Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Stone, I believe you said there was a poisoning afoot. The officer standing behind Dame Felicity is Sergeant Pepper, no relation, and he is our resident expert on lethal substances.”

  “Come with me,” Stone replied. He led the officers downstairs to the kitchen and found the Château Palmer ’61 on a corner counter, beside it a folded towel. He shook the towel, and the cork containing the needle and the top of the capsule fell out.

  Sergeant Pepper pulled on latex gloves, picked up the suspect cork, and sniffed it, then he removed the new cork from the bottle, swirled the wine in it, and sniffed again. “As far as I can tell without an actual chemical analysis, the only thing wrong with this wine, apart from being corky, is that someone has injected a substance into it and, in the bargain, broken off his hypodermic needle. I observe that, perhaps, half a glass of wine is missing from the bottle. I sincerely hope that no one drank it.”

  “It was decanted and the lees thrown away,” Stone said.

  “It’s troubling that I cannot smell any foreign substance in the wine,” he said.

  “Sergeant Pepper,” Holmes said, “is famous for his nose, which can identify hundreds of aromas.”

  “I’ve been offered a job in a distillery, blending whiskys,” Pepper said with a touch of pride. “As I’m sure you know, blenders do not taste their product, but smell it. Tasting would render the palate incapable of discerning differences in whiskys.”

  “Ah,” Stone said, as if he knew what the man was talking about.

  “I will take charge of this bottle and its contents and the damaged cork and needle,” Pepper said, “and I will order a proper analysis done.”

  “How long will that take?” Holmes asked.

  “If it’s an easy poison to identify, we’ll know in a day or two. Something more exotic could take a week or, perhaps, weeks. That will probably be the case, given that the Russians are involved.”

  “Well,” Holmes said, “I believe we have some arrests to make, so we’d better get started.”

  “Chief Inspector,” Stone said, “you might consult Dame Felicity before you start collaring people. Most, if not all, of the suspects will have diplomatic immunity. Perhaps Mr. Thomas may not, and I should think he would be quite a catch. May I suggest that you have the appropriate officers in London pick him up as soon as possible? His bomber may not have told him yet of his failure here.”

  “Good suggestion,” Holmes said. “I’d better go and find the good lady.” He left the kitchen.

  * * *

  —

  Roger Fife-Simpson watched from the woods across the road as other vehicles arrived at the house. He was trapped where he was until all this quieted down and he could escape in the van.

  * * *

  —

  Stone found Chief Inspector Holmes in the library, chatting with Dame Felicity. “May I join you?” he asked, pulling up a chair.

  “Of course,” Holmes replied. “Do you have any other suggestions for our investigation? You’re doing very nicely so far.”

  “I think it might be a good idea to search the woods on both sides of the road from Beaulieu. The culprit may have hidden there and been trapped by the arriving police.”

  “Stone,” Holmes said, “may I offer you an inspector’s commission with the Hampshire police? We could use you.”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector,” Stone said, “but I am otherwise engaged.”

  “Of course. Tell me, have you seen any strangers about the house today?”

  Stone thought about it. “Yes,” he replied. “A man from British Gas was here—to read the meter, I suppose.”

  Holmes frowned. “I don’t think gas has reached this far south, yet.”

  Stone’s face fell. “Oh, God, I forgot. We have two large propane tanks out back that are periodically filled by a local supplier. You’re right, we don’t have a gas meter.”

  “I think my people should have a look around the neighborhood then,” the chief inspector said. He excused himself and left the room.

  * * *

  —

  Gradually, the police drifted from the house, and Stone was once again alone with Felicity and Rose.

  He gave them each a kiss. “Where were we?” he asked.

  61

  Roger Fife-Simpson could hear people on foot nearby now. He abandoned the van and melted into the woods. Then it occurred to him that the safest place for him might be near the house, since the police had, apparently, completed their search there.

  * * *

  —

  Stone had reached the second floor, right behind Felicity and Rose, who had begun to unzip things, when his phone rang. “Yes?”

  “Stone, it’s Holmes.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector?”

  “My people have found a van in the woods across the road from your house, which shows signs of having had something stuck to it. There’s also been a small fire, where something cotton was burned. It occurs to me that our man may still be around and that you should be on your guard.”

  “Thank you, I’ll have a look around,” Stone said. He fetched his shotgun. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Felicity and Rose. “I have to take a walk around the house.”

  “It’s all right, darling,” Felicity said, “we’ll still be here when you get back. May we start without you?”

  “Of course,” Stone said with a sigh. He got out of his dinner jacket and black tie and into a barn coat. Then he dropped a flashlight into a pocket and held the shotgun crooked in his arm as he trotted down the stairs and down the hall to the kitchen—the door of which was still open—then out into the garden. Some fruit trees stood in rows on one side of the vegetable garden, providing cover for an intruder. He checked the shotgun, found it still loaded, and began walking toward the little orchard. He could hear the voices of policemen and the barks of dogs from across the road.

  He walked to the end of each row of trees and looked down the furrows, finding nothing, then he turned back to check the other side of the garden. Someone could hide by lying on the ground between rows of plants. Nothing.

  He walked over to the stables; the grooms were long in their beds, but the horses snuffled as they became aware of his arrival. There was a loud noise from down the row of stalls, as if someone had knocked something over. He checked each stall carefully, playing his flashlight around the corners, as he moved down the row.

  He checked the tack room and found everything neat and undisturbed, then he started back toward the main stable door, moving past some stacked bales of hay and straw. He heard something like a foot scraping the concrete floor and turned to look behind him. As he did, a pitchfork flew past him and impaled itself in a bale of hay. Before he could move, the shotgun was knocked from his hands.

  “Now,” a voice to one side of him said. He turned again to find a man dressed in black and wearing a black mask, standing in something like a combat position. Why hasn’t he shot me? Stone asked himself. Then he saw that the man had other plans: he was holding something in his hand. Then Stone heard the release and snap of a switchblade opening.

  There was something familiar about the figure. “Hello, Roger,” he said.

  “Good evening,” Roger replied, ripping off his mask and casting it aside. “I’ve longed for this moment.” He lunged at Stone’s ribs.

  Stone sidestepped, took hold of the pitchfork handle, and wrenched it from the bale of hay. He liked his chances better now, but as he turned, something sharp raked across his back, bringing a short cry of pain.

  “First blood,” Roger said. “More to come.”

  Stone stabbed at him with the pitchfork but came up short. Roger grabbed a tine and yanked the tool from his hand.

  Stone backed away, looking for another weapon or a place to hide, and the blade swished past his head, the tip slicing his cheek.
Now he was bleeding on both sides of his body. He tried to remember what he had been told about defense from a knife at the police academy all those years ago. Step into the swing of the blade, not away from it. He tried that, holding up his left arm in defense, and felt a hot cut as the blade went through his canvas jacket and caught his forearm. He was losing this fight.

  He remembered something else from some forgotten weapons instruction. He snatched the SureFire flashlight from his pocket, held it in his fist, and pointed it at Fife-Simpson, pressing the On switch with his thumb.

  Roger’s eyes were open when the incredibly bright beam hit him, and he staggered backward, momentarily blinded.

  Stone went for the pitchfork on the floor between them and got a grip on it with his weakened left hand. He wasn’t giving up the flashlight, though; he slipped it back into his jacket pocket and got both hands on the pitchfork’s handle. He thrust at the man’s chest, but the tines didn’t have the desired effect. Roger was wearing some sort of ballistic garment, Stone decided. Stone’s thrust had knocked him to one knee, though, and the next thrust was at his face.

  Roger jerked his head aside in time, but a tine caught his ear, causing him to scream and back away. He came to a stop against a bale of hay, blood streaming down his neck.

  Stone thought he had one more good thrust left in him before he bled out, and he drew back with his right, prepared to throw the thing at the man’s head.

  “No!” Roger shouted, then threw away the knife.

  Stone heard it clatter across the concrete floor.

  “No more!”

  Stone’s foot kicked something, and he knew what it was. Keeping the pitchfork aimed at its target, he bent down and scooped up his shotgun. He dropped the pitchfork, pointed the shotgun upward, and pulled the trigger. The blast nearly deafened him, and Roger slipped down the side of a bale of hay onto the floor.

  “One more round left,” Stone said, pointing it at him.

  “You can’t,” Roger said. “That would be murder.”

  “I suppose it would be,” Stone said, aiming at his head.

  Then a light hit him, and a voice yelled, “Drop the shotgun! Hands up!”

  Stone froze, then slowly bent and laid the fine weapon on the floor. “I’m Barrington!” he yelled. “And I’m fucking bleeding to death!” He sank onto the floor and leaned against a hay bale.

  “It’s Barrington!” someone shouted. “Don’t fire! Medic, medic!”

  Then Stone passed out.

  He woke on a stretcher in an ambulance van, half naked, held in position on his side by a policeman, while an EMT attended to his back.

  “He’s conscious,” someone said.

  “I’m a surgeon,” a female voice said. “I’ll deal with this.”

  Then Stone passed out again.

  62

  Stone slowly came awake in a sun-filled room. A beeping noise from his left side told him he was in a hospital room and that he was hooked up to machinery. He moved his arm and found that he had an IV running, too. The room was devoid of other people.

  Then, as if on cue, Rose entered the room, wearing surgical scrubs, followed by Felicity, similarly clad. Apparently, dinner dresses were not de rigueur on this ward, and they had changed into whatever was available. “You’re alive!” Rose said, kissing him on the forehead.

  “Have I had a close call?” Stone asked, and found his mouth dry.

  “Not for a minute,” she replied. “You were lucky enough to encounter a qualified surgeon in the ambulance that brought you here—that was me—and both Felicity and I have the same blood type as you, so we insisted on contributing. We thought blood with a little fine wine and brandy in it would be best.”

  Felicity came over, too. She kissed him on the ear and let her tongue flick inside for a moment. “Don’t worry, my dear,” she said, “no injury below the navel.”

  Rose gave him a cup of water with a glass straw, and he sucked some of the water down.

  “Where are we?” Stone asked.

  “Salisbury, the nearest hospital to your house with a trauma center,” Rose replied.

  “And it is, by your reckoning,” Felicity said, “the day after tomorrow, or rather, the day after yesterday.”

  “I’ve been out for that long?”

  “Yes,” Rose replied. “We thought it best that you became accustomed to having blood in your veins again while resting.”

  “When do I get out?”

  “Oh, come on, you don’t feel like getting out, do you?”

  “No, I guess I don’t,” he replied.

  “Perhaps tomorrow, if you’re more confident.”

  “What was the result of the events last night? I mean, the other night.”

  “There are those here who can better explain that than we can,” she said. “We’ll leave you to their company.” She and Felicity left the room and were immediately replaced by Chief Inspector Holmes.

  “How are you feeling, old boy?” the policeman asked.

  “Drained,” Stone replied. “Is Fife-Simpson in custody?”

  “All in good time,” Holmes said. “I wanted to tell you about the results of the testing of your very fine Château Palmer ’61.”

  “It was poisoned, wasn’t it?”

  “No . . . well, yes. That is to say that the initial testing revealed nothing but wine in the bottle.”

  “But the broken needle in the cork?”

  “I said they detected nothing in the initial test, but then, just when someone at the morgue had produced glasses, for drinking it, someone else had the idea of giving a drop or two to a lab rat.”

  “And?”

  “He pronounced it a fine, full-bodied claret with an excellent nose and a clean finish. Then he rolled over and died.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of poisoning, but we still have no idea what poison. The Soviets—pardon, the Russians—have skills in that department that, momentarily anyway, exceed our ability to detect them.”

  “You didn’t answer my question about Fife-Simpson; is he in custody?”

  Holmes frowned. “Not exactly. He was taken to our local shop and when his pockets were emptied, one of them produced a Russian diplomatic passport with his photograph affixed, and the name Sergei Ivanovich Ostrovsky on it. After consultation with Foreign Office officials, two Russian gentlemen appeared and walked him out of the building, not to be seen again, so far. We believe him to be at the Russian embassy, up to his arse in Beluga and Stoli.”

  “That’s very disappointing.”

  “Oh, I expect that MI-5 will be watching the place like hawks. If he leaves they will scoop him up.”

  “What about Wilfred Thomas?”

  “You have another visitor who can tell you more about that. I’ll see you when I have other news.” He patted Stone on the knee and left the room.

  Lance Cabot quickly replaced Holmes. He dragged a chair up to Stone’s bed and sat down. “Congratulations on still being alive,” he said, “though not for want of the Russians trying to kill you.”

  “I hear Roger skated because of the diplomatic passport we saw on your video of the party at the Russian embassy.”

  “Not just Roger, but also his wife, Jennifer Sands, but I think you may regard their escape as temporary.”

  “What about Wilfred Thomas, whose dictionaries are so nicely bound?”

  “Vanished,” Lance replied. “Minutes, perhaps seconds, before our people reached his shop. They did find a treasure trove of bomb-making equipment, along with a fountain pen and an umbrella that shoot poison, and an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid that we suspect might be what was in the wine. It’s being tested as we speak, and the search is on for the earl. His diplomatic passport might work with the police, but not with MI-5.”

  “Isn’t he at the embassy with his colleagues?”r />
  “Oddly, no. At least, we haven’t detected his image or voice at the embassy with our equipment, which is still operating. Apparently, from what we’ve gleaned from their conversations, they are waiting for the earl, known in spy circles as Alex, to accomplish some deed or other, then shelter with them until transport out of the country has been arranged.”

  “What sort of deed?”

  “I’m afraid we have no clue, though we’re not ruling out another go at your person. Not to worry, measures have been taken.”

  “When did you arrive in England?”

  “Yesterday. They told me you were still alive, but I wanted to see for myself.”

  “I promise not to die without telling you first,” Stone said.

  “You’re still looking a bit peaked,” Lance said, “so I’ll leave you to a nap or two. As soon as you’re out we’ll have a good lunch somewhere and chat about some things.”

  “Thanks, Lance, I’ll see you then.” Stone closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

  63

  Stone awoke the following day feeling much more himself, which condition, he felt, was mostly due to the ministrations of Rose and Felicity late in the previous evening.

  A nurse came in with a breakfast tray of scrambled eggs, toast, and sage sausages, which he wolfed down. She came back for the tray.

  “Looks like you’re getting the boot this morning,” she said. “One of the ladies brought you some clothes, and I’ve hung them in your closet. The doctor will be in shortly to approve your discharge, and someone from administration will have your release documents to sign, then you’re out of here.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Stone said.

  “I doubt that,” she said, “given the attentions you got from others overnight.”

  “You’re a Peeping Tom,” he said.

  “No, there just happens to be a camera over there,” she said, pointing to a high corner of the room. “Dame Felicity had someone in this morning to erase the tape.”