Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  Stone groaned.

  “I’m going to make you forget about Lance,” she said, traveling down his torso with her tongue, until she had him in her mouth.

  She was absolutely right, Stone thought. Lance was right out of his mind.

  27

  STONE HAD FINISHED BREAKFAST AND was reading the London papers in the morning room when Sarah came in.

  “And how are we this morning?” she asked, in the manner of a visiting nurse. She pecked him on the forehead.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said in a low voice, “but I can hardly walk.”

  “You’re out of shape,” she laughed. “We’ll have to get you fit again. Come on, we’re going to the market.” She tugged him out of the chair, grabbed a basket by the front door, and led him outside, where an ancient Morris Minor estate car, nicely kept, awaited them.

  “Where’s everybody else?” Stone asked, as Sarah started the car.

  “Erica’s sleeping in; Lance wanted a drive, so I loaned him the Mini Cooper.”

  “Where’d Lance go?”

  “I dunno; just for a drive.” They passed through the gates of the estate, and Sarah turned toward the village. Shortly, they had stopped in front of a small grocery.

  Down the block, Stone spotted the bright orange Mini Cooper. “You go ahead and shop,” he said to Sarah; “I want to have a look at the village.”

  “All right; meet me at the car in half an hour; I’ll be done by then.” She went into the grocery.

  Stone started down the street toward the Mini Cooper. It was empty, and he looked around, wondering where Lance might have gone. Then he saw him enter a pub across the street. Stone glanced at his watch; it was just opening time. He dawdled down the street, wondering why Lance would be in a pub before lunch. Wasn’t there enough booze back at the house? He considered going inside himself, but Lance’s behavior was unusual enough that he preferred not to be seen following him. He ducked into a news agent’s across from the pub, bought a Herald Tribune, and pretended to read it. No more than a minute had passed when he saw two people get out of a parked saloon car and head for the pub.

  Stone had never seen them before, but their appearance struck a chord. They were Mediterranean in appearance, and the woman was quite beautiful. That matched the description of the people Sarah had seen with Lance in a restaurant, and he remembered Hedger’s saying that two of Lance’s contacts in Cairo had been a young couple. Stone tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street.

  The pub had stained-glass windows, and Stone peered through one. He saw the three of them seated at a corner table, and he moved around to the side of the building for a better view. He found another window, one with clear glass, partly protected by curtains. He could stand and look inside through a small opening in the drapes without being seen by Lance and his friends.

  There was a very earnest conversation going on, which stopped abruptly when a barmaid brought drinks to the table, then resumed as soon as she had gone. Lance was making a point, tapping a forefinger hard on the table, leaning forward for emphasis. The couple seemed uncomfortable, and the woman placed her hand on Lance’s arm, in a calming motion. He jerked away from her and brought his palm down hard on the table, apparently very close to losing his temper. The couple sat back and listened, not arguing. Then Lance threw some money on the table, got up, and walked out.

  Stone flattened himself against the wall until he was sure Lance had left the pub, then started toward the front of the building. From around the corner, he heard the distinctive sound of the Mini Cooper revving, then driving away in a hurry. Stone went into the pub.

  The couple were still there, ignoring their drinks, looking worried, talking animatedly. Stone stood at the end of the bar nearest them and ordered a lemonade.

  “I don’t care,” the man was saying. “This is getting dangerous.”

  “We have to do this,” she said. “What choice do we have? How else are we going to make this kind of money?”

  “Why do we have to take all the risks?” he asked.

  “We’re not taking all the risks; Lance is doing his part.”

  “Let’s get back to London,” the man said, standing up.

  Stone turned his back to them, pretending to examine a photograph of the pub on the wall next to him. He didn’t want them to register his face; he might run into them again.

  When they had been gone long enough to get to their car and drive away, Stone left the pub and walked back to the Morris Minor. Sarah was just coming out of the grocery with a cart filled with bags, and he helped her stow them in the rear of the estate car.

  They were back in plenty of time for lunch, and found Erica had joined the living. After they had eaten, Lance took Stone into the morning room and sat him down.

  “I’ve done some looking into your background,” he said, “and I like what I’ve learned.”

  “What have you learned?” Stone asked.

  “I’ve learned what sort of policeman you were and what sort of lawyer you are now. I’m impressed with the variety and depth of your experience.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said, not sure what to make of this.

  “I think you and I might do some business together. Interested?”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Profitable.”

  “How profitable?”

  “Very.”

  “How illegal?”

  “Entirely aboveboard,” Lance said. “And the money will be made quickly.”

  “In my experience,” Stone replied, “fast money is usually made at the expense of the law and at the risk of prison. I’m not interested in either of those possibilities.”

  “I assure you, this would be a straightforward business transaction.”

  “Why do you need me to accomplish this transaction?”

  “First, there’s some legal work in New York; I need to create a corporation and open banking and brokerage accounts in the corporation’s name.”

  “Any attorney could do that,” Stone said. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re here, and I’m not in New York,” Lance replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Stone had a feeling it was not at all simple. “I’d have to know all of what you intend to do and how you intend to do it.”

  “Not just yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I won’t be involved unless I know what I’m getting into.”

  “I promise, you’ll only be doing what any New York attorney would be doing.”

  “You mean, what I don’t know won’t hurt me?”

  “That’s quite true.”

  “I’ve always found that truism to be a lie,” Stone said. “It’s what you don’t know that can destroy you.”

  “I can’t tell you everything just yet,” Lance said.

  “Let me know when you can, and then we can talk about it,” Stone replied. “Whatever you tell me will be bound by attorney-client privilege as long as it’s legal, and if we should agree to disagree, you’d have nothing to fear from my talking about your deal.”

  Lance stared at him for a moment. “You’re not a very trusting person,” he said.

  “Let’s see,” Stone said. “What I know about you so far is that you’re ex-CIA and that you’re involved in, shall we say, unconventional business dealings. And you have a serious enemy who is still inside the Company and who wishes to see you in jail or, perhaps, worse. Does that about sum it up so far?”

  “You’re taking Stan far too seriously,” Lance said.

  “I’m not sure you’re taking him seriously enough,” Stone said.

  “I assure you, I’m giving him the attention he deserves.”

  Stone shook his head. “I’m not willing to talk about this, until you’re ready to talk to me a lot more.”

  Lance considered this. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.” He got up and left the room.

  Stone wondered if he wasn’t getting near t
he time when he should be calling Detective Inspector Throckmorton. Not just yet, he decided finally.

  28

  STONE ARRIVED BACK AT THE CONNAUGHT and checked his mail and messages, among which was one from Doug Hayward to come back for a fitting. Quick, he thought.

  He changed clothes, then left the Connaught and walked up Mount Street toward Hayward’s shop. In the middle of the block he stood, waiting for traffic to subside enough for him to cross, but before he could move, a large black car pulled up in front of him and stopped. He could not see through the darkened windows, and as he tried, a rear door opened and a large man reached out, took him by the lapels, and jerked him forward into the commodious rear compartment of the car. Before he could say anything, he was on the floor, with large feet holding him down, one on the nape of his neck.

  “What is this about?” Stone managed to croak, even though his neck was held at an odd angle.

  “Shut up,” a man’s deep voice said.

  Stone shut up.

  The car drove for, maybe, twenty minutes. Stone tried to keep track of the time and the turns, but he couldn’t see his watch, and, not knowing the street plan well enough, he couldn’t figure out where they were going. They seemed to drive around three or four traffic circles, and shortly after the last one, they made a right turn and stopped. The two men in the rear seat hustled Stone through an open door in a narrow back street and into a darkened hallway. They marched Stone along, making a couple of turns, then he was propelled forward into a small room, bouncing off the rear wall, and the door was slammed behind him.

  “You have one minute to strip off all your clothes, or we’ll do it for you,” the deep voice said.

  Stone thought about this for half a minute, then he got out of his clothes and laid them neatly on a bench along one wall. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and he could see that he was in a windowless room with a steel door. There was a bucket in a corner and the bench, no other furniture. A moment later, a small door in the larger one opened, then closed, then the two men came into the cell, took away his clothes, and slammed the door behind them.

  Stone thought about it. These people did not seem like the police. Surely the London police had procedures about arrest and detention, just as the New York department did, and what he was experiencing did not seem to conform to any set of procedures in any civilized country. This was more like something out of a World War II film about the Gestapo, or a spy novel.

  Perhaps three minutes passed, then the cell door opened again, and someone threw his clothes at him.

  “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.”