Shakeup

by Stuart Woods

  “That makes me feel so happy,” Stone said.

  “You’re being a smart-ass again.”

  “It’s my nature.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Well, I’m going shopping.”

  “The cure-all for anxiety of every variety,” Stone said. “Don’t worry, the Justice Department can reach you at Bloomingdale’s.”

  “They’d better,” Maren said. She gave him a wet kiss, then left.

  * * *

  —

  Eddie got into the rear seat of a black Lincoln town car, right after Shelley Moss. “JFK international departures,” she said to the driver.

  “Which airline?” the driver asked.

  “I’ll let you know,” she said, then turned to Eddie. “How long until the flight?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Two and a half hours. We should already be there,” Eddie said, nervously. “These days, it’s at the gate three hours before the flight.”

  “Sweetie, we’ve got plenty of time at this hour.” She opened her handbag. “Ticket and passport and everything in the safe.”

  “We can’t walk that through departure,” Eddie said.

  Shelley dug into the bag and came up with a folded sheet of paper. “Sign this,” she said.

  Eddie read it. It was a customs declaration for the outgoing cash. He signed it.

  “We’ll get this stamped, then we’re legal all the way,” she said. “I’ll take care of it at the airport.”

  “I bet you will.” He laughed.

  “A little cleavage goes a long way,” she replied. “I packed your clothes; two bags and a briefcase are in the trunk. I don’t travel quite that light. Some of my stuff is on the front passenger seat. Get ready to pay for overweight.”

  At the airport they got two carts, loaded them, then looked for the Virgin Atlantic check-in desk.

  “Let’s take the one with the male attendant,” she said. “Upper Class.”

  The young man, entranced, did not charge them for the overweight.

  The line was short, then they were in. “Now, over there,” she said, toward a small sign that read U.S. CUSTOMS. “Stand by outside the door with the luggage, where they can see you. I’ll go in.” She undid another button on her blouse and strolled in.

  Eddie could see her talking to the customs agent and showing him her document, among other things. He gazed at her approvingly, then stamped the document, and she returned. “We’re all legal,” she said. “Let’s take a walk through security.”

  They took a look in her handbag, and she handed over the stamped document. A pat-down with the wand, a stroll through the metal detector, and they were through.

  “An hour and a half to spare,” Shelley said. She pointed at the duty-free shop. “Let’s get a fifth of something.”

  An hour and a half later they were seated in Upper Class and taxiing. Eddie looked out the window and saw two NYPD cars, lights flashing, pull up to their gate, have a look around, then drive on.

  “I think we’re going to make it,” Eddie said.

  “You bet your sweet ass,” Shelley replied.

  41

  Eddie Craft and Shelley Moss got off the flight at Heathrow and made their way through the nothing-to-declare customs exit without being stopped. Through the swinging doors was a line of drivers holding up cards bearing their passengers’ names. Eddie steered them to one with the card reading, Schwartzkopf, and soon, they were in the rear seat of an elderly Bentley.

  “Who’s this guy we’re staying with?” Shelley asked.

  “Alfie Bing,” Eddie said. “Wife’s name is Edie. Alfie is a very great, old-time thief of anything that isn’t nailed down. He lives off Belgrave Square.”

  “That’s a pretty tony neighborhood, isn’t it?”

  “Alfie’s a pretty tony burglar. This is his Bentley. He bought the ass-end of a long lease on a big flat twenty years ago, and he’s still got a couple of decades to go.”

  The Bentley pulled into a muse and drew up at a garage door. A uniformed butler stood in a doorway beside the garage. He directed them upstairs, while he and the chauffeur dealt with the luggage.

  “Wow!” Shelley said as they entered a heavily decorated drawing room. “I’ve never seen so much stuff in one room!”

  “Alfie has a steel-trap mind and a memory like an elephant,” Eddie said. “He’s got every piece in this room cataloged in his head. He can tell you who he stole it from and its present-day value.”

  “Doesn’t he worry about being raided by the cops?”

  “When he got out of prison after a two-year hitch, twenty years ago, Alfie disappeared into this flat, under a new name, Bing. He didn’t leave these rooms for more than a year. He had a colleague steal his court and prison files—all on paper in those days, so he might as well have vanished into thin air. He started wearing a toupé, too, and grew a moustache.”

  A short, thin man in an excellent toupé, a handsome moustache, and a well-tailored suit entered the room and threw himself into Eddie’s arms. His wife, Edie, tall and beautiful, joined them and introductions were made. Shelley thought his toupé undetectable.

  “How long can you be with us, Eddie?” Alfie asked.

  “I think a few weeks will do it, if that’s all right.”

  “Not long enough. How bad do they want you?”

  “Not bad enough to come looking here. They don’t have a charge, really.” He told Alfie the story. “They didn’t even have time to assign me to a parole officer.”

  “You’re good, then. We’ve got a nice little suite of rooms for you, one floor up.”

  * * *

  —

  Stone, Maren, Dino, and Viv sat in the dining room at the Carlyle Hotel, sipping drinks while their dinner was prepared.

  “What’s the latest on Eddie?” Dino asked.

  “He seems to have vanished in a puff of smoke,” Maren replied. “Somebody saw them get into a town car, so we figured an airport, but we’ve no idea which one.”

  “A computer search should have brought up their names and flights,” Dino pointed out.

  “Funny you should mention that,” she said. “The computer system at JFK went down for a couple of hours and scrambled some files. We finally got them landing at Heathrow, London, but too late, and they haven’t checked into any known hotel in the U.K.”

  “Staying with friends, no doubt,” Stone said.

  “There was one other thing,” Maren said. “He filed a customs form, declaring two hundred thousand dollars in cash, outbound.”

  “Probably staying with somebody not known to the police,” Viv remarked.

  “Stands to reason,” Maren said.

  * * *

  —

  Alfie took them all to the Sailing Sloop, an old Chinese restaurant, and ordered at least a dozen dishes for the four of them.

  Alfie looked around to see that no other diners were close, then leaned in. “I’ve got an eye on a country house,” he said.

  “I can’t imagine you living in a country house,” Eddie replied. “You’re not the type.”

  “Not to live in, dummy, to steal from.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Pictures, four of them.”

  “It’s worth the time for just four? Isn’t there a collection?”

  “Oh, sure, and it’s nice stuff, but these four pictures are by an American artist named Matilda . . . something. I’ve got it written down at home.”

  “And who’s Matilda?”

  “She’s the best unknown painter you never heard of,” Alfie said. “She had a few pictures in the Metropolitan Museum, and the gift shop there printed up postcards of four of the pictures, and they sold out, wham! They reprinted, and they kept selling out, and now she’s one of the better-known artists in America, and the value of her work has increased b
y a factor of about forty, compared to what they were a few years ago.”

  “I know this must be a dumb question, Alfie,” Eddie said, “but if she’s so well known now, where are you going to unload them?”

  “I’ve got a buyer in a Scottish castle all lined up. He’s offering a quarter million apiece. Now, that’s a low price compared to what they’d bring at auction, but think about it: it’s a one-night, million-pound job!”

  “That’s attractive, I’ll admit,” Eddie said, trying not to salivate. “What’s the security like?”

  “Tough, but here’s the thing. The same owner has a house in Wilton Crescent, and it’s wired up with the same gear as the country house. I’ve been practicing on that. By the time we pull the job, I’ll be slick on all the gear.”

  They finished dinner, and Alfie had the staff pack up all the leftovers, which were considerable. “Lunch, tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe lunch for a couple or three days.”

  * * *

  —

  On the way home, Alfie had his driver swing down Wilton Crescent, driving slowly. “That’s the house,” he said, pointing out the window. “See the two lamps on? Looks like the owner is home, doesn’t it?”

  “How do you know he’s not?”

  “Because his airplane isn’t parked where it would be if he were in the country.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On the estate where the country house is. There’s an old RAF station on the property that was used to fly intelligence missions into France during the Second World War. He’s got a Gulfstream, and he flies it in there, and they send a fuel truck down from Southampton to fill it up for the trip back. I got a guy who can check the hangar every day, if I like, and we pick a night when the hangar is empty. Simple as that.”

  “Sounds like it,” Eddie said. “But I want to see you get by the security in the London house, before I’ll commit to the big job.”

  “How about tonight?” Alfie asked.

  42

  Eddie Craft followed Alfie Bing into a nondescript saloon car housed in his flat’s garage. Alfie handed Eddie a zippered leather case. “Hang on to my tools,” he said.

  They drove the few streets to Wilton Crescent, where the lights in the window of the subject house still burned. Alfie drove past the house in question, then turned into a mews with an electric gate. He took a remote control from the tool kit, clicked it, and the gate’s bar rose. “A gift from a mate who tends bar at the Grenadier pub at the end of the mews,” he explained.

  The mews, Wilton Row, was lit by a pair of dim street lamps, just enough light for a drunk to stagger home without stubbing his toe on a paving stone.

  Eddie parked the car and led the way to a small door next to the garage. “When this opens,” Alfie said, “I’ve got to run very fast to the control box on the landing. Your job is to quickly close the door when you’re inside. Ready?”

  Eddie nodded. “Right.”

  Alfie picked the lock, and the door opened. He ran as fast as he could up the stairs to the landing, while Eddie closed the door as instructed. Alfie opened the box and took out a coding device, fastening it to terminals in the control box with alligator clips. He turned on the instrument, and it began to search for a code at a very fast clip.

  * * *

  —

  Eddie watched the numbers fly. “It’s not finding it,” he said.

  “Patience, my son.”

  The device found a number, and Alfie tapped it in. “Okay, we’re in. Follow me.”

  Eddie followed Alfie up the stairs, and they emerged into a darkened hallway. There was a night-light burning green near the floor, nothing else.

  “You see?” Afie asked. “It works the same way, down at the house in Hampshire.”

  “Okay,” Eddie said. “I’m sold.”

  They backtracked, reset the control box with the code, and left in Alfie’s car.

  “Now, I’ve got one final advantage to show you,” Alfie said. “When we get home.”

  * * *

  —

  Stone and Maren had just collapsed into each other’s arms when his cell phone rang.

  “Don’t get that,” Maren said.

  “It’s a scrambled line,” he said. “It only rings if it’s important.” He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “Stone?” Familiar voice and accent.

  “Felicity?”

  “Yes, my darling.”

  Maren covered the phone with her hand. “Is that Felicity Devonshire?” she asked.

  “Please be very quiet,” Stone said. He got up and went into his dressing room. “How are you?”

  “I’m very well, thank you, but I’ve just had a call from one of our security patrol cars in Belgravia.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The lamps in your front window are out.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means?”

  “It’s not a code word. It means that the two lamps in your front window, which should be burning, are not.”

  “Oh. Is that bad?”

  “They are wired into the very excellent security system that we installed in your Wilton Crescent house. The only thing that will turn them off is entering the six-digit security code into one of the control boxes.”

  “I see.”

  “Not really,” she said. “This is very worrying. I called to find out if you want me to send a team into the house.”

  “I guess,” Stone said.

  “Or, would you rather have your house looted?”

  “Please, send in a team,” Stone said.

  “It shall be done. I’ll call you back after breakfast.” She hung up.

  Right, he thought. Five-hour time difference.

  “You come back here,” Maren ordered.

  Stone followed her instructions.

  “Now, what are you doing receiving phone calls from the head of Britain’s MI6 security service in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s not the middle of the night there,” Stone said.

  “Did I ever tell you what a jealous woman I am?” Maren asked, kittenishly.

  “No reason to be concerned,” Stone said. “The security system at my London house may have been breached.”

  “Why would that concern the head of MI6?”

  “They installed the equipment, and they have instructions to call her if there is a breach.”

  “Is someone in the house?”

  “I don’t know. She’s sending a team to find out, then she’ll call me back after breakfast.”

  “Breakfast tomorrow?”

  “No, they’re five hours ahead of us.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She pulled him back onto the bed. “Let me see if I can make you forget all about that.”

  She did, until the phone rang again. Stone took it into the dressing room. “Yes?”

  “The house had been entered, but nothing had been disturbed. The team compared it to the photographs they took a while back.”

  “Any explanation?”

  “Yes, someone used a device that ran through all possible codes. They reset it two minutes later.”

  “Why would someone want to be in my house for two minutes?” Stone asked.

  “That is known only to those who entered,” she said. “Now, rejoin whoever is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you, Felicity. I’m grateful to you.” But she had already hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Stone was awakened by the bell on the dumbwaiter.

  “Breakfast!” Maren sang out cheerfully.

  “Yes, breakfast,” Stone said.

  “Why do you look worried?” she asked. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  “Not very well,” he said. “I kept waking up, wondering why someone would b
reak into my house in London for two minutes and not take anything.”

  43

  Stone was at his desk when Joan buzzed. “Dame Felicity Devonshire on one,” she said.

  Stone pressed the button. “Good morning again, Felicity, or rather, good afternoon.”

  “Good day, Stone. I had a thought about the reason for your break-in last night,” she said.

  “I’d like to hear it,” Stone said. “It kept me awake.”

  “You have a virtually identical system, that my people installed in Windward Hall, do you not?”

  “I do,” Stone said.

  “What if last night was a dry run for breaking into the Hall?”

  Stone found the suggestion alarming. “I see.”

  “What, in particular, do you have in the house that would be of great value?”

  “Define ‘great value.’”

  “Something that could be sold immediately for a lot of money.”

  “Well, I think I left a couple of wristwatches in the watch winder in my dressing room.”

  “Even greater value.”

  “There’s wine that could be sold at auction.”

  “Too easy to trace. I mean, Christie’s and Sotheby’s advertise those sales and keep records.”

  “Well, I have a few of my mother’s paintings. They’ve gone up in value in recent years. I know, because I buy them when I can. But they would be easily traceable, too.”

  “Not if the thief were working for an existing client who is an art lover, or a lover of your mother’s work, in particular.”

  “You mean, someone who placed an order for the pictures?”

  “And to enjoy them in his home or place of business. That’s what I mean.”

  “Can you send a team in there to have a look around?”