by Stuart Woods
“Buon appetito,” Lance said, raising his glass.
They dug into the pasta.
Stone ate the food, which was very good, and wondered if Lance was the coolest person he’d ever met, or if he just had no idea what had occurred in his house a couple of hours before. “Who did you say owned the house?” he asked.
“A fellow in the Foreign Office, name of Richard Creighton; he’s out in the East somewhere, I believe; I pay the rent directly into his bank account. It’s quite a nice house, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is. It’s fairly lived in, for a house owned by someone who’s never here.”
“Well, I guess these diplomats have got to have some sort of home to come back to. Anyway, I’m living in it, and I suppose he rented it to others before me.”
“I’ve done a few things to make it better,” Erica said. “The living room curtains are mine, and I’ve replaced all the bedding in the master suite.”
“Mmmm,” Stone said. “Wonderful sauce.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What plans do the two of you have for the next few days?” Stone asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else.
“We’re in London,” Lance said. “Unless something comes up.”
“What might come up?”
“Oh, you never know, sometimes a deal requires travel.”
“What are Ali and Sheila going to do about their shop?”
Lance shrugged. “I suppose it’s insured.”
“The police are going to want to talk to them.”
Lance stopped eating and looked as if he hadn’t thought of that.
“I suppose you’re right; Ali can call them in the morning. After all, they weren’t in the shop at the time, so they can hardly be of much help.”
“I can tell you from experience that the police are looking for them at this moment,” Stone said. “They don’t ignore bombings, and they’ll want to hear who Ali and Sheila think might have done this.”
“I expect so,” Lance said, resuming his dinner. “Well, that’s Ali’s problem, not mine. I expect he’ll handle it in the morning.”
“The sooner, the better,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you have a theory about who did it?”
“Not a clue, old bean,” Lance said, looking perfectly innocent. “I hope Ali will leave me out of it when he talks to the cops.”
“Do Ali and Sheila belong to some group that another group might be angry with?”
“What sort of group did you have in mind?”
“Well, they’re Middle Easterners, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“I should think that would give you a variety of groups to choose from—Palestinian, Israeli, Osmin ben whatshisname?”
“I suppose so, but as far as I know, they’re not into politics.”
“What are they into?”
“Making money,” Lance replied. “At least, until today. They may want to rethink their business after this; I’m sure they must have lost most, perhaps all, of their inventory.”
“I expect so,” Stone said. They continued eating their dinner, and Stone stopped asking questions; there seemed to be no point, what with the answers he was getting.
35
STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.
He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn’t take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”
“Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”
“To dinner at the American ambassador’s residence; I want you to look at some faces.”
“All right; what time?”
“A car will pick you up at seven o’clock; when you get to the residence, don’t recognize me; we’ll talk later.” He hung up before Stone could speak again. Stone shrugged and rang for the valet to press his tuxedo.
He was standing in front of the Connaught when a car pulled up to the entrance. Stone was startled because it was the car in which he had been abducted. The doorman went to the car window and briefly conversed with the driver.
“Mr. Barrington?” he said. “Your car, sir.” He opened the rear door wide.
Stone inspected the interior before getting into the car.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the uniformed driver said.
“Good evening.” The car pulled away from the curb. “What kind of car is this?”
“It’s a Daimler limousine, sir; made by Jaguar.”
“And to whom does it belong?”
“It belongs to the embassy, sir; they have a small fleet of them; this particular one is assigned to the ambassador, but since he’s entertaining at home this evening, he didn’t need it.”
“Are these cars common in London?”
“Oh, yes; many of the foreign embassies use them, as does the Royal Family.”
Stone relaxed a little; he wasn’t being abducted again. “Where is the ambassador’s residence?”
“In Regents Park, sir; do you know it?”
“No, this is my first trip to London in many years, and I never got to Regents Park the first time.”
“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive this time of day, sir.”
“You’re English?”
“Welsh, sir; the embassy employs quite a lot of locals. Cheaper than bringing over Yanks, I expect.”
“I’m afraid I don’t even know the ambassador’s name.”
“It’s Sumner Wellington, sir; I’m told the name went down rather well with the Queen.”
“Oh, yes, of course; he owns a big communications company,” Stone said.
“That’s correct, sir; it’s said that American presidents always appoint very rich men to the Court of St. James, because they can afford to do all the necessary entertaining out of their own pockets. Ambassador Wellington has paid for a complete renovation of the residence, as well.”
“Sounds like an expensive job.”
“I expect so, sir.”
“But Ambassador Wellington can afford it.”
“Quite so, sir. You said you were in London once before?”
“Yes, as a student; I did a hitchhiking tour of Europe one summer, and I spent a week of it in London.”
“I expect your accommodations this time are somewhat better than on your last trip.”
“Oh, yes. I spent most nights at a youth hostel, and, on one occasion, I got back after curfew and was locked out, so I slept under a railway arch somewhere.”
“So the Connaught is a big step upwards.”
“You could say that.” The man was awfully chatty for a Brit, Stone thought, especially for a chauffeur. “Are you the ambassador’s regular driver?”
“No, sir, I’m just a staff driver; I’ve driven the ambassador on a few occasions, when his regular driver wasn’t available.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes, sir, I do; I find self-made Americans are much nicer to staff than the upper-class British. Oh, we’re in Regents Park, now.”
They were driving along a wide crescent of identical buildings, with the park on their left. After a turn or two, the car glided to a stop before the residence, a very large Georgian house.
A U.S. marine opened the rear door of the car.
“Mr. Barrington?” the driver said.
Stone stopped getting
out of the car.
“I was asked to give you a message.”
“Yes?”
“If you recognize someone, be careful.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir; I’ll be waiting when you’re ready to leave; just give your name to the marine on duty.”
“See you later, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone got out of the car and entered the house. In the huge foyer, there was a reception line that was moving slowly. Stone got into it, behind a very American-looking couple. He was short and pudgy; she was taller, very blonde, and expensive-looking.
“Hey,” the woman said.
“Good evening,” Stone replied.
“That’s what I should have said, I guess; good evening.”
“Hey works for me,” Stone laughed.
She held out her hand. “I’m Tiffany Butts; this is my husband, Marvin.”
Stone shook their hands.
“We’re from Fort Worth, Texas,” she said. “Are you an American?”
“Oh, yes; I’m from New York.”
“I wasn’t sure about your accent.”
“I’ve been here a few days; maybe I’m picking up an English accent.”
“Oh, shoot, no, it’s just me.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Barrington?” Marvin Butts asked.
“I’m an attorney.”
“I’m in the scrap metal business,” Butts said. “In a fairly big way.”
I’ll bet you are, Stone thought, or you wouldn’t be at this party. “Sounds good.”
“Good, and getting better,” Butts replied.
They had been moving along the line, and suddenly they were before the ambassador and his wife. The ambassador was sixtyish, slim, and handsomely tailored. His wife was twenty-five years his junior, very beautiful and elegant. The ambassador greeted Marvin and Tiffany Butts warmly, then turned toward Stone.
“Good evening,” he said. “Welcome to the residence.”
“Good evening, Mr. Ambassador,” Stone replied. “I’m Stone Barrington.”
“Ah,” the ambassador said, looking him up and down.
His wife gave Stone a broad smile. “We have a mutual friend, Stone,” she said.
“And who would that be, Madame Ambassador?”
“Oh, please, I’m Barbara, among friends.”
Friends? What was she talking about? An aide ushered Stone farther along before he could ask.
Stone found himself a few steps above a large hall, looking down on a very elegant crowd. Before he had moved a step, he recognized two people. The sight of either would have made his heart beat a little faster, but for very different reasons.
Arrington Carter Calder saw him almost at the same moment and held his gaze, expressionless. And just beyond her, Stone saw a short, bald, bullet-headed man he had met before.
36
THEN ARRINGTON SMILED WARMLY, and Stone’s knees went a little weak. He experienced a series of vivid flashbacks: meeting her at a New York dinner party some years before, she in the company of America’s biggest movie star, Vance Calder; taking her away from Calder, making love to her in his house and hers, falling desperately in love with her; then setting off on a sailing trip to the Caribbean, planning to meet her there; her not showing up, but writing to say she’d married Calder. Then there was the child, of course, Peter; born slightly less than nine months later: Calder’s son, she said, and the tests had backed her up. Then, after Calder was dead, murdered, learning that the tests might have been rigged. She’d refused further testing. He’d seen her a few months before in Palm Beach, for a single evening, then he had been in the hospital with a bullet wound, then whisked back to New York. They had not spoken since.
Stone snapped back to the present and made his way down the steps toward her. She was tall, a little blonder than before, dressed in a long, emerald-green gown. Ravishing. To his surprise she met him halfway, embraced him warmly, and gave him a light kiss on the lips.
“Hello, Stone,” she said, nearly laughing. “Are you surprised to see me?”
“I certainly am,” he replied; “what brings you to London?”
“Barbara Wellington and I were roommates at Mount Holyoke; she invited me over to see what she’s done with the residence. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, it is.” But he wasn’t looking at the residence. “And you are more beautiful than I’ve ever seen you.”
“Aren’t you sweet! I saw your name on the guest list this afternoon, and I jiggled the place cards around so we’re seated together.” She stopped and looked at him. “I’m alone in London.”
Stone was beginning to sweat a little, and he was grateful when a waiter showed up with a tray of champagne flutes. He took one and replaced hers with a full one. “I’ll look forward to catching up,” he said.
Then he remembered the other face he had recognized and looked for it. Gone. Lost in the crowd.
“Looking for someone?” Arrington asked.
“I thought I saw a familiar face, but no more.”
She took his arm and led him across the room and out some French doors to a garden. “And what brings you to London?”
“A client asked me to come over and look into something for him.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
“It is.”
“It’s always mysterious when you’re involved, Stone. Tell me about it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Maybe when it’s over.”
“Oh.”
“How is Peter?”
“Growing,” she said. “You must come and see him sometime.”
“I’d like that very much,” he said. “Where are you spending most of your time?”
“I’ve been dividing it between LA and Mother’s house in Virginia. Peter is there for the summer with her, while I’ve been apartment hunting.”
“In London?”
“In New York.”
Stone began to sweat again and sipped the cold champagne. From inside the house a chime was being struck repeatedly.
“Sounds like dinner,” Arrington said. “Shall we?”
“Let’s do.” The thought of Arrington living in New York again thrilled and frightened him. Immediately, his life seemed in turmoil.
They sat at round tables for ten, and there were at least twenty of them. Arrington knew some of the other guests, having “jiggled the place cards,” and she chatted animatedly with them all, leaving Stone with a thousand questions and no opportunity to ask any of them. Dinner was good, for banquet food, and when dessert came, Stone excused himself and went to look for a men’s room. A staffer showed him the way, and he went inside and stepped up to a urinal. A moment later, the door opened and someone walked behind Stone and around the room, then stepped up to the neighboring urinal.
“See anyone you know?” Hedger asked.
“Yes, Arrington Calder,” Stone said.
“The movie star’s widow? I think she killed him, don’t you?”
“No.”
“How do you know her?”
“We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Oh, wait a minute, I remember now; you were involved with her trial, weren’t you?”
“She was never tried,” Stone replied. “Her lawyer and I got it quashed at a hearing. She was plainly innocent.”
“Yeah, sure,” Hedger said.
Stone zipped up and went to wash his hands. Hedger was right behind him.
“I saw someone else,” Stone said.
“Who?”
“The man who interrogated me. At least, I think it was he; I only got a glimpse of him, and he wasn’t very well lighted the last time I saw him.”
“Where is he sitting?”
“I don’t know; when I looked for him again, he was gone.”
“You mean, he left?”
“I don’t know; he may have just moved elsewhere in the room.”
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try and spot him again, and find a way to let me know where he is. I’m at table sixteen.”
“All right. There’s something else we have to talk about, but we can’t do it now.”
“How about lunch tomorrow in the Connaught grill? One o’clock?”
“Fine, see you then.”
Stone left first and went back to his table. He took the scenic route, wandering among the tables, and then, over near the doors to the garden, he saw the man, who was raptly listening to an elderly woman seated next to him. Table twelve, he noted. He looked at the man as closely as he dared. Was it his inquisitor, or was he simply a bald, bullet-headed man? Stone wished he could hear his voice; that would complete the identification. The man never looked at him, and he made his way back to his table and Arrington.
She was gone. Dancing had begun, and he spotted her on the floor with a man from their table. He took a cocktail napkin, drew a circle, and wrote on it, Table Twelve. He marked the bald man’s position and gave it to a waiter. “Please take this to Mr. Hedger, at table sixteen; he’s the one with the mustache.”
The waiter departed, and Stone followed him with his gaze to Hedger’s table. He saw Hedger read the note, then tuck it into a pocket. He didn’t immediately look at table twelve, but a moment later he let his gaze run in that direction. Then he looked toward Stone and shrugged.
Stone looked back at table twelve, but the man was no longer there. He noticed a door to the garden open, near the table. Stone looked back at Hedger and shrugged.
Arrington came back to the table and took Stone’s hand. “Come dance with me,” she said. She led him to the floor, and the band was playing something romantic.
Stone held her in his arms, something he had always loved doing, and moved them around the floor.
“You were always a wonderful dancer,” she said. “Vertically or horizontally.” She kissed him on the neck.
“Let’s get out of here,” Stone said.
