by Stuart Woods
“Get dressed,” the deep voice said. “You have one minute.”
Stone was tying his necktie when the door opened again and he was half escorted, half dragged down another series of hallways, then pushed into a brightly lit room, the door slamming behind him.
Blinking rapidly, he discovered that all the room was not brightly lit, just the part containing a wooden stool. The other side of the room, some twelve or fifteen feet away, contained a table behind which sat three men. They were in deep shadows and he could see only their forms, not their faces. It seemed to be arranged as some sort of Stalinist tribunal.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Barrington,” a smooth male voice said.
Stone went and sat down on the stool. There was something odd about the man’s voice, but he couldn’t figure it out.
The smooth voice spoke again, and Stone figured it was coming from the man in the middle, who was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. “Tell us, please, if you have ever heard the following names, in any context: Robert Graves?”
“What?”
“Robert Graves.”
“Yes. The poet.”
“Any other context?”
“No.”
“Maureen Kleinknect?”
“No.”
“Joanna Scott-Meyers?”
“No.”
“Jacob Ben-David?”
“No.”
“Erica Burroughs?”
“Yes.”
“In what regard?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve had lunch with her once, dinner with her a couple of times, in a group.”
“Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Stone said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I’ve just told you what we want, for the present. Lance Cabot?”
“If you are acting in some sort of official capacity, tell me now; otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”
“Lance Cabot?”
Stone said nothing.
“If you would prefer it, Mr. Barrington,” the smooth voice said, “I can arrange for the two gentlemen who brought you here to come and persuade you to answer.”
Stone said nothing. The voice was very English, but the speaker was not. There was an underlying accent.
“Just once more; Lance Cabot?”
“He is the companion of Erica Burroughs; I’ve seen him when I’ve seen her.”
“How does Mr. Cabot earn his living?”
“He styles himself a business consultant; I have no idea what that means.”
“Did you know him before arriving in London?”
“No.”
“Ali Hussein?”
“Pardon?”
“Ali Hussein?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Sheherezad Al-Salaam, also known as Sheila.”
“Nor her.”
“Sarah Buckminster?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I knew her when she lived in New York; we renewed our acquaintance after I arrived in London. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Monica Burroughs?”
“The sister of Erica. Art dealer. Spent part of one weekend in her company.”
“John Bartholomew?”
“No.”
“John Bartholomew?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Mr. Barrington, don’t try my patience.”
Stone said nothing. The man made a small movement with one hand, and Stone heard a buzzer ring in another room. A moment later, the door opened and the two thugs entered.
“John Bartholomew?” the smooth voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell us.”
“Mr. Bartholomew visited me in New York and asked me to come to London to persuade his niece to return with me to the United States.”
“What is the name of his niece?”
“Erica Burroughs.”
“And why did he want her returned to America?”
“He said he was concerned that her boyfriend might involve her in illegal activities.”
“What sort of activities?”
“Drug smuggling.”
Stone heard a low laugh. “What is the real name of John Bartholomew?”
Stone tried to sound puzzled. “Real name? I know him only by that name.”
“Are you still in his employ?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I discovered that Miss Burroughs is not his niece, and that he seemed to have other motives for hiring me.”
“What motives?”
“He seemed to have some animus for Mr. Cabot.”
“For what reason?”
“He did not confide that to me. When I discovered he was lying to me, I resigned from his employ.”
“Have you seen him since that time?”
“No.”
There was a scraping noise from the table in front of him, and Stone realized that the contents of his pockets were on the table. A hand picked up the satellite telephone and held it in the light for Stone to see.
“What is this?”
“It’s a telephone.”
“What kind of telephone?”
“A cellphone, like any other.” Stone heard beeps as a number was tapped into the phone. A moment later, a phone rang in another room. The phone was returned to the table.
“Describe John Bartholomew.”
“Six feet three or four, heavyset, dark hair going gray, sixtyish.”
“Nationality?”
“American, as far as I know.”
“Why do you carry a false passport?” A hand held it in the light.
“If it’s false, then they’re handing out false documents at the passport office in the London embassy of the United States of America. If you’ll check the date of issue, you’ll see I got it last week.”
There was some whispering among the three men, then the smooth voice spoke again. If you have left Mr. Bartholomew’s employ, why do you remain in Britain?”
“Tourism.”
“Mr. Barrington, you are trying my patience again.”
“A woman, as well.”
“What woman?”
“Sarah Buckminster. Don’t you read the papers?”
“You are interested in her?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“Miss Buckminster and I lived together in New York. We have renewed our acquaintance.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, ah.”
“Miss Buckminster has recently become very rich.”
“Ah, you do read the papers.”
“Are you interested in her money?”
“What do you think?”
“Ah.”
“If you say so.”
“Mr. Barrington, I can’t say that I like your attitude.”
“I can’t say that I like being abducted on a public street, imprisoned, and interrogated by a group of people who have read too many bad novels.”
“Mr. Barrington, this is your final opportunity to tell us what we want to know.”
“Have I denied you anything so far? I have no idea what you want to know.”
“According to your papers, you were once a policeman.”
“That’s correct.”
“Surely you conducted interrogations.”
“Many times.”
“Didn’t you always find out what you wanted to know?”
“No, I didn’t; unlike you, I was constrained by the law.”
“We are constrained by nothing.”
“No kidding.”
The man made a motion with his hand; one of the two thugs stepped forward, swept Stone’s belongings into a paper bag, and stepped back.
“Get rid of him,” the smooth voice said.
Stone did not like the sound of that. Before he could move, the two men were on him, one at each arm, dragging him back down
the series of hallways, outside, and into the car. Once again, he was facedown on the floor of the limousine, with a foot on his neck.
The car drove away, turning this way and that. Stone lay still, knowing that he had no chance until the car stopped and they took him out. Then he would give them the fight of their lives.
Twenty minutes later, the car came to a halt; Stone was picked up and bodily tossed into the gutter. As he started to rise, the paper bag with his belongings hit him in the back of the head. By the time he got to his feet, the car had turned a corner and was gone. People looked at him oddly as he dusted himself off and returned his belongings to his pockets. He looked around. The Hayward shop was across the street; he was back where he had been abducted.
He walked across the street and into Hayward’s. Doug Hayward rose from a leather sofa, and a small dog began to bark at Stone.
“Shut up, Bert,” Hayward said. “Come on back, Stone; we’re ready for you.”
Stone silently followed Hayward to the rear of the shop and the dressing room, where he removed his jacket.
“Stone,” Hayward said, “are you aware that you have a footprint on the back of your shirt collar?”
Chapter 29
STONE LET HIMSELF INTO HIS SUITE and got out the satellite telephone. He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.
“Yes?”
“I have to see you now.”
“Can’t do it; how about tomorrow?”
“I’ll be in New York tomorrow, if I don’t see you now.”
A brief silence. “Where?”
“The lounge at the Connaught will do. Ten minutes.”
“All right.” He rang off.
Bartholomew/Hedger bustled into the lounge and sat down next to Stone, who was sipping a cup of tea.
“Some tea?” Stone asked.
“What is it?”
“Earl Grey.”
Hedger made a digusted noise and raised a finger to a waiter. “Bring me a pot of English Breakfast,” he said.
Stone waited while the tea was brought.
“All right, what?” Hedger said.
“Earlier today, I was grabbed by two men, stuffed into the back of a car, driven to an unknown location, stripped, searched, and interrogated by three men. By one man, really; the other two just sat and listened.”
Hedger stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you hear anything I said? I want an explanation.”
“Why do you think I know anything about it?”
“I believe you are a member of a group who indulges in such activities; you were my first thought, even though they asked me about you.”
Hedger held up a hand. “What did they want to know about me?”
“Whatever I knew; your name, for instance.”
“Did you tell them?”
“No.”
“If they didn’t know my name, how did they ask about me?”
“They asked about John Bartholomew. Obviously, they didn’t get the joke. They wanted to know Bartholomew’s real name.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them about our initial meeting and told them I had left your employ.”
Hedger looked relieved. “All right, now I want you to take me through this incident, step by step, and tell me exactly what happened and exactly what they asked you.”
“It was a big car, black, with blackened windows; a limousine, I believe. Plenty of room for me to lie facedown on the floor with some palooka’s foot on my neck.”
“Describe the two men who took you.”
“Big, muscular.”
“What did they say to you?”
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“They told me to shut up. Oh, one of them told me to undress, once we reached their location.”
“Accent?”
“Pretty hard to determine from the words ‘shut up,’ but I’d say British.”
“Class?”
“I didn’t ask them where they went to school.”
“No, class; social class: upper or lower?”
“Jesus, I don’t know, but it’s hard for me to believe that members of the upper class indulge in broad-day-light kidnapping. Lower, I guess.”
“What about the other men, their accents?”
“Only one of them spoke. His voice was smooth, cultivated, definitely upper class, but there was some sort of accent underneath it.”
“You mean a foreign accent?”
“You know the actor Herbert Lom?”
“Yes.”
“An accent like that, sort of—foreign, but British upper class at the same time. It’s as if he were born elsewhere but educated here.”
“Do you know anyone else, an Englishman, with the same kind of upper-class accent?”
Stone thought about it. “James Cutler,” he said, “and his solicitor, Julian Wainwright.” Also Sarah and her parents, but he didn’t mention that.
“Do you know where Cutler and Wainwright went to school?”
“Eton, I believe.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, what?”
“Just ah. That would indicate someone fairly high up in the food chain.”
“What food chain?”
“The food chain in whatever country he’s from. They don’t ship out butchers’ sons to be educated at Eton.”
“Oh.”
“Tell me exactly what they asked you.”
“It was a list of names, nothing else.”
“What were the names?”
“Robert Graves was the first.”
“The poet?”
“They asked me if I knew the name in any other context.”
“Who else?”
“Two women’s names—an Irish first name, and the last name was odd—Klein something or other.”
“Maureen Kleinknect?”
“Yes, that’s it. Who is she?”
“It doesn’t matter; she’s dead. What was the other one?”
“Joanna with a double-barreled last name.”
“Scott-Meyers?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Then there was Erica and Monica Burroughs, Lance Cabot, Sarah Buckminster, and you.”
“And what did you tell them about each of these people?”
“The bare minimum.”
Hedger sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Once again, describe the two men who dragged you into the car. This time I want every detail.”
“I told you—big.”
“What else?”
“Come to think of it, they both had dark skin—not very dark, but a little, and black hair.”
“Describe the three men who interrogated you.”
“They were seated behind the lights in the room, in shadows, so I could only see silhouettes.”
“Tell me about the silhouettes.”
“The two on the ends were just shadows, lumps, but the one in the middle—the one doing the interrogating—was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. That was all I could see of him, really.”
“That’s interesting; you were very good to pick that up, in the circumstances.”
“Thank you. Now give me a good reason why I should continue to work for you while this sort of thing is going on.”
“Two reasons. First, this won’t happen again; they believe they have everything you know. Second, I’m doubling your hourly fee.”
Nobody had ever doubled his hourly fee before; Stone was impressed, still . . . “That won’t do me any good, if I’m dead.”
“They’re not going to kill you.”
“Why not? What’s their motive for keeping me alive?”
“These people are from a foreign country—probably a foreign intelligence service, or at least some clandestine group. It’s a lot of trouble to kill people and dispose of their bodies, and they won’t do anything that will call attention to themselves. Anyway, if they’d wanted you dead, you’d already
be dead.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Think about it; what do you know that you haven’t already told them?”
“Not much, just your name.”
“Exactly, and they don’t believe you know that. They believe they’ve milked you dry, so you’re of no further use to them. They’ll leave you alone, now.”
“If you say so,” Stone replied doubtfully.
“Trust me,” Hedger said.
Yeah, sure, Stone thought. But double his hourly fee sounded awfully good. It wasn’t until Hedger had left that Stone remembered that he had forgotten to mention the two Arab names he’d been asked about. What were they . . . Ali and Sheherezad, also known as Sheila? He couldn’t remember the last names.
Chapter 30
STONE’S NEXT THOUGHT WAS TO HAVE the same discussion with Lance Cabot that he’d had with Stanford Hedger. Rain had begun to beat against the Connaught’s windows, so he retrieved his new raincoat and umbrella from his suite, and the doorman got him a cab. It was only a short way to Farm Street, but Stone was not going to dance over there in the rain.
The cabbie was just turning into Farm Steet, when Stone stopped him. “Just hold it right here for a minute,” he said. Lance Cabot and the couple he’d met with in the village pub were leaving the house, getting into a cab of their own. “Follow that cab,” Stone said, “but not too closely.” He could see the driver in the rearview mirror, rolling his eyes.
“Right, guv,” the cabbie said. “It’s your money; I’ll follow them to Cornwall, if you like.”
“I doubt if they’ll go that far.”
Lance’s cab set off. Stone’s driver reversed for a few yards, then drove up another mews. Stone thought the man had lost the other cab, until it appeared ahead of them. “Very good,” he said to the driver.
“It’s what I do,” the cabbie said. “You know about The Knowledge?” Lance’s cab turned into Park Lane, and Stone’s followed.
“What knowledge is that?”
“The Knowledge is what every London cabdriver has to have before he gets a license. You drive all over town on a motorbike for a year or two, taking notes on addresses, public buildings, pubs, theaters and tube stops—whatever you see; you go to classes at night; and finally you take the exam. A question would be, like, ‘A passenger wants to go from Hampstead Heath to Wormwood Scrubs Prison. Describe the shortest route, and name every cross street, public building, and tube stop along the way.’ Miss one cross street, and you’ve missed the question. Miss too many questions, and you’ve failed the exam. Get it right, and you have The Knowledge, and you get your license.”
