Lucid Intervals

by Stuart Woods

  “Often,” he replied.

  “How nice. I am frequently at loose ends in the afternoons,” she said, taking his arm in such a way that his elbow rubbed against one of her stunning breasts.

  “May I have my gentleman back now, please?” Felicity said, stepping up and taking the other arm. “There’s someone I’d like him to meet.”

  For a moment, Stone thought a tug-of-war would ensue with him as the rope.

  “If you must,” Lady Pemberton said. “We’ll catch up later, Mr. Barrington.”

  Felicity towed Stone to the other end of the room.

  “Nick of time,” Stone said quietly.

  “Yes, you’d have been upstairs with her in another moment,” Felicity said through a fixed smile that she bestowed upon everyone she passed.

  They came to a tall, slender man of about sixty who wore a Royal Navy formal uniform with much gold trim and who stood ramrod straight, sipping whiskey neat from a tumbler. “Stone,” Felicity said, “may I present Admiral Sir Ian Weston? Sir Ian, this is my friend Stone Barrington.”

  “Howjado,” the admiral said.

  “Very well, thank you,” Stone replied.

  “Did they fob that fucking awful bubbly off on you?” the admiral asked. Stone nodded. “They’ve got a proper bar over there with a decent single malt.”

  “Oh, I’m quite happy with the Champagne,” Stone said. “I’m not often served Krug.”

  “He’s pouring the Krug, is he? Must be somebody important here. Wonder who?”

  “I was wondering the same thing, Sir Ian,” Felicity said. “Sir Ian is the ambassador’s naval attaché,” she explained to Stone. She looked around the room. “I’ll bet it’s that American couple over there,” she said.

  “Could be,” the admiral replied.

  Stone followed her gaze until it alighted on Bill Eggers and his wife, Suzanne. He laughed. “That gentleman is the managing partner of the law firm to which I am of counsel,” he said, “and I’m not certain anyone in diplomatic circles would consider him important enough for Krug.”

  “Oh,” Felicity said. “And whom do we have here?” she asked, looking toward the door, where the butler was about to announce a portly man and his elegant wife.

  “Lord and Lady Wight,” the butler intoned.

  “What a coincidence,” Stone said.

  “Yesss,” Felicity drawled.

  20

  Stone had not set eyes on Lord and Lady Wight since he had been a guest in their country home a few years before. Wight had been the subject of an investigation by the House of Lords at the time, and the supposition was that he might be stripped of his peerage and perhaps even go to prison. Stone and one of their daughters, Sarah, a painter and sculptor, had been close then.

  The Wights spotted Stone and came over. “Barrington, isn’t it?” Wight asked.

  “It is, your lordship,” Stone replied. “Your ladyship, it’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, Mr. Barrington,” she replied. “Sarah still speaks of you.”

  “That’s kind of her,” Stone replied. “May I present Dame Felicity Devonshire?”

  “Howjado,” Wight replied.

  “So nice,” echoed his wife. Both of them looked right through her, having no idea who she was.

  “How do you do, Lord Wight, Lady Wight,” Felicity said. Then, turning to him, “I believe you knew my father.”

  Wight looked at her blankly for a moment, then the penny dropped. “Why of course,” he said. “You remember General Sir Giles Devonshire, my dear.”

  “Of course I do,” Lady Wight replied. “Such a dear man. How is he?”

  “Deceased,” Felicity replied. “Last year.”

  “Saw the obit in the Telegraph,” Wight replied. “So very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Felicity said.

  Wight narrowed his eyes in thought. “I believe he had a sort of second career after his retirement from the army, didn’t he? In Whitehall or someplace?”

  “A minor post,” Felicity replied, “but it kept him busy.”

  Lady Wight tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “Must check in with the ambassador,” she said.

  “Oh, Lord Wight,” Stone said. “I believe you’re acquainted with a Mr. Stanley Whitestone.”

  Wight looked momentarily alarmed, then he lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, decent fellow,” he replied.

  “Where is he these days?” Stone asked.

  “Oh, dear, I’m not sure I know,” Wight replied. “Believe he was in Cairo for a spell; lost track of him after that. Will you excuse us? Must check in with the ambassador.” He hustled his wife toward the other side of the room.

  “That was very direct,” Felicity said. “Very clever, too.”

  “Thank you, but why?”

  “Now we know that Wight knows where Whitestone is,” she said.

  “We do?”

  She shook her head. “Men can be so dense. Didn’t you see his reaction when you mentioned him?”

  “You mean the lifted eyebrow?”

  “You shocked him to the core,” she said.

  “And you learned that from a lifted eyebrow? I could use you in court when picking a jury or cross-examining a hostile witness.”

  “I expect you could,” Felicity said, and then the butler shouted that dinner was served.

  THEY WERE SIXTEEN at dinner; Stone knew because he counted. He found himself at Lady Pemberton’s right hand, and he could just make out Felicity at the far end of the table, between the ambassador and Lord Wight. A sliver of foie gras was served.

  “Delicious,” Stone said.

  Lady Pemberton gazed archly at him. “Yes, you are.”

  Stone felt himself blush. “I hope you didn’t send to England for this,” he said. “We have quite good geese and ducks in the Hudson River Valley, and they keep us supplied with their livers.”

  “Oh, we always order domestically,” she said, “except for Champagne, of course. Do you expect to be in your office tomorrow afternoon?”

  On another occasion, with a less married woman, Stone would have been pleased to invite her over. She was, after all, quite alluring. As it was, Bill Eggers and his wife were halfway down the table, no doubt wondering what the hell they were doing here, and Susan Eggers could spot two people arranging an assignation from across the street. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “I have a houseguest at the moment who is taking up much of my time.”

  “What a pity,” Lady Pemberton said. “Perhaps another time?”

  “Lady Pemberton,” Stone said, “in your position I’m sure you know who Dame Felicity is.”

  “Of course I do,” she replied.

  “Then you will know how… inconvenient it might become for her to suspect we’re having this conversation.”

  It was Lady Pemberton’s turn to blush. “You have a point,” she said, “but I expect our paths will cross again here or there.”

  “As Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’ ” Stone replied. Lady Pemberton looked baffled for a moment then turned her attention to the gentleman on her left.

  AFTER DESSERT, IN the British tradition, the gentlemen departed the dinner table and wandered into Sir John’s study for cigars and brandy. In a moment the air was thick with the aroma of burning Cuban tobacco, an odor Stone despised. He would have to have his tuxedo sent to the cleaners tomorrow.

  Bill Eggers approached. “What the hell are you doing here, Stone?”

  “I might ask the same of you, Bill,” Stone replied.

  “Oh, Lady Pemberton has taken an interest in early American furniture, and she and Suzanne met at some event or other and got on famously.” Eggers was a major collector of eighteenth-century American furniture and owned some pieces that had been loaned to museums for exhibitions. “What’s your excuse?”

  “An old friend invited me to accompany her here.”

  “The redhead? She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

  “You have no idea,” Stone sa
id. Apparently, the only people here who knew who Felicity was were the ambassador and his wife, Mr. Smith and, possibly, Admiral Sir Ian Weston.

  “Is she something with the British UN delegation?”

  “Something like that,” Stone replied.

  “You’re not being very forthcoming, Stone. Ordinarily, I can’t shut you up.”

  “Circumstances require me to be discreet,” Stone said.

  “And who’s the heavy gent with the elegant wife?” Eggers asked.

  “Lord and Lady Wight. You remember my painter friend, Sarah?”

  “I remember you hustling us out of her gallery opening the night the place was bombed,” Eggers said.

  “The Wights are Sarah’s parents.”

  “Now that I think of it, he’s a big developer in the UK, isn’t he?”

  “He was; then he wasn’t. Now he is again, I’m told.”

  “Someone mentioned him as a possible client,” Eggers said.

  “I’d be happy to introduce you,” Stone said. “Let’s wend our way over to the fireplace, where he’s warming his backside.”

  And they did.

  21

  They found Wight before the fireplace, momentarily alone.

  “Lord Wight,” Stone said, “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. William Eggers.”

  Wight nodded. “Howjado?”

  “Bill is the managing partner of the law firm of Woodman and Weld. I’m of counsel to the firm.”

  “Oh, yes,” Wight said, suddenly interested. “I believe someone in London mentioned your firm to me in a favorable light.”

  “That’s very gratifying,” Eggers said.

  “Perhaps we should have a chat in more businesslike surroundings.”

  “If you’re going to be in New York a few days, why don’t you come up to our offices and have lunch with Stone and me?”

  “I’d like that,” Wight said. “Are you available tomorrow?”

  “I am,” Eggers replied, “and I’m sure Stone is, too.”

  “Of course,” Stone said.

  “We’re in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue,” Eggers said. “May we say twelve-thirty tomorrow?”

  “Very good,” Wight replied. “I know the building, of course.”

  The butler stood at the door. “The ambassador invites you to rejoin the ladies,” he said more quietly than usual.

  As Stone was leaving the study, Smith materialized at his elbow. “A word?” he said.

  Stone remained in the study with him while the others made their way out. “Certainly,” he replied.

  “Are you aware of Lord Wight’s former relationship to Stanley Whitestone?”

  “I’ve heard it mentioned,” Stone said. “Are you sure it’s former?”

  “Lord Wight has been at some pains the past few years to make it seem so.”

  “Perhaps all is not what it seems,” Stone pointed out.

  “Should you discover that they are still… acquainted, you must be careful not to let Wight know that you know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Wight is also… acquainted with some dangerous people who would not like you or anyone else to know.”

  “What do you mean by ‘dangerous’?” Stone asked.

  “Wight is not entirely his own man,” Smith said, “and some of his associates have a way of making people who annoy them disappear.”

  “I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Stone said. “Now, shall we join the ladies?” And they did so.

  THE EVENING WAS over promptly at ten-thirty, and Stone was careful to say nothing of his impending meeting while they were in the car. They were let into the house by Jake Musket.

  “Nothing to report,” Musket said, then saw them onto the elevator.

  “Who was the man you introduced to Wight?” Felicity asked as they moved upward.

  Smith had apparently had a word with her. “The managing partner at Woodman and Weld,” Stone replied. “Bill Eggers.”

  “Why did you make the introduction?”

  “Bill asked me to; he’s interested in Wight as a possible client.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked.

  “Bill does. He and I are having lunch with Wight tomorrow at the firm’s offices.”

  “I don’t suppose you can get out of it.”

  “Why should I want to do that?” Stone asked. “It might give me an opportunity to raise the subject of Stanley Whitestone again.”

  “I believe Smith had a word with you.”

  “He did. Told me that Wight has dangerous associates.”

  They reached the bedroom, and Felicity turned so that Stone could unzip her dress. “Smith is right,” she said. “I shouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Neither would I,” Stone said, moving her hair aside and kissing the nape of her neck.

  She stepped out of her dress and tossed it onto a chair.

  Stone waited until after they had attended to each other’s desires before he spoke again. “Felicity, are you telling me all I need to know about Whitestone and Wight?”

  “I’ve told you all I can,” she replied.

  “That may not be all I need to know,” he said.

  “Go to sleep,” she commanded.

  STONE GOT TO the offices of Woodman & Weld a few minutes early and found Eggers alone in his office. He sat down. “What do you know about Lord Wight?” he asked.

  “We have a London office, as you know,” Eggers said. “It’s in a building that Wight’s company built and manages.”

  “So he’s your landlord, and that’s it?”

  “A solicitor I know in London tells me that Wight is a large consumer of legal services,” Eggers said.

  “Given his past, do you want to be seen to represent him?”

  Eggers shrugged. “His reputation in this country is better than in his own, and I happen to know that he has acquired two building sites in midtown. He also owns a building on East Fifty-seventh Street that houses Strategic Services.”

  Stone knew that Strategic Services was one of the two or three largest private security companies in the United States. “Have you had any dealings with them?” he asked.

  “I’ve played tennis with Jim Hackett a couple of times at the Racquet Club,” Eggers replied, referring to the owner of the company. “We had a drink afterward last week, and I think he might be a good source of referrals.”

  “He sounds worth cultivating,” Stone said. “I don’t know much about his background.”

  “He’s ex-Paratroop Regiment.”

  “He’s British?”

  “Scottish, but you wouldn’t know it to talk to him,” Eggers said. “He came to this country twenty-five years ago, and he’s very much assimilated.”

  “He has a lot of ex-special ops people on staff, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s the rumor,” Eggers said. “And from both sides of the Atlantic. His corporate protection people are mostly former U.S. Secret Service.”

  “I don’t know a lot about his company,” Stone said, “but I have the impression that they have been mixed up in some unsavory things, for their clients.”

  “I’ve never heard of any evidence to support that,” Eggers said, “but any outfit that’s as secretive as Strategic Services is bound to generate rumors. They never speak to the press, never comment on their work or so much as acknowledge the name of a client.”

  “I can see how that might perk up some ears,” Stone said.

  Eggers’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes? Please send him to my dining room.” He hung up. “Our possible future client has arrived,” he said.

  22

  Lunch was served in Eggers’s private dining room, off his office. The room was paneled in walnut, and the bookcases were filled with his collection of old law books, bound in leather. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, giving off the lovely scent of piñon wood that Eggers had shipped in from Santa Fe.

  By the time the soup course plates we
re being taken away, Stone was bored rigid. The talk was of London clubs that Eggers and Wight belonged to. Stone noticed that the Royal Yacht Squadron, of which Eggers was a foreign member, was not mentioned, and he assumed that Wight had been blackballed by that club. By the time the main course of lamb chops was served, all the talk was of real estate. Stone was having trouble keeping awake and had no opportunity to raise the subject of Stanley Whitestone. Then his cell phone vibrated on his belt.

  Stone stepped away from the table and answered it.

  “It’s Joan,” she said. “Herbie Fisher just called, and he’s in some sort of trouble. He’s in the tank at the Nineteenth Precinct.”

  “I’ll go right over,” Stone said, grateful for the interruption. “Excuse me, Bill, Lord Wight,” he said to the two men, “one of my clients has an emergency, so I’ll have to leave you.”

  Wight stood up and shook his hand. “I’ll speak to Sarah later today, Barrington,” he said, “and I’ll give her your regards.”

  “Please do,” Stone said.

  “I’ll call you later,” Eggers said.

  Stone got out of there. It was a beautiful day, and he decided to walk up to the Nineteenth, which was in the East Sixties. Herbie would appreciate his presence there more if he had to stew awhile.

  Stone knew the desk sergeant from the old days, when they had both been patrolmen. “Hey, Mac,” he said.

  “Hiya, Stone. How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad,” Stone replied. “I believe you’re hosting a client of mine, one Herbert Fisher. What’s the beef?”

  Mac consulted a large ledger. “Disorderly conduct,” he said.

  “How disorderly?”

  Mac hit a few computer keys and read aloud from the arrest report. “Subject was a passenger in a limousine stopped for a traffic violation. While I spoke with the driver, subject got out of the car and began to berate me for stopping his car. I told subject to quiet himself and return to the rear seat, but he refused and assaulted me. I placed subject in handcuffs and transported him to the Nineteenth Precinct.”

  “You know what kind of assault?” Stone asked.