by Stuart Woods
“Shopping. I’ll drop you at a convenient spot on the way into town, say Harrods . . .”
“Harvey Nick’s,” she said.
“Harvey Nick’s. And I’ll pick you up on the way out of town. When I am headed that way, I will phone you. You will not phone me, got that?”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want my phone ringing while I’m hiding in a closet or in some other place, but I will not turn it off. You will not text me, either, because my phone makes a noise when receiving a text.”
“Gotcha,” she said. “Why . . .”
“You do not want to know the why of anything. Anything you buy, pay cash, and do not have a receipt issued in your own name. Make up a name, if you need it.”
“I assume I have also not been to London today?”
“An excellent assumption.”
“What was I doing, instead?”
“You remember our picnic lunch down by the airstrip?”
“Of course.”
“That was today, not yesterday. You may say that I kept you fully occupied for that time.”
“By ‘fully occupied,’ you mean . . .”
“Use your imagination. We may have frightened the horses.”
“I notice that you have booked the suite for two nights. Will we take advantage of that?”
“That remains to be seen. Now that you mention it, what you have in mind might make a good alibi, if we don’t have the linen changed.”
“A lot of fun, too. I’m still all rosy from last night.”
“And the night before, I expect.”
“Well, yes. I don’t often participate in that particular activity, but it certainly makes an interesting change.”
“I will not take that statement amiss.”
“Nor should you,” she said, kissing him on the ear.
“Fasten your seat belt,” Stone said. “We don’t want to start anything we can’t finish in the front seat of a Porsche.”
43
Stone dropped Tara at the Knightsbridge entrance to the Harvey Nichols store, then drove around Hyde Park Corner, up Piccadilly, down to Trafalgar Square, and into the Strand. He turned into the Savoy Hotel driveway and gave his car to a valet. As he got out of the Porsche, he was approached by a young man he didn’t know. Stone put his hand under his jacket, where his pistol lived.
“Easy. I’m Jeffers,” the young man said.
Stone relaxed.
Jeffers handed him an envelope. “Here are your key cards. You are registered under the names of Mr. and Mrs. John Withers, though I don’t see a Mrs. Withers here.”
“She’ll be along later,” Stone said.
“I’ll park myself in a little cubbyhole outside the Oscar Wilde suite. Shout out should you require assistance. I assume you have a firearm?”
“I do. A small 9mm.”
“Is it equipped for a silencer?”
“It will accept one, but I am not so equipped.”
Jeffers slipped something heavy into Stone’s coat pocket. “You may keep this. It has no identification marks.” He pressed a box into Stone’s hand. “This is a listening device, which can be held against a wall or door, amplifying sound from the other side. You may keep this, too. It is custom-made and carries no markings. There is also a paper surgical mask inside, which might come in useful for not being recognized.”
“Thank you, Jeffers.” Stone made his way into the hotel and down a ground-floor hallway to the end, where the Oscar Wilde suite lay. There was a do not disturb sign hanging on the doorknob. He went next door to the Gilbert & Sullivan suite, let himself in, and had a good look around. It was beautifully furnished and had two large windows in the living room, overlooking the River Thames, with a park in between.
Stone set down the box he had been given and the silencer beside it. He screwed the silencer into the barrel of the pistol; a perfect fit. He opened the box and found an unmarked black box. He flipped a switch on the side, held it to the door between the adjoining suites, and pressed his ear against the other side. He heard the sound of a man turning over in bed, and a sort of snort. The box did a beautiful job of amplifying.
Stone inspected his pistol to be sure it was loaded. He pumped one up the snout and switched on the safety. He listened again at the door and heard nothing. Slowly, he turned the lock on his side of the door, turned the knob, and pushed. The door opened an inch. He still heard nothing.
He opened the door enough to allow him to enter, closing it silently behind him. As an afterthought, he slipped on the surgical mask and adjusted it for easy breathing, then he slipped off his shoes and walked down a short hallway to an open door. He looked inside and saw an empty bed with the covers pushed back. There was no one in the room.
Then he heard a clearing of the throat, apparently coming from the open bathroom door on the other side of the bed. He walked around the bed, then peeked carefully into the bathroom. A man sat on the toilet facing him, his pajama bottoms around his ankles. Stone stepped around the doorjamb, the pistol held out in front of him, pointed at the man’s head. The man’s jaw dropped, but Stone remembered him from Caravaggio. It was Trafficante.
“Shut up and sit still,” Stone said to him.
Trafficante froze and held out his hands, as if to ward off an evil spirit.
“I believe I have you at a disadvantage,” Stone said. “My name is Barrington, and I believe that I have just demonstrated to you that I can find you anywhere in the world and kill you, if I so choose. Do you agree?”
Trafficante nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat again.
“First, I have some information for you,” Stone said. “My brief relationship with Hilda Ross had nothing to do with you. I did not know that you existed at the time. Now you are engaged in an insane attempt to murder me, apparently out of jealousy. Is that correct?”
Trafficante let his gaze drop, as if he didn’t want to answer.
“Would you like me to shoot you in the knee to gain your undivided attention?”
“No,” Trafficante said. “Please don’t do that.”
“If anyone, for any reason, makes an attempt to harm me, I am going to assume that he has been instructed by you, do you understand?”
Trafficante nodded. “Yes, I understand. You will have no further trouble from me.”
“I could doubt your word and shoot you in both knees now, just to prove that I can.”
“Please, don’t do that. I give you my word you will have no further trouble.”
“Good. Remember, I can find you anywhere and kill or cripple you at will.”
“I will remember.”
“Sit there for five minutes before you move again,” Stone said. He stepped out of the bathroom, walked across the bedroom, down the hall, and locked the door to the adjoining suite, then let himself out the front door and closed it behind him, turning over the card on the doorknob to read, service, please. It wouldn’t hurt Trafficante to have another unexpected visitor.
He let himself into the Gilbert & Sullivan suite, picked up the phone, and ordered lunch.
* * *
—
Stone had eaten his lunch and was having a nap on the bed when his cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“It’s Jeffers. Mr. T. has checked out of the hotel. The doorman tells me a car was waiting to take him to RAF Northam, a military base to the west of London that also accepts corporate aircraft. I have a man following him, and I will be in touch.”
“Excellent.”
“By the way, I don’t know what went on in there, but you apparently scared the shit out of him. He looked terrible.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Stone hung up.
* * *
—
Less than an hour later, the cell rang again. “Yes?”
&n
bsp; “It’s Jeffers. Mr. T. has boarded a corporate jet and has taken off. The pilot filed for Teterboro, New Jersey, flight time about seven hours. He has a bit of a headwind today.”
“Thank you once again, Mr. Jeffers. I shall let Dame Felicity know that your work was outstanding.”
“Thank you, sir, anytime.” Jeffers hung up.
* * *
—
Stone called Tara’s cell.
“Hello, there!”
“Are you all shopped out?”
“Not quite.”
“Dinner at the Savoy this evening?”
“Yes, please.”
“When you’re done, take a cab to the Savoy. We’re in the Gilbert & Sullivan suite. The subject of our interest has checked out and fled for New York.”
“Oh, good. Another hour?”
“Fine.” They both hung up.
44
They left the Savoy the following day at mid-morning, after reading a note from the front desk, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Withers, that their bill had already been settled. The trunk of the Porsche was filled with shopping bags, and the two rear seats—apparently intended for legless children—were jammed, too.
* * *
—
They had finished lunch at Windward Hall, and most of the group were napping, when Stone, sitting in the library, got a cell phone call. The caller ID read: Private. “Yes?”
“What did you do to him?” a female voice asked.
“What?”
“He got in around midnight and immediately beat the shit out of me. I’ll have to have a professional makeup artist in today so I can work my closing show tonight at the Carlyle. And I have to see a dentist to have a temporary crown installed to plug a gap.”
“Hilda,” Stone said, “you should start being more discriminating in your choice of male company.”
“It’s a little late for that,” she said. “He’s insanely possessive. He’ll never let me go.”
“If you want to run and hide, I’ll help.”
“Where are you?”
“I left London this morning, outward bound.”
“Still on the other side of the Atlantic?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Why are you being so cagey with me?”
“Because the last time I trusted you, I found your boyfriend on my tail. Do you blame me?”
She ignored that. “You said you could help me run. Run where?”
“I have a house in Maine with caretakers. The caretakers can make you comfortable.”
“How do I get there?”
“Rent a car. It’s an eight-hour drive and a ten-minute ferry ride.”
“Suppose he knows about that house?”
“If he thinks I’m there he won’t intrude, believe me. Our meeting yesterday frightened him badly.”
“And he took it out on me.”
“You have only yourself to blame.”
“Will you be going to Maine?”
“No. I’ll be occupied elsewhere.”
“You mean you’re fucking someone else.”
“So are you.”
“How long can I stay there?”
“Up to you. Stay until you feel safe going elsewhere.”
“I’m not a very good driver. I don’t like driving long distances.”
“I also have a house in Key West. There are nonstop flights. And the potatoes are too small there to attract goombahs.”
“Is it private?”
“Yes, and you need never leave the house. The housekeeper will see to your meals.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Figure it out.” Stone hung up.
Dino came into the library.
“No nap?”
“I couldn’t sleep, worrying about you.”
Stone laughed. “I’ll bet.”
“How did it go yesterday?”
“Let’s just say that Mr. Trafficante and I met yesterday and came to terms.”
“You reasoned with him? He doesn’t seem like that kind of guy.”
“I think it helped that I had a silenced pistol pointed at his head, which made him more reasonable. It didn’t hurt, either, that he was on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. I think that made him feel more vulnerable. Also, now he believes I can find him anywhere.”
“That’s good news.”
“Unfortunately, when he got home, he took it out on Hilda. She was on the phone a minute ago, complaining about being beaten up.”
“Why doesn’t she just get out?”
“She has one more performance at the Carlyle. After that, I’ve offered her either the Maine or the Key West house.”
“You didn’t offer her the L.A. place at the Arrington?”
“I don’t want her to get too comfortable; she might not want to leave.”
“Good point. Did she take you up on the offer?”
“She’ll think about it and let me know.”
As if on cue, Stone’s cell phone rang.
“Yes?”
“All right, Key West.”
Stone gave her the address. “Take a cab. I’ll let the housekeeper know you’re coming.”
“How will I amuse myself?”
“There are books and TV. If you get bored, there’s always autoeroticism. But I wouldn’t go looking for companionship; you might be spotted.”
“So I have to be imprisoned the whole time.”
“You can do whatever you damned well please,” Stone said, “but don’t get blood or brains on the furniture. Goodbye.” He hung up.
Dino was laughing. “I’ll bet she doesn’t get many invitations like that one.”
“I think we can safely return to New York now,” Stone said. “How about we have dinner at the Squadron tonight and take off around eleven tomorrow morning? That’ll get us home from Teterboro before rush hour.”
“Sounds good,” Dino said.
Viv and Tara came into the room. “What’s the plan?” Viv asked.
“Go back upstairs and change for a black-tie dinner; we’re dining at the Royal Yacht Squadron, departing our dock at five-thirty. Tomorrow, wheels up at eleven am for New York.”
“Is it safe now?”
“As safe as I know how to make it,” Stone replied. He called the Key West housekeeper, then Faith, explained their travel plans, then went upstairs to change for dinner.
* * *
—
At a little after six o’clock, Stone docked the boat at the little marina next to the Squadron, and they walked up to the castle. Stone gave Tara the tour, then they all sat down for drinks.
Stone was sipping from the supply of Knob Creek he had bestowed to the club, when his cell phone rang, ID: Private. He stepped out onto the terrace, where the view was of a group of yachts maneuvering for the start of a race.
“Yes?”
“It’s Hilda.”
“Now what?”
“Sal just called. He wants me to go to Florida with him tomorrow morning.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I thought you might have a suggestion,” she said.
“I do,” Stone replied. “Handle it.” He hung up and went back inside.
45
Stone asked Faith, on takeoff, to make a low, 360-degree turn over the estate, so they could have a last look at Windward Hall. Stone wanted that stamped on his frontal lobe until his next visit.
* * *
—
They set down at Teterboro in the early afternoon and were towed into the hangar before deplaning and transferring their luggage.
“Stone,” Tara said, “as fond as I’ve become of your living arrangements, I would like to stop by Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and spend a cou
ple of days confirming that my employees have not fled with the equipment and stock and that they are still printing money in the basement.”
“Take all the time you need,” Stone said. “I need a little time to recover my health before I see you again.”
“You’re sweet,” she said, kissing him.
* * *
—
Stone arrived at home and, since he didn’t have any luggage, except his briefcase, went straight upstairs. As he got off the elevator and started down the hallway to the master suite, he stopped in his tracks. Someone had left a light on in there. He knew it had not been he, nor did he believe the maids would have done that.
He unholstered his pistol and started down the hall. As he approached, he heard a noise, unidentified but of human origin, he was sure. He entered the bedroom slowly, his gun at the ready, and he was shaken to see Hilda Ross coming out of the dressing room. She jumped when she saw him with a gun.
“Where is he?” Stone said.
“Sal? Not here,” she said, bending to set down a train case, which involved revealing a lot of cleavage. “Nobody here but us chickens. Want to do something about that?”
Stone reckoned there were two choices: the first, to shoot her. He elected for the second option. She was out of her dress before he reached her. And before he could ask himself what the hell he was doing, they were doing it. No words were exchanged, just noises.
They explored much of the erotic repertoire. When they were done, lying there weak and panting, she said, “I hadn’t expected that.”
“Neither had I,” Stone said. “I had expected to be shooting Sal.”
“Don’t worry, he’s on his way to Florida.”
“Where were you on the way to, when you broke into my house?”
“You gave me a key, remember?”
“I do not.”
“And the alarm code.” She repeated it.
“Okay, I gave them both to you. What are your plans?”
“After I’ve fucked you at least once more, I’m going to the Carlyle and surrender to the makeup artist.” She smiled. “The tooth’s already done, see? Then I’m packing up and getting an early-morning flight to Key West. Care to come with me?”
