Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  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.”

  58

  Stone went upstairs to his master suite and, as he entered, caught a glimpse of a half-clothed Rose going into her bathroom. “I’ll be another half hour,” she said.

  “That works for me,” he called back. He went into his dressing room, put away his riding clothes and boots, and went into his bath. He shaved, showered, dried his hair, then returned to his dressing room and got into his dinner suit. He returned to the bedroom at the moment Rose emerged in a little black dress that sported deep cleavage, displaying much of her very fine frontage.

  Stone kissed her on the cheek, and she felt for his crotch. “I just wanted to see if the dress was having its intended effect,” she said. “And it is.”

  Stone took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, then they went downstairs to the library, just as Dame Felicity was walking into the house. Geoffrey, the butler, took her overnight bag and coat, revealing a tight dress that was the same red as her lipstick, and there was yet more cleavage to be viewed.

  The two women kissed, to Stone’s surprise, on the lips, lightly enough not to require makeup repair.

  “How gorgeous you look,” Felicity said.

  “And you,” Rose replied. “I love the dress.”

  Stone interrupted. “May I offer anyone an alcoholic beverage?”

  “Yes,” they replied, simultaneously. Stone showed them into the library and poured them each an icy vodka gimlet, then one for himself, and served them on a silver cocktail tray. They toasted life, then he went to inspect their dining table. All was in order, and the two bottles of old claret rested on a side table, along with a candlestick, two crystal decanters, and two tasting glasses. All was well, so he returned to the two women, who were occupying the Chesterfield sofa, sitting slightly closer to each other than absolutely necessary, hands touching.

  Stone had just sat down when the iPhone on the table next to him rang. He stood and picked it up. “Excuse me, please,” he said to the two women, then he stepped out into the hall. “Yes?”

  “Scramble.”

  “Scrambled.”

  “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” Lance asked, irritably.

  “I wasn’t aware that you called,” Stone said. “I was out riding.”

  “Stone, it’s important that you keep that phone on your person at all times.”

  “I’ll try and remember that,” Stone said. “What’s up?”

  “You and Felicity,” Lance replied.

  Where does he get this stuff, Stone asked himself. “And exactly what does that mean?”

  “It means that we recorded a conversation between two men in London who were apparently discussing the demise of at least one of you, perhaps both. The recording quality was very poor, and we only got part of it.”

  “The important part, I hope.”

  “I hope, too.”

  “What do you suggest?” Stone asked.

  “It’s too late to mount a defense at this point. All I can suggest is that you be bloody careful.”

  “All right, I’ll do that.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Windward Hall. Felicity is here for dinner, along with another friend.”

  “Another woman friend?”

  “Yes, as it happens.”

  “My goodness,” Lance said.

  Stone could hear him smiling. “Who were the two men you recorded?”

  “One we couldn’t identify, but he was British. The other was Wilfred Thomas, the bookbinder earl, whom we have previously discussed.”

  “Right. Is there anything else, Lance? I’d like to return to my guests.”

  “Oh, all right, but arm yourself,” Lance said, then hung up.

  Stone returned to the library and resumed his seat, but the two women were deep in conversation and ignored him. He hoped it wasn’t going to be that kind of evening.

  Geoffrey called them do dinner, and they took their seats. “Shall I decant the wines, sir?”

  “Yes, please, but only one bottle. They’re quite old, and I don’t want them to get too much air for too long.”

  “Of course, sir. Which one shall I uncork first?”

  “Oh, the older one, I guess. That’s what, the Palmer?”

  Geoffrey inspected the bottles. “Yes, sir.” He cut away the capsule and went to work with the corkscrew. He uncorked it very carefully, then lit the candle and decanted it slowly. He poured a little into a tasting glass, sniffed it, then placed it before Stone, along with the cork. “I’m afraid the cork isn’t very good, sir.”

  Stone picked up the cork, squeezed it, then sniffed. “I’m afraid it’s corked,” he said, squeezing it again. The cork broke in half, but did not separate.

  “I thought so, too, sir,” Geoffrey said.

  Stone looked at the cork, then pulled on it from each end. The two pieces separated, and he found himself staring at what appeared to be a needle, embedded in the bottom half. He beckoned to Geoffrey and handed him the cork. “Preserve this. Take the wine to the kitchen and recork it. Do not taste it, and do not allow anyone else to.”

  “Yes, sir,” Geoffrey said.

  “But first, please hand me the Mouton.”

  Geoffrey did so; Stone inspected the capsule and found it apparently unbreached. “May I see the Palmer capsule? The top only.”

  Geoffrey handed it to him. There was a pinhole in the top.

  “Decant the Mouton,” Stone said.

  Geoffrey did so, then handed Stone the tasting glass and the cork. Stone inspected the cork and bent it a little, but it did not break.

  “Good cork this time,” Geoffrey said. “Excellent nose, too.”

  Stone sniffed the glass several times. “I agree.” He tasted the wine and found it full-bodied, complex, and untainted. “Pour this one,” he said, “then deal with the other bottle.”

  The women were talking animatedly and seemed unconcerned with the wines.

  * * *

  —

  They finished their dinner and made to take their brandy upstairs. Stone allowed them to precede him. “I’ll be right along,” he said. He went to the gun case, removed one of the brace of Purdey shotguns, and picked up a box of double-aught shells, then followed the women. At the last moment, he remembered Lance’s caution to keep the Agency iPhone with him at all times, and he slipped it into
his jacket pocket.

  The women were both in Rose’s dressing room, still talking. Stone started to lay the shotgun alongside the bed, and then pushed the gun, barrel first, under the bed. It connected with something and stopped, with the stock still showing. Stone looked underneath, but it was too dark to see anything except what looked like a box. He took a small SureFire flashlight from a bedside drawer and shone it under the bed.

  There were two large, leather-bound books stacked there. He read the title, The Short Oxford English Dictionary. Then he saw something else at the bottom of the spines: W. THOMAS.

  59

  As Stone got to his feet, the women were coming out of Rose’s dressing room, both naked and holding hands.

  “Ladies,” Stone said. “Please do as I ask right now. Gather your clothes and walk down the hall to the last guest room and get dressed, then stay there until I come for you.”

  “What on earth . . .” Rose said.

  “Do it now, please.”

  Felicity got it. “Rose, let’s go.” She led Rose back into the dressing room, and they emerged, each carrying her clothes, and left the room.

  Stone got out his iPhone and called the local police. “Chief Inspector Holmes,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” a woman replied, “but the chief inspector has gone for the day.”

  “This is an extreme emergency,” Stone said. “Connect me to him immediately.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Barrington.”

  “One moment.”

  * * *

  —

  Roger Fife-Simpson stood in a patch of woods a quarter mile from Windward Hall. He stripped the last of the British Gas logo from the van, wadded it up, and struck a match to it. Then he dropped it where the flames wouldn’t spread. He took off his cap and uniform, revealing a black sweater and trousers underneath, and added the work clothes to the flames, poking at them with a stick until they were burning readily. He checked the contents of his canvas bag and came up with a silenced pistol given to him by Wilfred, identical to the firearm he had been issued at MI-6, and tucked it into his belt. Then he dug out the throwaway cell phone. He started to dial a number, but decided he wanted to see the effect of his work, so he left the van, crossed the road, and climbed over a stone wall. From where he landed, he had a fine view of the front of the house. He redialed the number.

  * * *

  —

  Stone was waiting impatiently, then finally: “This is Chief Inspector Holmes.”

  “Chief Inspector, this is Stone Barrington. I’ve found what appears to be a bomb under my bed, and I need your bomb squad at once.”

  “Certainly,” Holmes replied. “I’ll see to it.”

  “Oh, and please send someone who knows about poisons.”

  “You’re having quite an evening, aren’t you?” Holmes asked, then hung up.

  Stone suddenly asked himself a question. Why was he standing in his bedroom, four feet from a probable bomb? He grabbed the shotgun and left, closing the door behind him. Then he remembered something someone, perhaps Holly, had told him about the Agency iPhone. He went to the home page and looked at the icons, and then he saw it. Utilities, it was called. He touched it and found himself looking at a list. One item read: Create a Dead Zone.

  He selected that item and watched as the list disappeared, and the very annoying little circle appeared, spinning. While it spun he reasoned that the bomb would likely not be on a timer, since no one knew what time he would go to bed; more likely, it would be detonated by a cell phone carried by the man who had planted it there.

  The circle stopped spinning, and a message appeared:

  A dead zone for cellular devices has been created. It will render useless devices within approximately a fifty-foot, obstacle-free radius. Press the Resume button to discontinue and restore cellular service.

  Stone looked down the hall at his bedroom door; that was an obstacle. He ran for it.

  * * *

  —

  Roger pressed the Send button and waited, watching the house.

  * * *

  —

  Stone flung open the door and stopped. Nothing was happening. He went to his dressing room and came back with a large furled umbrella, then lay down next to the bed, turned on his flashlight, and reached out with the handle of the umbrella. After a few attempts, he had pulled the two volumes close enough to reach, and he dragged them from under the bed.

  * * *

  —

  Roger was wondering why nothing had happened, when he heard the sounds of a police car approaching. He vaulted over the wall, dropping the cell phone but continuing to run toward the van. He was in the front seat when a police car and a large van turned into the driveway of Windward Hall. When they had passed, he started his van, turned onto the road, and drove back toward Beaulieu. Then he stopped. Why had the bomb not detonated? He made a U-turn, drove back into his sheltered parking spot, and got out. He would have to find the cell phone he had dropped.

  * * *

  —

  Stone knelt beside the two beautifully bound volumes, then looked hard for any protrusion, even a thread, showing. Nothing there. He lifted the cover of the top volume and found only handsome end papers; then he began, a few pages at a time, looking through the book. A third of the way through, he found himself looking at an inch-deep compartment that had been cut through the pages. Inside it were a block of something that looked like modeling clay and a flip-phone, the display of which was lighted.

  Why, he asked himself, had the phone not rung? His dead zone must be effective, but apparently, if he had taken a second or two longer to activate it, the worst might have happened.

  There was a detonator plugged into the explosive matter, and he removed that; then he unplugged the cell phone from its connection to the detonator. Stone was no expert on bombs, but he reckoned he had rendered this one harmless. Then he remembered the second volume.

  * * *

  —

  Outside, Roger had found the cell phone. He had a second, backup number to call, and he punched in the number, which he had memorized.

  * * *

  —

  As Stone reached for the second volume, an incredibly bright light blinded him.

  “Get out of the way!” a man’s voice shouted, and Stone was pushed roughly aside.

  “I disconnected volume one,” Stone said, blinking rapidly, trying to see something, anything. “I didn’t have time to get to volume two.” He sat up and he could make out, blurrily, the shape of a uniformed policeman bending over the book.

  “Got it,” the man said, setting down his large flashlight, then half a second later the display in his hand lighted up. “Jesus God,” he muttered to himself. “Why didn’t it ring?”

  “Because,” Stone said, “we’re in a dead zone, courtesy of the Central Intelligence Agency.” He got out his cell phone, tapped it, and showed it to the policeman.

  “I want one of those,” the man said.

  60

  Chief Inspector Holmes stepped into the room behind Stone and the policemen. “Good evening,” he said.

  “It is now,” Stone replied. “Thank you for coming.”

  The policeman next to him was inspecting the two bombs. “I reckon,” he said, almost to himself, “that if one of these had gone off it would have blown out the windows and destroyed everything in the room, including the paneling.”

  “And what,” Holmes asked, “would the effect have been if they had both gone off?”

  “Then, I believe, the resulting blast would have removed this corner of the house, upstairs and down, from the main building and distributed it around the lawns.”

  “Any idea who might have wished you distributed around the lawns, Stone?” Holmes asked.

  Stone picked up one of the volumes and showed him the bind
er’s name on the spine. “This gentleman, I believe. He has a shop in the Burlington Arcade in London called Literary Antiquities, with a bindery in the basement. Beautiful work, isn’t it?”

  “The binding or the bomb?” Holmes queried.

  “Take your pick.”

  “Odd that he would stamp his name on an instrument of murder,” Holmes observed.

  “I think he probably bound the books first, then decided to use them to house the bomb. In any case, his name on the spine would not have survived a detonation.”

  “Was he working alone, do you think?”

  “The man is a spy for the Russians, and he’s working with half their London embassy,” Stone replied.

  “And how did you come to know this?” Holmes asked.

  Stone reached into a bedside drawer and found one of his new business cards.

  Holmes digested the information thereon. “I see,” he said, though he clearly didn’t.

  “I’ve been a consultant for them for a number of years,” Stone said, “but recently I’ve been sort of promoted.”

  “And the Russians knew about this?”

  “It’s public knowledge,” Stone said, “though it hasn’t been formally announced. I think the Agency thought that those who needed to know would find out in the normal course of events.”

  Felicity and Rose appeared in the doorway, back in their dinner dresses.

  “Also, I think they may have been trying for both of us,” Stone said. “Dame Felicity, Chief Inspector Holmes of the Hampshire police. And this is Dr. Rose McGill, of St. George’s Hospital, London.”

  Holmes shook their hands, but said little. It was obvious that the policeman was putting together one plus two and forming an opinion about why the bombs were under the bed.