by Stuart Woods
Stone received it in a handkerchief and lightly turned it over. It was of alligator, and it must have cost a bundle, Stone thought. He looked inside and found more than five hundred pounds, mostly in fifty-pound notes. One side of the wallet held three credit cards, an ATM card from Barclays bank, an international health insurance card, and half a dozen calling cards, all in the name of Stanford Hedger, Mayfair House, Green Street. The credit cards were in the same name. “Well,” he said, “at least we have his name, now.”
“The lady pickpocket said he introduced himself as Bill, so Hedger could be a false name, too.”
“If it is, he’s gone to a great deal of trouble to establish that identity. Since we know he lives at the Green Street address, I’m inclined to think that Hedger is his real name.”
“Maybe so, but these buggers have a thousand names, if they want them.”
“Bobby, can you dust this for fingerprints and have them checked with the international database?”
“I have a friend who can,” Bobby replied. “Of course, my prints are on it, as are the pickpocket’s.”
“How long will it take?”
“A day or two, depending on how busy my friend is.”
“All right.”
“What do you want me to do with the wallet after that?”
“Wipe all the prints off it and stick it through the mail slot of Hedger’s building. Maybe he’ll think someone found and returned it.”
“All right, sir; I’ll be on my way then.” Bobby took the wallet back in a handkerchief of his own, tucked it into a raincoat pocket, and left.
Stone went upstairs. It was just coming onto nine o’clock, New York time, and he called Bill Eggers, who he knew came in early.
“Eggers.”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”
“Sounds familiar,” Eggers said, “but I can’t place it. Who is he?”
“That’s what I want to know. I think it may be Bartholomew’s real name. By the way, he works for the government, probably in intelligence.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, based on who sent him to me, but I can’t elaborate on that.”
“I see.”
“I hope you do.”
“Of course I do, Bill, but should you get some information that doesn’t compromise your relationship with a client, will you pass it on to me?”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Talk to you later.”
Stone thought it might not be too early to call his old professor, Samuel Bernard.
“Yes?” The voice was surprisingly weak.
“It’s Stone Barrington, sir; how are you?”
“Oh, I’ve had a bad couple of days, but I’m better now.”
“Is this not a good time to talk?”
“No, no, go right ahead. What can I do for you?”
“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”
“Indeed it does,” Bernard replied without hesitation.
“Who is he?”
“When I knew him, and later, when I only knew of him, he was considered one of the agency’s brightest young men.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was a bit impulsive, perhaps even wild, but that doesn’t hurt one’s reputation in the Company, if the results are good. Of course, if one makes a mistake . . .”
“Did Hedger make a mistake?”
“He did, and I can’t tell you about it, except to say that it cost the lives of half a dozen operatives in a Middle Eastern country. Fortunately for Hedger, none of them was American, or he would have been in real trouble.”
Stone wasn’t sure what else to ask. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“There was a wife, in his youth, but she died in an automobile accident. Hedger was driving, and he was said to have been broken up by the event, though I never knew him to be broken up by anything. He had a level of self-confidence that is usually only found in maniacs, and that seemed to make him impervious to most disastrous events, like his Middle Eastern debacle. I shouldn’t think it took him long to get over his wife’s death.”
“Anything else?”
“He was extraordinarily brave, in the physical sense, which, I suppose, comes with his level of self-confidence. I doubt if he believed that anyone could ever do him harm. He garnered a couple of medals for valor, and that stood him in good stead in the agency. Still, careful people never trusted him, and there are always a lot of careful people in the Company.”
“What about those who were not so careful?”
“There are always those in the Company, too, and they always found uses for Hedger. Later, when he rose to supervisory levels, he attracted younger men who seemed to share his attitudes. He was kept busy keeping them out of trouble, which some saw as his just reward.”
“Do you have any idea what he might be involved with now?”
“I shouldn’t think he’s involved with anything. He’s dead.”
That brought Stone up short. “Are you sure?”
“He died in an explosion in Cairo about two years ago—one caused by an Islamic fundamentalist suicide bomber.”
“Was his body identified?”
“Some body parts were, I believe. If you’ll forgive me, Stone, I have a visitor, who’s on the way upstairs now. I’ll call you if I think of anything else. You’re still at the Connaught?”
“Yes, sir, and thank you.”
Stone hung up the phone, baffled more than before.
21
THE FUNERAL SERVICE FOR JAMES CUTLER took place at the Catholic church in Farm Street, which Stone remembered being mentioned in the novels of Evelyn Waugh. All the people present at the house party the weekend before attended, plus a great many others, many of whom Stone surmised were business acquaintances of the deceased. Julian Wainwright was prominent among them, looking suitably sorrowful. When the service was over, many of those present adjourned to the house occupied by Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs, which was conveniently nearby.
A light lunch was served, and Stone had a glass of wine. He wandered idly through the house looking at pictures and taking in the place. It was handsomely decorated, and Stone wondered if Lance had had it done or if the house came that way when it was rented. As he strolled down a hallway, he heard Lance’s voice through an ajar door, apparently to the study.
“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance was saying, “if you persist in this, if you send anyone else for me, I’ll kill them, then I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. That is a solemn promise.” Then he slammed the handset down onto the receiver.
Stone ducked into a powder room and closed the door. He wanted to hear all of that conversation, and fortunately, he had the means to do so quite nearby. He ducked out of the house and found Bobby Jones down the street.
“Good day,” Jones said.
“I want to hear what’s on the recorder,” Stone said.
“Of course; I’ll take you there.”
Stone followed the little man to a garage nearby. Jones unlocked a small door in the larger one and closed it behind them. He went to a cupboard at the rear of the garage, unlocked a padlock, and opened the door to reveal a small tape machine. “How far back today do you want me to go?”
“The last conversation,” Stone replied.
Jones rewound the tape, and the sound of voices backward and at speed could be heard, then stopped. He punched a button and the recorder began to play.
“Hello?” Lance’s voice.
“I want it,” another male voice said. “You’re all out of time.” The quality of the connection was poor, as if the call were coming from some Third World country.
“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance said, and the rest was as Stone had heard a moment before.
“Let me hear it again,” Stone said.
Jones rewound t
he machine, and Stone listened carefully. The voice was American, he thought, but he could not be sure, and it didn’t sound like Bartholomew. “Once more,” Stone said, and listened.
“Sounds like he’s got somebody on his back,” Jones said, resetting the machine.
“Yes, it does.”
“Sounds like money to me.”
“Could be. Could be almost anything of value—even information.”
“I suppose so, but I’m a copper right to the bone, and I tend to think in the simplest terms, especially where a threat to kill is involved.”
“You could be right,” Stone admitted. “By the way, I checked with a knowledgeable friend in New York, and Stanford Hedger has been dead for two years.”
“You could have fooled me,” Jones said, letting them out of the garage and locking the door behind him. “What do you make of that?”
“Well, one of two things, I guess: either Hedger isn’t dead, or he’s dead and Bartholomew is using his identity for some purpose.”
“This is far too thick for me,” Jones said. “Give me a nice homicide any day; I never know what to make of these spooks.”
“You’ve had experience with them before?”
“Yes, but only with the blokes on our side—MI6. The trouble with trying to figure them out is you never know what they want, and if they explained it to you, you probably wouldn’t understand it.”
Stone laughed. “I see your point. I have a feeling, though, that whatever is going on here is taking place outside the bounds of any official action. It sounds awfully personal to me.”
Stone said goodbye to Jones and returned to the party. As he entered the house, he encountered Lance, who had an empty glass in his hand.
“Where did you go?” Lance asked, motioning him to follow toward the bar.
“Just for a stroll; I felt like some air.”
“I know the feeling,” Lance replied. “These wakes can be oppressive.”
“It was good of you to have it here.”
“I’m happy to help out Sarah at a difficult time.” He got a drink from the barman and led Stone out into a small garden. They sat down on a teak bench.
“Lovely house,” Stone said.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Lance said. “It came as you see it, right from the agency. The owner is with the Foreign Office; he’s in India or someplace.”
“Good break for you.”
“The rent isn’t a good break. Tell me, is what I’ve been reading in the papers true?”
“I don’t know; what have you been reading?”
“That Sarah is going to inherit James’s estate.”
“That much is true,” Stone said. “I’ve seen the will.”
“How much?”
“Hard to say; difficult to put a value on the business.” So far, he hadn’t told Lance anything that wasn’t public knowledge.
“I suppose Sarah will sell it.”
“I don’t know if she’s had time to think about it. I imagine there’ll be quite a lot of legal work to be done before it’s settled.”
“This turn of events brings me back to what I initially said to you about the boating accident.”
“You still think it wasn’t an accident?”
“I have a suspicious mind.”
“Well, I’ve looked into it a bit, and so has Sir Bernard Pickering, and to my knowledge, no information has arisen to indicate that Sarah even knew about the contents of James’s will.”
“But you can’t say definitively that she did or didn’t know.”
“I don’t think anyone can, but it’s my best judgment, based on what Sarah has told me and on my knowledge of her character, that she did not know.”
“You sound as if you’re testifying at a trial.”
“You sound as if you’re conducting one.”
Lance laughed. “Fair enough.”
“How well did you know James?”
“I’d met him two or three times.”
“What did you think of him?”
“I thought that, like a lot of men, he was very smart about business and very stupid about almost everything else.”
“You mean about Sarah?”
“Yes. She obviously didn’t love him.”
Stone nodded. “I think you’re right; she was under a lot of pressure from her parents to marry him. I don’t think she would have gone through with it.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because Sarah impressed me as someone who would not have let an opportunity like James get past her.”
“That’s a pretty cynical view. How well do you know Sarah?”
“Not all that well, but I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
This conversation was going nowhere, Stone thought. He decided to change the subject. “Do you know someone named Stanford Hedger?”
Lance turned and looked at him for a moment. “No, I don’t,” he said. Then he got up and walked back into the house, leaving Stone on the garden bench.
22
STONE RETURNED TO THE CONNAUGHT, and as he entered, he caught sight of Ted Cricket sitting in the lounge, having a cup of tea. Stone joined him.
Cricket looked grim. He reached into a pocket and handed Stone a single sheet of paper.
Stone unfolded it.
The fingerprints on the wallet were checked against all available databases. Only in the United States was there an apparent match, but no identity was provided. Instead, a message appeared onscreen, stating: “This record is unavailable, for reasons of national security.” I have returned the wallet to the Green Street house, as per your instructions.
This letter constitutes my resignation from the assignment. Mr. Cricket will present you with my bill. Please do not contact me again.
It was signed by Bobby Jones.
“I understand about the fingerprints,” Stone said to Cricket, “but what’s wrong with Bobby?”
Cricket handed him another sheet of paper, outlining Jones’s fee and expenses. “He’d be grateful for cash,” Cricket said.
“Of course,” Stone replied, reaching for the envelope containing Bartholomew’s expense money. He handed Cricket the cash, including a generous bonus. “Thank him for his help, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Now tell me what’s going on with Bobby.”
“When Bobby returned the wallet, he was apparently followed from the house by two men. They dragged him into an alley and beat him badly.”
“Jesus, is he all right?”
“He will be, eventually. He’s in hospital at the moment.”
“I want to go and see him.”
“He doesn’t want to see you, Mr. Barrington. He regards the beating as a message from Mr. Bartholomew to stay away from him and from you.”
“I’d like to pay any medical bills.”
“We have a National Health Service in this country.”
Stone peeled off another thousand pounds from Bartholomew’s money and handed it to Cricket. “Then please give him this; if he needs more, let me know.”
Cricket pocketed the money. “I’m sure he’ll be grateful.”
“What about you, Ted? Do you want out of this?”
“No, sir; I’d like to stay on it in the hope of meeting the two gentlemen who did this to Bobby.”
“I understand, but I can’t promise that will happen.”
“It will, if I continue to follow Bartholomew.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt, too, Ted.”
“Believe me, Mr. Barrington, it is not I who will be hurt.”
“Ted . . .”
“Let me deal with this, please. I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t want anyone killed.”
“I’ve no intention of doing that.”
“I don’t want Bartholomew touched.”
“I won’t promise you that.”
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“I understand
that, but it went that way.”
“I’ll continue to pay you to watch Lance Cabot,” Stone said. “But I don’t want you near Bartholomew. Don’t follow him again.”
“In that case, I’ll have to leave your employ, Mr. Barrington.” He handed over another sheet of paper. “Here’s my bill.”
Stone paid it.
Cricket stood up and offered his hand. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Barrington; I know you’re a gentleman and that you didn’t intend for anything like this to happen.”
“Thank you, Ted, and I wish you luck.”
“And the very best to you, Mr. Barrington. Oh, by the way, I’ll leave the tape recorder going in the garage for the time being.”
Stone shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’ll be returning to New York, as soon as I take care of a couple of loose ends.”
“Then I’ll have the equipment removed,” Cricket said. He turned and left the hotel.
Stone went to the concierge’s desk and asked to be booked on a flight to New York the following day, then he went to his suite. He took out the little satellite phone, positioned himself near the window, and from the phone’s memory, dialed Bartholomew’s number.
It was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
“What do you have to report?”
“You and I have to meet right away.”
“I’m in New York.”
“We both know that’s a lie; you’re staying at a house in Green Street and visiting the American Embassy every day.”
There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, “The Green Street house in an hour.”
“No; someplace public.”
“All right, the Garrick Club, at six o’clock, in the bar; I’ll leave your name at the door.”
“I’ll be there.” Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.
The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead—Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.
