee.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Rose said. “Americans fire guns at each other, don’t they?”
“On widely separated occasions,” Stone replied. “It was the only time I was ever fired upon.”
“I assume, being an American, you drew your own gun and killed your assailant. Isn’t that also what Americans do?”
“I did draw my weapon and fire it, but missed. However, my partner, who was a much better shot than I, killed my assailant.”
“And what are you doing in the far reaches of the Scottish Highlands?”
“I have an acquaintance who is a high-ranking member of MI-6, and . . .”
“That would be Dame Felicity Devonshire, the director.”
“How did you know that?”
“Well, there were, as I said, rumors—that and the fact that you were driving her motorcar when you decided to take a swim. If you weren’t friends, you’d have been driving a stolen vehicle and would now be reposing in a dank Scottish gaol, instead of this cozy inn.”
“You have superior powers of deduction,” Stone said.
“Once again, why were you training here, and for what?”
“I have, from time to time, done business with MI-6. And Dame Felicity, on an occasion when we had both taken strong drink, suggested—no, she dared me to do the course. With the reward being that I was allowed to drive the Aston back to civilization. I foolishly agreed. And when I had sobered up, she wouldn’t let me off the hook.”
“Are you perfectly serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“So you came up here and spent a week running about the Highlands, competing with a lot of twenty-two-year-olds?”
“Not quite. It was explained to me that there was a senior level of training available to those who are no longer twenty-two, so I was competing with thirty-five-year-olds, who are mostly in better shape than they have any right to be at their age.”
“How’d you do?” she asked.
“Not terribly well,” Stone admitted. “Oh, I did all right in the courses—near the top of my class, in fact. I thought I might redeem my physical prowess somewhat by agreeing to a timed drive around their defensive driving course, since I had the Aston Martin DB11 available to me.”
“We know how that turned out, don’t we?”
“I am reliably informed that, until I misread that turn by the bridge, I was on my way to a record-setting circuit.”
“Well, there was that turn, wasn’t there?”
“I also have no memory of that turn, or of anything after setting off.”
“Now someone will have to buy Dame Felicity a new motorcar. Her insurance company, I expect.”
“I fear that insurance companies are far too wily to cover automobile racing—even against the clock—in their policies.”
“So you are on the hook for a new Aston Martin?”
“I am, and deservedly so. This afternoon I phoned the London dealership of that marque and ordered her previous DB11 duplicated, for delivery in—well, it was going to be seven months, but when I mentioned her name, that was shortened to two weeks, so she will not long be without transport.”
“How much did that cost you?”
“Don’t ask.”
At that moment their dinner arrived, and they switched from the single malt to a sturdy claret.
They raised their glasses and said “Bon appétit!” together.
“Now,” Stone said. “Your turn.”
“All right,” she said, sampling his Scottish beef and approving. “Born, London, thirty-odd years ago, educated at what you Americans call a ‘private’ school, then Oxford, followed by medical school, followed by a surgical residency, followed by some years as a general surgeon.”
“And why are you here?” he asked.
“I have been on what the medical community here refers to as a locum—that is, replacing another physician while he is on leave. I thought this post might be enlightening, and it has been, in fits and starts.”
“That is a very short history,” Stone said.
“I’m sorry if I bored you.”
“Ever married?”
“Briefly, to another medical student. I came away from that feeling that physicians should never marry—not each other, anyway. You?”
“I am a widower. My wife was murdered several years ago by a former lover. I have a son who is now working in Hollywood as a film director and writer.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but it is my gain.”
* * *
—
“You know,” Stone said when they were finishing dessert, “while I admire your charming little car that we came in, I confess that my temporary disability caused me to be less than comfortable in it. Perhaps it would be a good idea for us to remain overnight upstairs, in what was described to me as their finest bedroom, then hazard the return journey on the morrow.”
“Well,” she said, “since the morrow is a Sunday, I think that is an entirely sensible suggestion. I accept your kind invitation.”
They left their table and, once at the staircase, Stone was able to ascend to the upstairs floor using the banister, followed by Rose carrying his crutches. They entered an impossibly charming bedroom furnished with a large four-poster bed.
“Now,” she said, “either you have to sleep with one leg in your trousers, or we must find a way to get them off without causing you undue pain.”
“It’s good that you are a medic,” Stone said.
She met his gaze. “I am a physician, and you will kindly remember that, if you wish to remember this night fondly.”
“I am desolated at my faux pas,” Stone said. “Dr. McGill.”
“In Britain, specialists are not called doctor but are referred to as Mr., Mrs., or Ms.,” she replied. And in a trice she employed her medical training to free him from the boot, his trousers, and everything else.
6
They slept late, had a huge breakfast in bed, read the Sunday papers, then returned to the base.
“By the way,” Rose said as they alighted in the parking lot, Stone with some difficulty, “it’s not my car. It belongs to the base.”
He was about to ask how she had traveled to the base when a middle-aged woman appeared at the door of HQ and called out to him.
“Mr. Barrington, the colonel would be grateful for a moment of your time.”
“‘Grateful’?” Stone muttered. “I expect that is her word, not his.”
“He’s really not so bad,” Rose said. “Go and see him, and behave yourself.”
Stone swung along into the building and was ushered into a comfortable office where the colonel sat, gazing at some paperwork. He looked up. “Ah, Mr. Barrington, will you take a seat for a moment?” He indicated the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
Stone sat down and arranged his crutches so that they wouldn’t fall onto the floor. “Yes, Colonel?”
“I wish to apologize for my manner in the ward yesterday,” he said, sounding sincere.
Stone was taken aback. He had not been expecting conciliation. “Thank you,” he managed. “It’s possible that I overreacted just a bit.”
Stone couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You see,” the colonel said, ignoring Stone’s lack of a response, “upon closer examination of the wreckage of the Aston Martin, we have determined that your plunge into the river was caused—not by careless driving, but by a bullet into the right front tire from a rifle.”
“Fired by whom?” Stone asked.
“By a man on the riverbank, who had chosen his position poorly and was struck by the car on its way into the river. His body was found a couple hundred meters downstream from where the car came to rest.”
“Who was he?”
“His identity remains unknown, as it will probably continue to be, but we have surmised from other evidence that he was all or part of a black parachute operation launched by the Soviets—or, as they like to be called these days, the Russian Federation.”
“What is a ‘black parachute operation’?”
“It’s when someone jumps from an airplane at night, employing a black parachute, so as not to be noticed in the dark.”
“And how did you determine this?”
“It is not their first attempt on this installation,” the colonel said. “Also, we found his black parachute and backpack, concealed in some brush not far from the river. By the way, since you were not fully conscious at the time of your rescue, you should know that it was made possible because the driver of a heavy lorry with a powerful winch built into its front bumper was a witness to the event and used his winch to extract the car from the river.”
Stone thought this over for a moment. “Please thank him for me.”
“Of course. Questions?” the colonel asked.
“Just one,” Stone replied. “Does this mean that the Ministry of Defence will be paying for Dame Felicity’s replacement vehicle?”
“Ah, yes,” the colonel said. “I have spoken to the minister, and he has agreed to that. The dealer will be posting your check back to you.”
“Oh, good. Please let them know that delivery of the replacement vehicle will take place in less than two weeks, so they shouldn’t be slow to issue their own check.”
“Noted.”
“And will you be offering the Russians their corpse back in return for reimbursement?” Stone asked, trying not to laugh.
“No, we think it is more in our interests for the earth to swallow him up and let the Russians stew about what happened to their man.”
“I see.”
“It occurs to me that, given your lack of transport, you might wish to take advantage of one of our vehicles going to Glasgow for servicing tomorrow. You can take the overnight train to London from there.”
“Thank you, it is rather a long taxi ride to Glasgow, isn’t it?”
The colonel rose, walked around his desk, and stood Stone’s crutches up for him. Stone got to his good foot and thanked him.
The colonel offered his hand. “Thank you for your enthusiastic acceptance of our rather rude conditions here, and good luck to you.”
Stone shook the hand and made his way to the door.
“The car will depart from here at seven AM tomorrow morning, and there will be another passenger, as well. The drive to Glasgow is about four hours; the road is not exactly a motorway.”
Stone thanked him again and made his way to his quarters, where he packed his gear, then stretched out on his bed for a nap. Later, he woke up long enough to call his travel agent and book a suite aboard the train from Glasgow to London, then he went back to sleep and stayed that way until the following morning.
* * *
—
Stone was awakened by the bell at six AM. He showered, shaved, and dressed, then he turned his luggage over to a young private and went to the mess hall for breakfast. Rose was nowhere to be seen, and he decided not to wake her so early. Anyway, he didn’t know where she was quartered.
He left the building at seven and found a large BMW saloon waiting for him; he also found Rose in the rear seat. “Good morning,” he said, giving his crutches to the private and getting into the car. “I didn’t know you were coming, and I didn’t know where to look for you.”
“My locum ended on Saturday,” she said, “and I was invited to share your car—or rather, the colonel’s BMW.”
“I would have thought they would service it here,” Stone said.
“They do that with the utility vehicles,” she said, “but not with the colonel’s car. It goes to an authorized dealer.”
They drove away, crossing the bridge where the Aston Martin had met its fate. “Did you hear about the sniper?” he asked Rose.
“The talk around the base is of nothing else,” she replied. “Apparently, it’s not their first intrusion here. The colonel thinks it’s good for morale to kill an intruder now and then. Keeps everybody on their toes.”
* * *
—
They drove quickly across the nearly bare Highlands landscape, the monotony occasionally broken by a stand of evergreens, which the Scots called a “plantation.” Three hours later the landscape became more welcoming, with the sight of oaks and other deciduous trees, and the appearance of villages and houses. Then, in Glasgow, they were dropped at the main station, and found a porter and their train.
“I’ve booked a suite,” Stone said to her. “Please join me.”
“I intend to,” she said, “in more ways than one.”
A twenty-pound note was of help in arranging for Rose’s pre-booked room to be one adjoining his suite, so she could have the smaller accommodation as a dressing room with its own shower.
7
When they were settled into their comfortable sitting room, Stone produced a bottle of Knob Creek from his bag. “Are you feeling adventurous?” he asked, holding it up.
“I expect I will be, after a dose of that,” she replied.
Stone poured them each one, and she sampled hers judiciously. “My word,” she said. “That is quite drinkable for a foreign spirit.”
“Speaking for my country, and the state of Kentucky, I thank you for your broad-mindedness.” Shortly, they had another.
The train moved, and Rose said, “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Shall we be among the first for the first seating in the dining car?”
“Of course.”
They made their way to the next car and were seated immediately. Industrial Glasgow was passing their window, but soon it gave way to a more rural vista. The sun was already setting.
“It gets dark early at this latitude this time of year,” Stone said.
“I expect it’s one of the reasons so few people reside in the Scottish Highlands,” she replied.
They ordered the lamb and Stone found a decent claret on the wine list. After dinner they took a couple of large cognacs with them back to their suite, and soon they were once again entwined in bed.
“What time do we get to King’s Cross Station?” Stone asked, kissing her ear.
“Quite early, so we’ll miss rush hour. Still, we have a good seven hours to go.”
“Barely enough time for this,” Stone said, turning his attention to another area of her physique.
“Take all the time you need,” she said.
* * *
—
When they were sated they sat up in bed, tended to their cognac, and watched the Scottish Lowlands fly by their window, under a half-moon.
“When do you have to be back at work?” Stone asked.
“A week from tomorrow,” she replied.
“Then why don’t you join me for a night at the Connaught, followed by several days at my house on the Beaulieu River, in Hampshire.”
“What a nice invitation. Will I have time to restock my wardrobe?”
“Certainly, and you will have room for wh
atever you want to bring. It’s a roomy car.”
“Then I accept.”
They finished their cognac, then turned again to each other.
* * *
—
At King’s Cross they found a taxi and had a fairly quick drive to the Connaught Hotel, in light traffic. Stone gave her the cab to drive her home. “What time will I see you?”
“Oh, by the cocktail hour, I expect.”
“I’ll let the front desk know you’re coming.” Stone sent her on her way and checked in. He was relieved that his suite was ready, and he managed a couple more hours of sleep.
* * *
—
Later, Rose was escorted up to the suite by an assistant manager, and her bags were set up on folding racks.
“Where are we dining?” she asked.
“At Harry’s Bar,” Stone replied. “Do you know it?”
“Only by reputation.”
“I predict that you will like it.”
“May we have a dance at Annabel’s later?”
“I’m very much afraid that Annabel’s is now Annabel’s in name only, having been closed by its new owners and moved next door. I was a member for a long time, and I was told nothing about all this. I was also told that if I wanted to be a member of the new club I would have to reapply and give references. I asked if I might see the new club before making that decision and was told only members could enter. I decided that I did not wish to belong to a club who would treat an old member in that manner, so I declined to reapply. It’s a pity, because I loved the original.”
* * *
—
At dinnertime they took the five-minute walk to Harry’s Bar and were given a corner table.
“Stone,” Rose said, when their drinks arrived, “did you notice, on our drive to Glasgow, that there seemed to be another vehicle following us?”
“I did not. I was wedged into my seat with my foot on the front armrest, so turning around would have been uncomfortable.”
