Unintended Consequences

by Stuart Woods

  Joan told him. “The market is still depressed after the housing crisis. I think they might take a good deal less for a quick cash sale. Also, you could break through from the garage into their basement, making more room for the cars and a bigger wine cellar and a nicer exercise room for you.”

  Stone thought about that for a moment. “All right, make them an offer—negotiate, if you have to. I’ll trust you to make the deal.”

  Joan jumped up and hugged him. “You’re wonderful!”

  “So are you and Helene,” Stone replied.

  He went to his desk and began sorting through the correspondence and phone messages. There was one from Mike Freeman, and he returned it.

  “Exciting events last night, eh?” Mike asked cheerfully.

  “A little too exciting,” Stone said. “I’m still feeling the effects.”

  “My sources tell me that two survivors of the helicopter crash were picked up. Neither of them was Majorov. He’s in the wind.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, he can stay there,” Stone replied. “I should have shot him when I could have, or followed Helga’s advice and dumped him off the building.”

  Mike laughed. “That Helga is a piece of work, isn’t she?”

  “She certainly is.”

  “I don’t think we’ll hear from Majorov again. I think he’s found you to be too much trouble for the effort.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Stone said. They said goodbye and hung up.

  The phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dino. I thought I’d bring you up to date.”

  “There were two survivors, but not Majorov?”

  “Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I have connections.”

  “You want to join me for dinner at Patroon tonight? Viv is still cleaning up after the party last night. Eight o’clock?”

  “You’re on. I’m glad you don’t have to do the dishes.”

  Stone worked through the afternoon, then went upstairs to his study for a drink. Joan buzzed him. “Your package from Marcel has arrived,” she said. “Shall I bring it up?”

  “Sure,” Stone said, and collapsed into his easy chair.

  60

  Stone sat, too worn out even to get up and get himself a drink. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, a man was standing in the doorway. He hadn’t heard him approach.

  He was small, perhaps five-five or -six, and wiry, with short, thick gray hair. He looked to be fiftyish, and he was wearing a well-fitted, three-piece tweed suit.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” the man said. His accent was Cockney.

  “Good afternoon,” Stone replied. “Where did you come from?”

  “Ms. Robertson escorted me from her office.”

  “Ah, you’re here to deliver a gift from M’sieur duBois.”

  “That is correct, sir. My name is Frederick Flicker.” He handed Stone a thick buff-colored envelope. “My credentials.”

  “Credentials?” Stone asked.

  “My particulars, Mr. Barrington. I would be grateful if you would peruse them. If you have any questions, I would be pleased to answer them.”

  Stone opened the envelope and shook out a couple of sheets of paper and a binder holding many more pages.

  “May I get you a glass of your bourbon while you’re reading them, sir?” Flicker nodded toward the bar.

  “Yes, thank you,” Stone replied. “Fill a whiskey glass with ice, then fill it with bourbon.”

  Flicker did as instructed, selecting the Knob Creek without being told.

  Stone took a sip. “How did you know which bourbon?”

  “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

  Stone set the papers in his lap. “Why don’t you just tell me about yourself, Mr. Flicker? I’m too tired to digest all this. And please sit down. Fix yourself a drink, first, if you like.”

  “Thank you, sir, but no,” Flicker said. He sat down. “First, to business. I was born fifty years ago next month in London, the East End, within the sound of Bow Bells.”

  “Which makes you a genuine Cockney, does it not?”

  “Just so, sir,” Fred said in his genuine Cockney accent. “I was educated at the local grammar school but could not afford to attend university, so at seventeen I enlisted in the Royal Marines. I served thirty-two years in the Commando Brigade, retiring with the rank of regimental sergeant major. I fought in Northern Ireland, Iraq, and Afghanistan. And, since I understand you sometimes have security concerns, you should know I was twice the Royal Marines pistol champion.”

  “That is an impressive record, Mr. Flicker.”

  “I would be pleased, sir, if you would call me Fred.”

  “Certainly, Fred.”

  “After my retirement I was at loose ends, so I attended a renowned school for butlers in London, and after that, the Bentley chauffeurs’ training course, plus a course in high-performance and defensive driving. Then I was employed for a year by M’sieur duBois at his Paris home and office as second butler. I regret to say that I found my character and nature incompatible with those of the head butler, whom I thought insufferably French, with a profound disrespect for anything English, so I tendered my resignation ten days ago, leaving with a resounding recommendation from M’sieur duBois, which you will find in my file.”

  “I see,” Stone said, and he thought he was beginning to. “Fred, am I to understand that you are a gift to me from M’sieur duBois?”

  “Quite right, Mr. Barrington. M’sieur duBois has given you one year of my service, paid in advance. After that, we will see if we may reach an accommodation regarding the future.”

  “Well,” said Stone, “welcome to my household, Fred.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Fred said. “Might I begin by asking Ms. Robertson to give me a tour of the house and kitchens and to introduce me to the cook?”

  “What a good idea,” Stone said.

  “Oh, and I presume you have a wine cellar?”

  “I do.”

  “Then perhaps I should immediately cellar the dozen cases of very fine French wines that M’sieur duBois has also sent you. After all, wine is a living thing.” In Fred’s Cockney accent, this came out as “Woyne is a wivving fing.”

  Stone laughed. “I don’t think M’sieur duBois was as impressed with our American wines as he pretended to be.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. By the way, I am aware that my accent is impenetrable to many Americans. I can quite easily speak in BBC English or, if you wish, with more of an upper-class accent. Which would you prefer?”

  “About halfway between your Cockney and your BBC, I should think.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Joan appeared at the door, apparently having been listening outside. “Fred, if you will come with me, we’ll get started.”

  “Joan,” Stone said, “you can put Fred in the room at the rear of the fourth floor, overlooking the garden. Assuming we successfully complete the purchase of the house next door, you can arrange an apartment for him there.”

  “What a good idea,” Joan said, “since the seller has already accepted your offer, which was fifteen percent below the asking price. We close on the fifteenth.”

  “Very good,” Stone said.

  Fred stood up. “You may keep my credentials and read them at your leisure,” he said to Stone, then he and Joan left the room.

  Stone slowly finished his bourbon. “Dino,” he said aloud, to himself, “you are not going to believe this one.”

  Then Joan appeared in the doorway, holding a package wrapped in brown paper, which seemed to be leaking. “Another gift arrived for you,” she said.

  “What on earth is that?” Stone asked.

  “Fifteen pounds of moose meat.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am happy
to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

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  If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

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