by Stuart Woods
“Thank you.” Calhoun hung up and went back to the kitchen, where Cheree was putting their breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. “We’re on for eight AM tomorrow,” he said.
“How long is the flight?”
“Two legs, about four hours each, plus one fuel stop.”
“Why can’t we go nonstop?”
“Because we’d need a Gulfstream 550. We’ve got a very nice new airplane called a Latitude, and it’s half the money. That’s good motivation for a fuel stop.”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t sound very happy about this.”
“What, about fleeing the country ahead of the cops?”
“We’re not fleeing the country ahead of the cops. We’re not about to be arrested.”
“That’s not what the News said this morning.”
“Fuck the News,” he said angrily. “What do they know?”
“The charter company has to report our names to the Feds. What if they stop us?”
“We’re using different passports, a couple of people who work for me, who look enough like us for their photographs to work. They were chosen for the resemblance.”
“And what is the apartment like?”
“You’re going to love it. I bought the place right after the Olympics at a great price. Seven rooms and a view of Rio that won’t quit.”
“Does it have furniture?”
“Completely furnished by the best decorator in Brazil, and there’s a Mercedes in the garage.”
Cheree sighed. “Well, I guess it’ll have to do.”
53
Stone and Susan lay in bed, panting and sweating. It was shortly after dawn, and that is very early at the latitude at which Britain exists. She had waked him and quite easily seduced him.
“That was marvelous,” Susan said.
“Bit of British overstatement?”
She laughed. “Take your compliments where you find them, sir.”
“Thank you very much. Just for comparison’s sake, I thought it was bloody marvelous—from my point of view.”
“And thank you very much.”
“You’re very welcome.”
She sighed. “I wish this could go on and on, but it can’t. And it’s all your fault.”
Stone turned toward her. “There were two statements in that sentence, and I didn’t understand either of them.”
“It can’t go on, because I’ve gotten so fucking busy,” she said. “I’ve gotten to the point where I can hand over Curtis House to one of my new deputies, albeit with qualms, and now I have to go and make some sense of what’s happening in London, and that’s the part that’s all your fault.”
“Busy, I understand. I can work with that, but what’s all my fault?”
“Busy is all your fault. You’ve given me so much good business advice that my workload has increased markedly. Before, when I was just a successful interior designer, I could do pretty much as I pleased with my day. Now, suddenly, I’m a design tycoon, and I have to drive back to London at the crack of dawn and learn to delegate authority, something I’m entirely unaccustomed to and very uncomfortable with.”
“Delegating authority was supposed to give you more free time.”
“And maybe it will, once I learn to do it. Just look at the Curtis House project. I have this wonderful opportunity—one that you engineered—to have my work on movie screens all over the world, and just when I’m at the point where I can start to enjoy it, I have to hand it over to somebody I hardly know and go back to London so I can begin doing it all over again. What I keep asking myself is, how does Ralph Lauren do it?”
“By delegating authority, I should think.”
“There’s that expression again! I’m learning to hate it!”
“Embrace it. It will give you time to embrace me.”
“Oh, I’ll have to delegate someone to do that, while I embrace a new client or a new project.”
“Oh. Whom did you have in mind for the task?”
She pummeled his shoulder with her fists. “Dammit, I don’t want to delegate you, just as I don’t want to delegate anything else. I’d rather do everything myself, including you.”
“You’ll wear yourself out doing that.”
“Yes, but it would be such fun. The only fun I have now is watching my bank balance—and my debt—climb.”
“Don’t worry, your bank balance will outrun your debt.”
“I know it will, and so does my bank manager. He used to be just a nice man who occasionally gave me an overdraft. Now he’s turned into a fawning, drooling sycophant who can’t do enough for me and wants to take me to lunch!”
“Well, that’s the kind of bank manager to have, isn’t it?”
“I suppose I’ll just have to get used to it,” she said.
“That’s the way to handle it.”
“I went through my appointment book last night, and I don’t have a single hour free for the next twelve days. It’s all taken up with appointments with new clients and new projects and new assistants, and I have the feeling that when the twelve days are up I’ll be faced with twelve weeks without an hour for myself or you. My analyst is worried for me.”
“You have an analyst?”
“I do now!”
“You don’t seem like the type to need an analyst.”
“I didn’t used to need an analyst, but now I need a shoulder to cry on. That’s all she’s for, really—she never gives me any useful advice. She just says thing like, ‘Go somewhere for a holiday,’ and I don’t have time for a holiday.”
“Then blow the whole thing,” Stone said. “Sell your business and come live with me.”
“But I love my business,” she wailed. “I love you, too, of course, but now I have to choose between you and my wonderful new business, and I’m choosing the business!”
“You are?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last ten minutes. You, sir, are toast, and I can’t do a thing about it. I’m a complete captive of my own success, and that, of course, is all your fault!”
“Oh, we’re back to that?”
“We are. You are the victim of your own success in advising me. You are the architect of your own dumping.”
Stone rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “This is such a nice ceiling,” he said. “I love what you’ve done with it.”
“Everybody loves what I’ve done with everything! That is my cross to bear.” She got out of bed and began throwing things into a suitcase. “And now I have to go back to London and bear it.” She came over to the bed, sat down, and gave him a big, wet kiss. “Goodbye, you lovely man, and thank you for this fresh, new hell.” Then she grabbed her suitcase and walked out of the room.
Stone continued staring at the ceiling. “What have I done?” he asked himself.
54
Billy sat on the steps of the hermitage, huddled inside his coat against the chill of the English dawn. It was time to greet his stalker.
He picked up the deer rifle, worked the bolt to pump a round into the chamber, set the safety, tucked it under an arm, and began walking, watching his footsteps carefully to avoid the crunch of a twig or some other noise that might announce his presence sooner than he wished it to be known. He had timed it better than he had thought.
As he reached the edge of the wood, just short of the stone wall along the road, he heard from a distance the crunch of tire on gravel as the bicycle rounded the bend in the road. It was, perhaps, fifty yards away. He melted back into the trees and concealed himself, maintaining a view of the wall, remembering the spot of green paint on the stones. Billy pulled up his muffler to cover his mouth and nose, as his breath turned to mist as it was exhaled. The bicyclist was making mist as he approached.
Billy’s first impression had been right. He was big, over
six feet, thickset, especially at the shoulders and neck. He might have been a linebacker in his youth. The man lifted his bicycle over the wall, then put both his hands on top of the stone and vaulted over it, landing well.
Billy stepped out of the trees, the rifle at the ready. “Good morning,” he said.
The man froze in his tracks, his arms at his sides. Whatever weapon he carried was not instantly available to him, as he was wearing a buttoned-up tweed coat. “What?” he said.
“I’m going to offer you two choices,” Billy said.
The man said nothing, simply stared at him.
Billy knew his mind was racing, looking for survival.
“Relax,” he said. “There is no way out. Get used to that.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of here alive, except by the means I propose.”
“What are you proposing?”
“First, I’m going to ask you some questions, which you must answer truthfully. I already know the answers to some of them, enough so that if you lie, I’ll know. Lying will be fatal. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.
“Is the rifle in a case in your saddlebags?”
“Yes.”
“With one hand, remove the case and throw it a few feet in my direction. Do it carefully.”
The man complied. The aluminum case landed with a soft thud near Billy’s feet.
“Good. Now lean against the wall and try to relax. Keep your hands away from your pockets.”
He leaned against the wall and folded his hands in front of him.
“Now the questions: What is your name?”
“Al.”
“Surname?”
“Greenberg.”
“Where do you live, Al?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Do you have a front?”
“I have a pawnshop and gun business. This work is a sideline.”
“Who hired you? I warn you, this is one of the questions I know the answer to.”
“A man named Calhoun.”
“Correct answer. Now, here’s your first choice: you may return to your hotel, pack your bags, then get out of Beaulieu and the country. Lots of flights to the States around midday—be on one of them. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s the alternative.”
“I know the alternative.”
“Let me spell it out for you, so there’s no room for misunderstanding: the alternative is for you to die before you hit the ground.”
“I understand that.”
“How much is Calhoun paying you?”
“Fifty grand.”
“How much up front?”
“All of it.”
“Good. That makes your next choice easier.”
“My next choice?”
“That happens when you return to L.A.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Calhoun is going to want his money’s worth or want it back.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Eventually, he’ll send somebody to get it.”
“I suppose.”
“You can keep the money, if you’re still willing to kill someone.”
Al frowned. “Who?”
“Why, Calhoun, of course.”
Al smiled a little. “Of course.”
“Now I’ll make you a promise: if Calhoun isn’t dead, say, a month from today, I’ll find you and kill you. Do you believe me?”
Al gulped. “Yes.”
“All right, now you can get back on your bicycle and start your journey. But first, leave the handgun.”
Al unbuttoned his coat and pulled it back to reveal the pistol in a shoulder holster. He extracted it with his thumb and forefinger and tossed it next to the rifle case.
“Goodbye,” Billy said. “Until we meet again—or not.”
Al nodded, picked up the bicycle, and set it down on the other side of the stone wall. Then he vaulted the wall, turned the bicycle around, hopped on it, and pedaled away. Just before he turned the first bend, he lifted a hand and gave a little wave. He didn’t look back.
Billy marked a month from today in his mental calendar, then picked up the weapons and walked back to Windward Hall, looking forward to a full English breakfast.
55
Stone came down for breakfast, feeling thick-headed and slightly off. He helped himself to bacon and eggs from the buffet and sat down. A moment later he was joined by Billy Barnett.
“Good morning,” Billy said. “Peter and Ben were up early, and they’ve already ridden over to Curtis House.”
Stone stared at him. “You let them . . .”
“Relax,” Billy said. “The threat has been removed.”
“How so?”
“Nonviolently. He’s headed for Heathrow as we speak.”
“You let him go free?”
“You asked me not to kill him. What was the alternative?”
“Well, I suppose . . .”
“Don’t worry, he won’t trouble you again. He’s even going to do a little favor for you.”
“What favor?”
“I’ll tell you when it happens.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“I know exactly who he is,” Billy said. “Alvin Greenberg Junior. His father was Al Senior, who is reputed, in certain circles, to be the assassin who removed Ben ‘Bugsy’ Siegel from the scene, some decades ago. He ran a gun shop, now run by Al Junior. Both father and son are said to be very good at their work.”
“If he’s so good, how did you stop him?”
Billy shrugged. “I got there first. The rest was easy. I just offered him an opportunity to continue his life by leaving the country and not bothering us again.”
“What would you have done if he hadn’t agreed?”
“Then, having made the threat, I would have had to kill him.”
“I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”
“So am I. It would have been messy.”
Stone changed the subject, then left the table.
Billy got up and went downstairs to find Major Bugg, who was working at his desk. “Good morning, Major.” Billy sat down across from him.
“What can I do for you this morning?”
“Just some information, please. Have you recently employed anyone new to work in the household?”
“Yes, I employed a young woman from the village to help with the housekeeping.”
“Just the one?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know her beforehand?”
“I knew her father—still do.”
“Is he a military man?”
“Was. He’s retired and owns a construction business. He did some of the work on the remodeling of this house.”
“Would he be the sort who would maintain his military connections?”
“Oh, yes, he goes to all the reunions, has a lot of friends on Salisbury Plain.”
“May I have his name and address?”
Bugg gave it to him. “May I ask what this is about?”
“I believe his daughter may have provided information about what goes on here to someone who meant us harm.”
“I am shocked to hear that,” Bugg said, and he truly looked it. “What should I do about it?”
“Just don’t employ him again, and discharge the daughter. She’ll know why. Leave the rest to me.”
“I’ll speak to her immediately.”
“No, give it an hour or so.”
“As you wish.”
Billy thanked him and left his office. He got into his rental car and tapped the address into the GPS, then drove into town. He found the man’s building yard, then took a shopping bag from the boot an
d went to his office, where he found the ex-officer working at his desk.
The man looked up. “Can I help you?”
Billy sat down across from him. “I’ve come to tell you that your attempt to help an assassin has failed.”
The man didn’t blink. “And you are . . . ?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Billy took the gun case and the pistol from the shopping bag and placed them on the man’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“You know very well what it is. I thought you’d like the opportunity to return these things to the armory from which you borrowed them.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do,” Billy said, rising. “I’m going to let matters rest as they are, but you will no longer receive contracts from Windward Hall or Curtis House, and your daughter is being discharged as we speak.”
The man looked surprised for the first time.
“We won’t have a problem in the future, will we?”
“Ah . . .”
“Say it.”
“No, you won’t have a problem with me or my daughter in the future.”
“Good. That way you will both avoid unpleasant consequences.” Billy walked out of the building, closing the door behind him, then drove back to Windward Hall.
56
Al made a noon flight from Heathrow to Los Angeles and managed a first-class seat. He accepted two mimosas from the flight attendant before takeoff, and as soon as they were at cruise altitude, had the first of a series of Gentleman Jacks. The bourbon went to all the right places, and he did his best to keep it there.
After the meal and a couple of glasses of wine he managed to fall into a deep sleep, not regaining full consciousness until the landing gear lowered with a jerk. He collected his luggage in a fog of hangover, made it through customs and immigration without fuss, and got a cab home. By the time he had let himself into the apartment above the store and tossed down some hair of the dog, his attention was fully focused on the problem of Dr. Don Beverly Calhoun. He regarded the man as the source of his trouble and humiliation in England.
