Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  “And with Woodman and Weld?”

  “I’m of counsel to the firm.”

  “Not a partner?”

  “No, most of my work for them is done outside the firm.”

  Lance regarded him gravely. “It sounds as though you’re as much of a secret at Woodman and Weld as this wine is at the Connaught.”

  “I’m not quite a secret,” Stone said. “Like the champagne, I’m available on request.”

  “Tell me, Stone,” Lance continued, “have you ever done government work of any kind?”

  “I worked for the government of New York City as a police officer for many years.”

  “Did you? Erica didn’t mention that. What sort of police officer?”

  “Every sort, at one time or another. I began as a patrolman and finished as a homicide detective.”

  “Finished rather young, didn’t you?”

  “I was retired for medical reasons.”

  “You look reasonably fit.”

  “I took a bullet in the knee.”

  “That’s very romantic.”

  “I can assure you that, at the time, it was not in the least romantic, only painful.” Lance was grilling him, and Stone was determined to be polite about it.

  “Lance,” Erica said, “you’re hogging Stone; we’d like to talk to him, too.”

  Monica spoke up, and her accent was more than mid-Atlantic; it was quite English. “How does one recover from a bullet in the knee?” she asked, and she seemed fascinated.

  “With surgery and therapy,” Stone said. “It doesn’t bother me much anymore. If it becomes troublesome again, I can have it replaced.”

  “Ah, yes,” Monica said, “the modular approach to human anatomy. I suppose Lance will be having a new liver soon.”

  Stone and Erica laughed; Lance pretended to.

  “And what do you do, Monica?” Stone asked.

  “I have an art gallery, in Bruton Street.”

  “Did you study art somewhere?”

  “At Mount Holyoke, like Erica, only a few years ahead of her. I got a master’s in art history there, then went to work for Sotheby’s. Erica followed in my footsteps, but she lasted only until Lance spirited her away.”

  “I heard that story at lunch,” Stone said. “How long have you lived in London?”

  “Nearly ten years.”

  Lance spoke up. “Long enough to acquire a pretentious accent.”

  Monica and Erica both shot him searing glances. “Do you really find my accent pretentious, Lance?” Monica asked.

  “Oh, very.”

  “It seems that every time I speak to you, your accent has traveled a hundred miles farther to the east,” she said dryly.

  Lance flushed a little.

  Stone began to feel that all was not entirely well between Monica and Lance, or maybe, between Lance and anybody. “Lance, what made you ask if I’d done government work?”

  “Just a hunch,” Lance said. “Perhaps there’s something a little bureaucratic about you.”

  Stone laughed. “When I was on the public payroll, hardly anybody thought I was bureaucratic enough. I wasn’t thought of as a team player by the NYPD.”

  “And why ever not?” Lance drawled.

  “Because I wasn’t, I suppose. I tended to go my own way, something that’s never appreciated in large organizations.”

  “I know what you mean,” Lance said.

  “Oh? Are you employed by a large organization?”

  “No, but I’ve had a taste of it,” Lance replied.

  “And, I take it, you didn’t like the taste?”

  “You might say that.”

  “What, exactly, do you do?” Stone asked.

  “I consult,” Lance replied.

  “With whom do you consult, and about what?” Stone asked, glad to be the griller instead of the grillee.

  “With a number of people about a number of things,” Lance replied. “Monica, will you pass the crisps, please?” Monica slid the little bowl of homemade potato chips toward him. He turned to Erica. “So, how was shopping today? Find anything?”

  “Only a pen and some fruit,” Erica replied.

  Stone was about to ignore the swift change of subject and return to the grilling when Lance looked at his watch.

  “I think we’d better go along to dinner,” he said.

  Everyone began to move toward the door, and Stone gave the waiter his room number for the check. He wondered if Bartholomew would bridle at the appearance of a Krug ‘66 on the bill.

  Outside, they turned right into Mount Street, and Stone fell into step with Monica, behind Lance and Erica.

  “We’re going to Harry’s Bar,” she said. “It’s just around the corner.” She dropped back a few paces behind her sister and Lance. “It’s nice to see somebody turning the tables on Lance,” she said. “He can be awful.”

  “It’s all right; I don’t have anything to hide,” Stone said.

  “Really? How boring.”

  Stone laughed. “I’m afraid I’m an open book, as boring as that may be. How about you?”

  “I have a great many secrets,” Monica replied, “and you will have to ply me with a great deal of champagne and work very hard to learn what they are.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said, taking her arm.

  They walked past the Hayward shop, turned left, and walked another few yards until they came to an unmarked door. Lance rang a bell, and a moment later a woman in what appeared to be a maid’s uniform let them in.

  “Have you been here?” Monica asked Stone.

  “No, in fact it’s been many years since I’ve been in London, so there are a lot of places I haven’t been. Just about everywhere, in fact.”

  “You’ll like it; the food is marvelous.”

  They were led into a dining room hung with many original Peter Arno cartoons, mostly from The New Yorker and Esquire, Stone thought. The headwaiter seated them at a corner table, and Stone drew the gunfighter’s seat, in the corner, which allowed him to view the other diners. He immediately spotted a well-known actor and a man whose photograph he was sure he’d seen in The New York Times—something to do with British politics, he thought.

  Then he glanced toward the door in time to see two men enter: One was sixtyish, white-haired, very English-looking. The other was John Bartholomew. They were handing their coats to the woman in the maid’s uniform.

  Stone leaned over and whispered to Erica, who was sitting on his right, “A man just came in who looks very familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  Erica turned and looked toward the door. “The white-haired one? That’s Sir Antony Shields,” she said. “He’s in the cabinet, I think, but I don’t remember which portfolio.”

  “No, it’s the other man who looks familiar.”

  She looked again. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said. The two men disappeared around a corner to a table out of sight.

  So much for Uncle John, Stone thought. He wondered if Lance, whose back was to the door, would recognize him.

  7

  STONE HAD THE BRESAOLA, THINLY sliced, air-cured beef, and a pasta dish with seafood. Lance ordered the wine, and when it came, it was a Le Montrachet ’78. Stone reflected that the cost of the wines they were drinking on this occasion would pay for a dozen dinners at Elaine’s. Having gotten to know Lance just a little, he fully expected to end up with the check.

  They dined in a leisurely manner, and with the wine, Lance became a bit more bearable, even charming, at times. They were on dessert when Stone saw Bartholomew and Sir Antony Shields leave the restaurant. Bartholomew had never looked in his direction. He was tempted to ask Lance if he recognized the man, but the men were too quickly gone. Stone waved at the headwaiter.

  The man was there in a flash. “Tell me,” Stone said, “the two gentlemen who just left; one was Sir Antony Shields; do you know the other man’s name?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. The reservation was Sir Antony’s, and altho
ugh I’ve seen the other gentleman here before, I never learned his name.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said, and the headwaiter went away.

  The bill arrived, and as Stone started to reach for it, Erica pushed it toward Lance. “You’re our guest,” she said.

  Lance hardly noticed. He signed the bill with a flourish, and they got up to go.

  “We’re going this way, to Farm Street,” Erica said as they went out the door.

  “I’ll get a taxi for Monica,” Stone said, grateful to be alone with her. He shook hands with both Lance and Erica and said good night.

  “No cabs in sight,” Stone said. “Let’s walk down to the Connaught; there’s usually a taxi parked out front.” Monica agreed, and they strolled down Mount Street, which was shiny from a rain that had come and gone while they were at dinner.

  “I think Lance liked you,” Monica said.

  “I’d be surprised if that were true,” Stone replied.

  “No, he turned out to be quite friendly toward you, for someone he has nothing to gain from.”

  “Is he friendlier when he has something to gain?”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  Stone laughed. “I suppose so.”

  “And I thought you showed great forbearance, especially early in the evening.”

  “The remainder of the company was good.”

  They were nearly to the hotel. “Would you like to . . .” he began.

  “Oh, I hardly think the Connaught is the proper place for that,” she said, reading his mind. “However, if you’re free this weekend, there’s a promising house party down in the country. Would you like to go?”

  “I’d like that very much,” Stone replied.

  “Grand. I’ll pick you up at, say, three tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”

  “Fine. What clothes shall I bring?”

  “It’s for two nights, so I’d bring some tweeds, a dark suit, and a dinner jacket. That should cover just about anything, except tennis or sailing. The house is on the coast.”

  They stopped in front of the hotel, and Stone indicated to the doorman that they would like a taxi. “I’ll be right here at three o’clock,” he said, aiming a kiss at her cheek.

  She turned slightly, and he caught the corner of her mouth, and there was just a flick of her tongue.

  “Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.

  Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.

  “Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”

  “Chile in South America?” Stone asked.

  “Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYU Law School. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book and dialed the number.

  “Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.

  “Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”

  Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”

  “I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”

  “Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”

  “Oh? How interesting?”

  “That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”

  “Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”

  “John Bartholomew.”

  There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”

  “Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.

  “No one knows him,” Bernard replied.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called North by Northwest?”

  “Of course; it’s a favorite of mine.”

  “Then you’ll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest’s name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”

  “Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He’s a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”

  “Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I’ve often wondered if Hitchcock had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an identity, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn’t think why.

  “May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”

  “Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I’m now in London. I’m not quite sure what I’m involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Embassy—at least I think I caught a glimpse of him—and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony Shields.”

  “The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. “Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is analogous to our FBI.”

  “Well, he’s certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchcock film?”

  “As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”

  Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.

  “The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”

  “I see,” Stone said, but he didn’t see at all.

  “Where are you staying?” Bernard asked.

  “At the Connaught.”

  “Let me see what I can learn,” he said, “and I’ll call you if I find out something.”

  “Oh, I have a cellphone number,” Stone said. “It’s one of those satellite things that works in a lot of countries.” He gave Bernard the number.

  “This may take a while,” Bernard said. “Good night.” He hung up.

  Stone sat on the bed, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.

  8

  STONE WOKE REFRESHED, HAVING slept well, but all through breakfast he puzzled over Bartholomew, or whatever his name was, and his own assignment in London. Well, he thought finally, I’m an investigator, so maybe I’d better start investigating.

  He dug out the phone number of Dino’s acquaintance at Scotland Yard and called him.

  “Detective Inspector Throckmorton’s line,” a woman’s voice answered.

  Stone tried not to laugh at the name. “Good morning, my name is Stone Barrington. Would you tell Detective Inspector Throckmorton that Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti suggested I call him?” He spelled Dino’s name for her.

  “One moment, please.”

  There was a brief pause, a click, and a crisp English voice said, “Throckmorton here; is th
at Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Bacchetti called the other day and said you might turn up. You free for lunch?”

  “Yes; may I take you?”

  “Name the spot.”

  “How about the Connaught?”

  “I can live with that,” he said. “The Restaurant or the Grill?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Menu’s pretty much the same, but the Grill is nicer at lunch, I think.”

  “Twelve-thirty?”

  “See you then,” Throckmorton said, and hung up.

  Stone booked the table, then showered and dressed and left the hotel. The sun shone brightly, though he was not sure for how long, and he immediately began to enjoy walking. Using his map, he strolled through Berkeley Square, then over to Piccadilly. He turned right at Fortnum & Mason’s, the renowned department store and food emporium, and finally came to Jermyn Street and Turnbull & Asser.

  He entered the shop, which was filled with brightly colored shirts and ties, looked at both, bought some, bought a couple of the Sea Island cotton nightshirts he preferred, and was sure to get the tax refund forms. He then strolled back to the Connaught, doing a lot of window-shopping in Bond Street along the way.

  Evelyn Throckmorton was a small, well-proportioned, handsome man in his forties, wearing a Savile Row suit and a military mustache. He greeted Stone, and they went into the Connaught Grill, which was painted a restful green, and were given a table in an alcove by a window.

  “How is Dino?” Throckmorton asked.

  “He’s very well; we see a lot of each other.”

  “I’ve heard him speak of you,” Throckmorton said, perusing the menu. “Surprised we didn’t meet when I was in New York that time.”

  “I’ve been off the force for several years, now,” Stone said.

  “Oh yes, I remember your last case; Dino and I discussed it in some detail.”

  Stone didn’t care to revisit the Sasha Nijinsky case. “What would you like for lunch?” he asked as a waiter approached.

  “The potted shrimps and the Dover sole,” the policeman said to the waiter.