by Stuart Woods
“Good morning,” Stone struggled to say.
“You sound hungover.”
“It’s jet lag.”
“No, you’re hungover, I can tell. You always sounded this way when you were hungover.” She had him at the disadvantage of knowing him well.
“All right, I’m hungover.”
“And how did this happen?”
“How do you think it happened? The usual way.”
“And in whose company?”
“A business associate’s—not a woman—and at the Garrick Club. And don’t start coming over all jealous.”
“I am jealous, but the Garrick is my favorite London men’s club, so I’ll forgive you.”
Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”
“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”
Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”
“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”
“Do I need a dinner jacket?”
“Always a good idea at an English country house.”
“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”
“Of course you will.” She hung up.
Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”
Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”
“Perfect; see you then.”
Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.
“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”
“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”
“Know much about him?”
“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”
“Oh.”
“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.
Stone nodded.
“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”
Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.
“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”
“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.
“Get in!”
The doorman held the door open for him.
“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.
Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.
Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.
“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.
“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”
“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s very fast.” She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.
Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.
“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”
“Port.”
“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”
“All too easily.”
“And who was your host?”
“A man named . . . Bartholomew.” He still didn’t feel comfortable calling him Hedger.
“English or American?”
“American, but an anglophile.”
“Thus, the port.”
“Yes.”
“How did you like the Garrick?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“They’re just about the last of the old London clubs that still bar women from membership,” she said. “I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male membership.”
“Hmmpf,” Stone said. He was drifting off.
He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He looked out the windshield to see the narrow road ahead filled with sheep. One came up to his window and briefly pressed its nose against the glass, and it was eye to eye with him. “Where are we?” he asked.
“In the middle of a flock of sheep,” Sarah replied. “They have the right of way in the country.”
“I mean, where are we?”
“Halfway there. You hungry?”
Oddly, he was. “Yes.”
“There’s a pub round the bend; we’ll have a ploughman’s lunch.” She drove on when the sheep had passed, then turned into a picturesque country pub. They went inside, picked up their lunch—bread, cheese, and sausage, and a pint of bitter each, then made their way into a rear garden and sat down.
Stone drank deeply from the pint. “There, that’s better,” he said.
“The bitter will set you right,” Sarah said.
“That’s the second time today I’ve been told that.”
“And we were both right, no?”
“Yes, you both were. What do you know about Lance Cabot?”
“I told you already—not much.”
“Remember everything you can. Anything ever strike you as odd about him?”
“Only that he seems to fit in awfully well with English people. People I know don’t even seem to regard him as a foreigner.”
“Have you ever seen him with anyone you didn’t know?”
She thought. “Once, in a London restaurant, I saw him across the room, dining with a couple—man and woman—who looked foreign.”
“What kind of foreign?”
“Mediterranean.”
“That’s a big area.”
“Turkish or Israeli, perhaps.”
“Describe them.”
“About his age, well dressed, attractive—the woman, particularly. She was quite beautiful, in fact.”
“Could you hear them talking?”
“No, but they didn’t seem to be speaking English. I couldn’t read their lips, and I’m quite good at that, even from a distance. I don’t know if I told you, but as a child I had some sort of flu or virus that resulted in a sharp hearing loss. My hearing came back after a few months, but during that time I became adept at reading lips. Most people couldn’t tell I was hard of hearing.”
Stone nodded in the direction of a young couple sitting on the opposite side of the garden. “Tell me what they’re talking about.”
Sarah squinted in their direction for a moment, then giggled. “She’s lying to him,” she said.
“How?”
“She’s saying they were just friends, that they never slept together, and he believes her, but she’s lying.”<
br />
“How do you know?”
“I can just tell.”
“You’re a woman of many talents,” he said.
“I thought you already knew that.”
“I had forgotten how many.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m going to remind you.”
25
THEY DRESSED FOR DINNER AND DINED in a smaller room than last time, at a round table, the heavy curtains drawn to shut out the night, in the English fashion. Stone didn’t understand why the Brits did that; he enjoyed the long summer twilights.
The talk ranged through politics, sport, and the relationship between the English and the Americans. Stone noticed that Lord and Lady Wight, during this part of the conversation, seemed to feel that Lance was on their side of things, while Stone and Erica occupied the other. It was as Sarah had said; the Brits were very comfortable with Lance, considering him one of their own. Stone couldn’t figure out why.
Port was served with Stilton at the end of the meal, and Stone sipped warily from his glass, his hangover having only just disappeared. At some invisible signal, the ladies rose and left the room. Stone nearly went with them, but Lance signaled him to stay.
“Over here, the ladies go somewhere, and the gentlemen stick around for cigars,” Lance explained, lighting something Cuban.
Stone despised cigars—smoking them or smelling somebody else smoking them.
Wight did not light a cigar, but sniffed at Lance’s. “My doctor has taken me off them,” he said. “Bloody cruel, if you ask me.” He looked at a pocket watch from his waistcoat. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m turning in early. My respects to the ladies.” He got up and left.
They sat quietly for a moment, Stone playing with his port, Lance puffing his cigar and staring at the windows, as if he could see through the thick drapes and out into the night.
“You asked me a strange question the other day,” he said finally. “I’d like to know why.”
“About Hedger?”
Lance nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I have a lot to tell you about that,” Stone said.
Lance waved the cigar, as if motioning him onward.
“Last week a man showed up in my office, recommended by Woodman and Weld, and introduced himself as John Bartholomew.”
Lance shot him a glance.
“I take it you understand the significance of that name,” Stone said.
Lance shrugged slightly.
“He told me that he was concerned about his favorite niece—his dead sister’s child—that she had run off to England with someone of whom he suspected evil things. He retained me to come over here and see if I could disentangle the girl from the clutches of this ogre. Normally, I wouldn’t take on such an assignment, but he had passed muster with Woodman and Weld, and they had urged me to help him, so I came.”
“And how did he expect you to deal with this ogre?” Lance asked, blowing smoke in Stone’s direction.
Stone waved it off with his napkin. “I told him up front that I would not participate in harming him, and that I would not kidnap his niece. He said he would be content if I could get the ogre put into jail.”
Lance laughed, choking on his cigar smoke. “And how did he expect you to do that?” he was finally able to ask.
“He told me that you were supporting yourself by smuggling drugs into Britain—on your person, no less. I had a police contact; when I confirmed Bartholomew’s charges, I intended to put him onto you.”
“And now that you have been unable to confirm this information, what are your intentions?”
“I have none. I resigned from Bartholomew’s employ yesterday.”
“Oh? Why, pray tell?”
“I discovered that he had been lying to me.”
“And how did you do that?”
“I hired two former policemen—one to follow Bartholomew—”
“I imagine that came to naught,” Lance chuckled.
“Not entirely. My policeman had his pocket picked; that’s how I learned that his name is Stanford Hedger.”
“I don’t imagine Stan took kindly to that.”
“He did not. Some of his acquaintances put one of my policemen in the hospital.”
Lance nodded sagely. “Figures. What about the other one?”
“Oh, he was assigned to follow you; actually, the two of them took turns. I had your phones tapped, too.”
Lance turned and looked at Stone for the first time. “You what?”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t learn anything. The conversations were very boring. Except for one, that is.”
“And what was that about?”
“Apparently, someone wants something from you, and you don’t want to supply it. I believe you threatened to kill anyone who pressed the issue.”
Lance was obviously thinking back over that conversation. “No names were mentioned, as I recall.”
“That’s correct.”
“So, having left Stan’s employ, you’re back at square one?”
“No, square one was in New York, and now I’m in England and rather enjoying myself. I’m simply a tourist now; I returned Hedger’s expense money to him, having deducted a sum for the benefit of the injured policeman.”
“What else did Stan tell you about me?”
“He told me of your former, ah, business connection. He told me about the explosion in Cairo, in which, he believes, you were complicit.”
“Ungrateful bastard,” Lance said. “I saved his life, you know. I was about to walk into the building when it blew, knocking me down, and I dragged him out of the ruins, unconscious, and got him to a hospital.”
“Did you think he was dead?”
“That’s what I was told the following day. Then, last year, he turned up at a dinner party in Paris, where I was also a guest. Quite a surprise, I can tell you.”
“I can imagine. Why does Hedger want you in jail?”
“He doesn’t want me in jail; he wants me dead. It would be easy to arrange, of course, if he could get me into a jail; then he could hire somebody to put a shiv in my liver.”
“Why wouldn’t it be easy to make you dead?”
“Because I know too much about him, and he doesn’t know who else I’ve told. For all he knows, there’s a neat little manuscript tied up with red ribbon, waiting in a safe-deposit box at my bank.”
“Is there?”
“Too bloody right there is.”
“Then it’s ironic that he wants you dead for the very same reasons he can’t afford to kill you.”
Lance grinned broadly, the first time Stone had ever seen him do so. “I like the paradox,” he said.
“Tell me some of what you know—not enough for Hedger to want me dead, of course. How does he operate?”
“Oh, Stan manages to use his official connections to arrange unofficial profits for himself.”
“Funny, that’s what he said about you.”
“I use every connection at my disposal,” Lance said readily. “The difference is, I waited until I had left our mutual employer to use them, whereas Stan is still employed and using his contacts to the hilt. There are rules about that.”
“But if you haven’t already made his activities known to his employer, why would you now?”
“That’s what worries Stan, apparently. Personally, I don’t give a shit what he does to make a buck, as long as it doesn’t endanger my own prospects. What Stan fears is that, in competing with him in business, I might turn him in, to get him out of the way. He could end up in prison if I did, you know. At the very least, he’d be bounced out of his job, and without any pension or benefits. He’s only a few years away from retirement, and he wants all that, in addition to the illicit wealth he’s accumulated over the years.”
“These activities have made him rich, then?”
“Not rich enough for Stan’s liking,” Lance replied. “I think he wants to live like a potentate when he retires.”
“Is there th
at much to be made?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“How much do you know about Stan?”
“I’ve learned that he was something of a wild man in the Company, at least in his youth, and that at least some of his superiors didn’t trust him.”
“That’s accurate information,” Lance said, “as far as it goes.”
“It’s about all I know, so far,” Stone said.
“All right, I’ll tell you about Stan.”
Stone leaned forward, eager to learn.
26
LANCE CABOT GOT UP AND LED STONE into the library, then settled into a leather sofa, inviting Stone to join him.
“What about the ladies?” Stone asked.
“They’re in the drawing room nattering away,” Lance said. “If they want us, they’ll hunt us down.” He had brought the decanter with him, and he refreshed Stone’s port glass and his own.
Stone waited patiently for him to begin.
“Stanford Hedger got out of Yale in the early sixties,” he said, “and he went straight into the Company, having been recruited well before graduation by a professor who later recruited me. It was a good time to join up; he was just completing his training when the Cuban invasion came along—hadn’t had a posting yet, so he couldn’t be blamed for what happened at the Bay of Pigs. But a lot of his superiors were blamed, and a lot of them left the Company, leaving an unusual amount of room for early promotion. Stan was good at languages; he had French, Russian, German, and more than a smattering of Arabic. Later he came by Hebrew, which impressed the Israelis. He was still at the military language school in Monterey, California, when the Bay of Pigs invasion came to grief. It’s a wonderful school; they teach you things like perfect military German or Russian, the idea being that when they got ready to put somebody over a border, he’d blend in.
“Stan got put across what was then the East German border, dressed as a colonel—Stan looked a lot older than he was. He wrought havoc on the other side; he’d walk into a military command when the senior officer was out, flash some bogus orders signed by the Soviet commander, issue a lot of ridiculous orders, and it would take them days, sometimes weeks before they’d get everything straightened out again. He was one step ahead of them for three or four months, then, as they were closing in on him, he hit a West German worker on the head, stole his clothes, and rode back into West Berlin on the S-Bahn, the elevated railway that took several thousand essential workers back and forth to the East from the West every day. It was a bravura performance, almost entirely solo, and it brought him to the attention of the higher-ups—got him decorated, it did.”
