by Stuart Woods
“Poor fellow,” Stone said. They were past World’s End now, continuing down the King’s Road, past dozens of antique shops. A large, black car overtook Stone’s cab and drove on.
“Who’s in the other cab?” the cabbie asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“My wife’s boyfriend, I think,” Stone replied.
“Don’t you worry, guv, I won’t lose the bastard.”
Up ahead, Lance’s cab was signaling a left turn. The black car turned, too. It was starting to look familiar to Stone. Lance’s cab approached a large building that had probably once been a warehouse but now bore a large sign declaring it to be an antiques market. Down the block, Lance’s cab came to a halt, and its three occupants got out. The black car stopped half a block behind them.
“Stop here,” Stone said. The cabbie stopped. Stone watched as two large, swarthy men got out of the back of the limousine and followed Lance and his companions into the building.
“Is there another entrance to this place?” Stone asked.
“Just around the corner, there, in the King’s Road,” the cabbie said.
Stone got out of the cab and handed the driver a ten-pound note.
“Thanks, guv,” the driver said. “You want me to wait for you? Won’t be easy getting a cab in this weather.”
Stone handed him another tenner. “Wait ten pounds’ worth, and if I haven’t come back, forget it.”
“Righto, guv.”
Stone walked around the corner and into the building. The place was a warren of antique shops, some large and rambling, some no more than a yard or two wide. It was uncrowded, with only a few shoppers wandering about. He had to make an effort not to window-shop; he worked his way quickly through the building, looking for Lance, and then he saw him and his two friends turn a corner down a long corridor and walk toward him. Stone ducked into a shop and pretended to look at a piece of statuary. After a two-minute wait, when they hadn’t passed the shop, he looked down the corridor again; they had disappeared.
Must have gone into a shop, Stone thought. He made his way slowly down the corridor; then he saw a small sign, hung at right angles to a shopfront: A&S ANTIQUITIES—MIDDLE EASTERN SPECIALISTS. Ali and Sheila? Stone stopped and peered through a corner of a window. The woman was sitting at a desk writing on a pad. He could see the back of Lance’s head in a small office behind her. Stone wondered how long it would take for the two men to find them and what would happen when they did. It wouldn’t be good, he thought.
He stood back from the window and read the phone number painted on the shop window, then went back the way he had come. When he was at the King’s Road entrance, he called the number on his satellite phone.
“A&S Antiquities,” the woman’s voice said.
“Let me speak to Lance at once,” Stone said.
“I beg your pardon? There’s no one here by that name.”
“He’s in the back room with Ali, and this is an emergency. Put him on and quickly!”
“Yes?” Lance’s voice said, warily.
“It’s Stone Barrington. Two very large Middle Eastern gentlemen are in the building looking for you at this moment. I’ve met them before, and they are not friendly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“If I were you, I’d get out of there right now. I have a cab waiting at the corner, near the King’s Road entrance to the building. You don’t have much time.”
Lance’s voice could be heard, but muffled, as if his hand were over the receiver, then he came back on. “We’ll be right there,” he said.
Stone put the phone in his pocket and ran through the rain to the cab, not bothering with his umbrella.
“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.
“Just wait. We’re being joined by some other people.”
“Whatever you say, guv.”
A moment later, Lance and his two friends dived into the cab. “Get us out of here,” Lance said to the driver. He turned to Stone. “Now,” he said, “what’s going on?”
They drove past the black limousine. “You recognize that car?” Stone asked.
“No.”
“The two gentlemen I described were in it; they followed you from your house.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was on my way to see you when you came out of the house; they followed you, so I followed them.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I had a rather unpleasant encounter with them and some friends of theirs earlier today,” Stone said. “I wanted to spare you the same experience, or worse.”
“Who are they?”
“I had hoped you could tell me. The man they work for is bald, with a bullet-shaped head.”
“Does that sound familiar?” Lance asked Ali and Sheila.
Both shook their heads.
They had driven around the block and were now on the opposite side of the antiques market building. As they drove toward the King’s Road, a section of the building exploded outward, followed a split second later by a huge roar. The cabbie, without a word, executed a speedy U-turn.
“I believe that was your shop,” Stone said to Ali and Sheila.
Lance was suddenly on a cellphone, punching in a number and waiting impatiently for an answer. “Erica,” he said, “I want you to leave the house right this minute; go to Monica’s gallery; take nothing with you. Do you understand? I’ll explain later; just get out of there immediately!” He ended the call and turned to Stone. “Thank you,” he said.
“Not at all,” Stone replied. “But now perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”
31
LANCE STARED OUT THE CAB WINDOW at the rainy streets. He had not answered Stone’s request. “Tell me about your encounter with these people,” he said.
Stone related his tale of being abducted and interrogated. When he had finished, Lance still said nothing for a long moment. “Sounds like the Mossad to me.”
“We’ve got to get out of the country,” Ali said. “They just proved that to us.”
“No, not yet,” Lance replied, still looking out the window. Once Erica is out of the house, they won’t know where to find us.”
“Where are we going?” Sheila asked.
Lance opened the partition and gave the driver an address. “To Monica’s gallery; we’ll figure it out there.”
The gallery was in Dover Street, off New Bond Street; it was a wide building with a limestone front and had a single word, BURROUGHS, painted on the front window. Stone was impressed; he’d imagined something smaller.
“Can you wait for us?” Lance asked the cabbie.
“As long as you like, mate,” the cabbie replied. He lowered his voice. “The other bloke knows you’re having his wife off, you know; I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Stone heard this and laughed.
“What is he talking about?” Lance asked as they turned toward the gallery.
“I had to tell him something,” Stone said. They went inside.
Monica Burroughs was sitting at a desk in the large gallery, talking to Sarah Buckminster, who was seated next to her, looking at some slides. “Oh, hello,” she said, as Stone and Lance approached.
“Is Erica here?” Lance asked.
“No, is she supposed to be?”
Lance went to the window and looked out into the street.
Sarah came around the desk and pecked Stone on the cheek. “What’s up? Lance looks worried.”
“There’s been a little trouble,” Stone said. “Lance asked Erica to meet him here.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Lance was pacing up and down, checking outside often. He came to where Stone and Sarah stood. “I’m going to go and get her,” he said.
“Wait a few minutes,” Stone replied. “She’s probably on her way; she wouldn’t be there when you got there.”
As if to prove his point, Erica came through the front door, brea
thless. “I’m sorry to take so long; I couldn’t get a cab in this rain. What’s happening?” she asked Lance.
“We have to move, and right away,” Lance replied.
“Why?”
“There’s been . . . some trouble; I don’t want to go into it right now, but our house isn’t safe at the moment. We can go back later and pick up some things.”
Erica looked at Stone. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s best if you just do as Lance says for the moment,” Stone replied. “Lance, do you have anywhere to go?”
“I’m thinking,” Lance said. “I suppose we could find a small hotel somewhere.”
“James’s house,” Sarah said suddenly.
“What?” Lance asked.
“James’s house; there’s no one there but the housekeeper; there’s plenty of room for, what, the four of you?” She nodded toward Ali and Sheila.
“Are you sure that will be all right, Sarah?” Lance asked.
“Of course.” She began rummaging in her large handbag. “I’ve got the key here somewhere.” She came up with it, handed it to Lance, and gave him the address, in Chester Street.
“Thank you, Sarah,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Come on, everybody, let’s move.”
Stone walked out with them and gave the cabbie a fifty-pound note. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “Forget about all this, especially where you’re taking these people.”
“What people?” the driver asked. “Thanks, guv; good luck.” He handed Stone a card. “There’s my cellphone number, if you need me again.”
Lance slammed the door, and the cab took off. Stone went back inside the gallery.
“Now, will you tell me what happened?” Sarah asked.
“Lance’s friends Ali and Sheila have—had an antique shop in a market in the King’s Road. It was bombed a few minutes ago, and he’s concerned for their safety, and his own and Erica’s.”
Monica spoke up. “What has Lance gotten Erica into?”
“I don’t know the details,” Stone said. “I expect we’ll hear about it in due course, but they’ll be safe at James’s house, I’m sure.”
“Will the police be coming ’round?” Monica asked.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“That’s all I need, to have a lot of policemen crawling all over my gallery.”
“Monica, you are unconnected with all this,” Stone said. “In the extremely unlikely event that a policeman should drop by, just tell him everything you know, up to, but not including, the past ten minutes. You don’t know where Erica is, all right?”
“All right,” Monica said uncertainly.
“More likely than the police is that someone more . . . unofficial . . . might ask Erica’s and Lance’s whereabouts, and your answer should be the same. That’s very important.”
“All right,” Monica said. “And who would these unofficial people be?”
“Whoever bombed Ali and Sheila’s shop. And by the way, you’ve never heard of either of them.”
“That suits me just fine,” she replied. “I didn’t like the look of them. And Lance didn’t even introduce them.”
“I’d better phone James’s housekeeper and let them know that Lance is coming,” Sarah said. She picked up the phone on Monica’s desk and began dialing.
Monica took Stone aside. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is somebody going to throw a bomb through my gallery window?”
“Monica, really, you have nothing to be concerned about.”
“Should I call the police?”
“Certainly not; what would you tell them?”
“I don’t know; I could ask for protection, or something.”
“Protection from whom? You’re better off ignorant of this whole business. Practice being ignorant.”
“I always knew Lance would get Erica into some sort of trouble.”
“What made you think that?”
“Lance is always getting these mysterious phone calls on his cellphone, or going off to meet people in pubs or other odd places. He doesn’t have an office, like a normal businessman; he travels at odd times and on short notice, and Erica thinks this is all perfectly normal.”
“Lots of people do business out of their homes,” Stone said. “I, for one, and a lot of what you’ve just said would apply to me, too.”
Monica laughed. “I wouldn’t want you mixed up with her, either. Mixed up with me, on the other hand, would be different. When are we going to have that dinner?”
“I think we’d better postpone that indefinitely,” Stone said.
Sarah hung up the phone and joined them. “That woman—Mrs. Rivers, James’s housekeeper—is a pain in the ass; I’m going to fire her at the first opportunity.”
“What’s the problem?”
“She didn’t want them in the house, said Mr. James wouldn’t approve. I had to explain to her that she isn’t working for Mr. James anymore, she’s working for Miss Sarah, and she’d better get used to it in a hurry. I went over there yesterday to start cleaning out the place, and she behaved as if James were coming back momentarily, as if he’d been out of town on business. I’ve asked Julian Wainwright to write her a letter telling her that she’s now in my employ, but I suppose she hasn’t received it yet.”
“Relax,” Stone said. “All this will work itself out with time. I’m sure it won’t be hard to find another housekeeper, if Mrs. Rivers can’t accustom herself to her new circumstances.”
“I hope so,” Sarah replied.
Stone had a thought. “Monica, do you by any chance have a key to Lance and Erica’s house?”
“Why, yes,” Monica replied. “Why?”
“I think it might be a good idea for me to go over there and make sure everything is undisturbed.”
Monica went to her desk, opened a drawer, and handed Stone a set of keys. “There’s everything,” she said, “front door, garage across the road, even the wine cellar.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” Stone said to them both, and he headed for the street to find a taxi. He couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass. He left the gallery and, in the pouring rain, started looking for a taxi.
32
STONE GOT OUT OF THE CAB AT THE bottom of Farm Street; he might as well have walked, he reflected, it had taken him so long to get a cab. The rain was still falling steadily, and the sky was unnaturally dark for the time of day. Lights were coming on in the houses of Farm Street.
He moved slowly up the little street, looking for men on foot or in cars. He did not want to encounter the two large men in the black car again, if he could help it. The street was empty of people, and all the parked cars were empty. With a final look around, Stone ran up the steps of the house and let himself in.
Grateful to be inside again, he stuck his umbrella into a stand to drain and hung his wet raincoat on a peg inside the door. The house was quite dark, with only minimal light coming through the windows from outside. Stone drew the curtains on the street-side windows and switched on the hall light to get his bearings, then switched it off again.
He had a brief look at the drawing room, switching the lights on and off again, then turned to the study, where he figured anything of interest to him would most likely be. He switched on a lamp on the desk, and the beautiful old paneling glowed in the light. There were many books, most of them bound in leather, and the desk seemed quite old, probably Georgian. Stone tried the drawers and found them unlocked. He sat down at the desk and began to go methodically through the drawers.
The contents were what might be expected in any prosperous home—bills, credit card statements in Erica’s name, but none in Lance’s. In a bottom drawer he found several months of bank statements, this time in Lance’s name. They were from The Scottish Highlands Bank, of which Stone had never heard, and he learned from examining them that Lance wrote very few checks. There were no canceled checks in the statement, but the printout identified each payee, and they were mostly for re
nt and household expenses. Those that weren’t were in larger amounts—five to ten thousand pounds—and were made payable to cash. Lance seemed to walk around with a lot of money in his pockets. All the deposits into the account were from wire transfers from two banks—one in the Cayman Islands and one in Switzerland. Lance would transfer twenty-five thousand pounds at a time into the account. These were substantial amounts, but not those of a multimillionaire; Lance, apart from his high-end address, seemed to live rather simply. There was no evidence of car ownership, clubs, or expensive purchases.
Erica’s credit card statements revealed mostly purchases of clothing and small household items. Her deposits came from a New York bank and were more on the order of ten thousand dollars at a time, and less frequent than Lance’s. Stone returned everything carefully to the drawers, leaving them as he had found them. He looked around the study again. There were no filing cabinets, and a small closet held only some stationery and a fax machine.
Stone switched off the study light and went upstairs. There were two floors of bedrooms, and the ones on the top floor seemed unused. The second floor contained a large master suite only, with a king-sized bed, two baths, and two dressing rooms. Though Erica had accumulated a lot of clothes, Lance seemed to own no more than he could pack into two or three suitcases. He switched off the lights and went downstairs, disappointed.
He had expected to find something—he wasn’t sure what, but something that would tell him more about Lance’s business dealings. There was so little as to seem unnatural, not even a briefcase, and Lance had not been carrying one earlier in the day. Nobody could do any sort of business so lightly equipped, which made Stone think Lance must have an office somewhere else in London.
He checked the kitchen and had one final look around, preparing to leave. Then, looking at the keys Monica had given him, he found one labeled “wine cellar,” which she had mentioned. He looked around for a door and found one under the stairs. The light switch gave no joy, and he felt his way down the steps to the bottom, where he found another door. Feeling for the lock, he inserted the key and turned it. As he stepped into the cellar, something brushed against his cheek, and he grabbed it: a string. He pulled it, and a single light bulb came on. The wine cellar was about twelve by fifteen feet and quite full of bottles. He checked a few and found some lovely old clarets and burgundies; whoever owned the house had been laying them down for years; you couldn’t just walk into a shop and buy them anymore.
