Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (130 page)

Stone's phone rang early the next morning.

“It's Carpenter,” she said.

“Good morning.”

“Are you free for lunch today?”

“Yes.”

“Twelve-thirty at the Four Seasons. There's somebody I want you to meet.”

“Who?”

“I'll see you at twelve-thirty.” She hung up.

 

Stone was on time, and Carpenter, with a companion, was already seated at a table in the Grill. The man rose to greet Stone.

“This is Sir Edward Fieldstone,” Carpenter said. “Sir Edward, may I introduce Stone Barrington.”

The man was six feet, slender, rather distinguished-looking, with thick, gray hair that needed cutting, hair visible in his ears and nose, and a well-cut if elderly suit that could have used a pressing. “How do you do, Mr. Barrington,” he said, his
voice deep and smooth, his accent very upper-class. “Won't you sit down? Would you like a drink?”

Stone glanced at the bottle on the table: Chateau Palmer, 1966. “That will do nicely,” he said.

Sir Edward nodded, and a waiter appeared and poured the wine.

“Thank you so much for coming on such short notice,” Sir Edward said. “Let's order some lunch, shall we?”

They looked at the menu, and Stone ordered a small steak, while Carpenter and Sir Edward both ordered the Dover sole, not seeming to care that it might not be the best thing with the wine.

“Lovely weather,” Sir Edward said. “We're not used to it. London is always so dreary.”

“It can be dreary in New York, too,” Stone said, wondering exactly who Sir Edward was. He seemed to be in his mid-sixties, and very un-spylike.

They chatted about nothing until their food came. Stone waited for somebody to tell him why he was there.

“Is there anything you'd like to know?” Sir Edward asked. It seemed a non sequitur.

Stone looked at Carpenter, who kept her mouth shut. “Perhaps you could begin by telling me who you are,” he said.

“Of course, of course,” Sir Edward said, sounding apologetic. “I'm a British civil servant. Perhaps I shouldn't go any further than that.”

“Are you Carpenter's immediate superior?” Stone asked.

“Perhaps a notch or two upwards.”

“Are you the head of Carpenter's service?” Stone asked.

“One might say so. Pass the salt, please.”

Carpenter passed the salt.

“MI Five or MI Six?” Stone asked.

“Oh, those lines seem so blurred these days,” Sir Edward replied. “Let's not be too specific.”

“Perhaps I should explain, sir,” Carpenter said.

Sir Edward gave her the faintest of nods.

“It is very unusual for . . . a person in Sir Edward's position to meet, in his official capacity, with a person outside his service. In fact, very few outsiders are even aware of his name.”

“Would you prefer to be addressed as ‘M,' Sir Edward?” Stone asked.

Sir Edward chuckled appreciatively but did not reply.

“That's a little outdated,” Carpenter said. “You do understand that this meeting is, well, not taking place?”

“All right,” Stone said. “Perhaps you could tell me
why
it is not taking place?”

“Thank you, Felicity,” Sir Edward said. “I'll take it from here.” He turned to Stone. “Mr. Barrington, I believe you are familiar with recent events involving a young woman by the name of Marie-Thérèse du Bois.”

“Somewhat,” Stone said.

“And you know that we have been trying to protect certain of our personnel from certain actions of this woman.”

“You mean, you're trying to stop her from killing your people?”

Sir Edward looked around to be sure he was not being overheard. “One might say that, though perhaps not quite so baldly.”

“Sir Edward, I am an American, not a diplomat, and we are sometimes, as a people, blunt. I think this conversation might go better if you keep that in mind.”

“Quite,” Sir Edward replied, seeming a little miffed.

“What is it you want of me?”

“It is my understanding that you are representing the woman in certain matters?”

“She has retained me for legal advice.”

“Then you are in touch with her?”

“That may be possible.”

“I should like to meet with her.”

Stone nearly choked on his wine. “You astonish me, Sir Edward, given the history of her meetings with members of your service.”

“I am aware that she harbors ill feelings toward us.”

“Then you are aware that she would probably enjoy killing you on sight.”

“Quite.”

“Sir Edward, I think that what you propose is out of the question, given the current state of relations between you and my client.”

“It is the relations between us that I would like to discuss.”

“Frankly, I cannot imagine a setting where such a
meeting could take place, given your separate concerns for security.”

“I would be willing to meet with her alone in a place of her choosing, as long as it is a public place.”

“Sir Edward, do you intend to propose some sort of truce between your service and my client?”

“Something like that.”

Stone shook his head. “For such a meeting to take place, I think there would have to be a level of trust that does not exist on either side.”

“I have already said that I am willing to meet with her alone.”

“If you'll forgive me, I don't find that a credible proposal.”

Sir Edward looked irritated. “And why not?”

“I think my client would view such a meeting as nothing more than an opportunity for your people to kill her.”

“Nonsense. I'm willing to give her my word.”

“I'm not sure that, given her experience with your service, that would impress her.”

Sir Edward looked as if he would like to plunge his fish knife into Stone's chest.

“Surely you can understand that,” Stone said.

“Speak to your client,” Sir Edward said.

“And tell her what, exactly?”

“Tell her that we are willing to come to an accommodation.”

“Make a proposal.”

“We stop trying to kill each other. If we can agree that, then I can arrange for all record of her to be
removed from our databases and those of other European services.”

“Permanently?”

“We would retain a record, off-line, so that, if she should violate our agreement, we could circulate it again.”

“And if
you
should violate it?”

“That, sir, is not in question.” Sir Edward shifted in his seat, and his tone became more conciliatory. “Please understand that my service has never before undertaken such an accommodation with . . . an opponent. We are doing so now only because, in you, Mr. Barrington, we suddenly have a conduit to the opposition. You may tell that we respect her motives, but we believe that it is in the interest of both parties to bring a halt to this madness.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Stone said.

Stone walked back to his house, deep in thought. He did not trust Sir Edward Fieldstone's intentions, and the man's word was not enough. He had visions of some sniper drawing a bead on Marie-Thérèse's head as she and Sir Edward negotiated in some public place. He got out his cell phone and dialed the number.

She answered immediately. “Yes?”

“It's Stone Barrington.”

“Be brief. I don't want to be scanned.”

“I need to meet with you again. I have news.”

A brief silence. “Go to Rockefeller Center again, at six o'clock this evening. I'll be in touch.” She hung up without waiting for a reply.

Stone pressed the redial button.

“Yes?”

“Be very careful. Do you understand? I don't know if I'm being followed.”

“I'm always very careful.” She cut the connection.

 

Stone was at the skating rink on time. Ten minutes passed before his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Were you followed?”

“Not by anyone I could spot.”

“Are you any good at spotting a tail?”

“Fairly good.”

“Walk to Central Park. Go up Fifth Avenue, against the traffic. Cross the street at least three times, checking for a multiple tail. There'll be at least four of them. Once in the park, sit on a bench outside the Children's Zoo.” She hung up.

Stone walked briskly up Fifth Avenue, stopping now and then to check the reflection in a shop window. He crossed the street four times, looking for a repetition in the faces around him, but he saw none. He strolled slowly through the park to the Children's Zoo and sat down on a bench. His cell phone rang immediately. “Yes?”

“Walk to the Wollman skating rink.” She hung up.

Stone walked to the rink, stopping frequently to look at the zoo's animals and checking for a tail. He still saw no one. At the rink, his cell phone rang again. “Yes?”

“Go to the carousel, buy a ticket. Don't ride a horse, you'll look ridiculous. Sit on a bench.” She hung up.

Stone did as he was told, mixing among the children and their nannies. The carousel had made three revolutions before she sat down beside him. Her hair was long and dark, and she wore a tweed suit and bright red lipstick.

“Good afternoon,” she said.

“Good evening. I assume I wasn't followed.”

“Only by me. There was no one else on you. Why did you call?” Her accent was American now.

“Do you know who Sir Edward Fieldstone is?”

“Architect? Of course.”

“I had lunch with him today, at his request.”

She looked surprised. “And how did this come about?”

“A friend of mine works for him. I told her I had spoken to you.”

“I suppose that is not a breach of client confidentiality.”

“He wants to meet with you.”

She laughed. “I'll
bet
he does.”

“I think you should consider this carefully. He says he's willing to meet you, alone, in a place of your choosing, as long as it's a public place. I expect you're thinking there'll be a sniper on a rooftop.”

“You're psychic, Stone. What does he want?”

“He wants a truce.”

She blinked a few times. “He actually said that?”

“To the extent that you can get an upper-class Englishman to say
anything
explicit, yes.”

“On what terms?”

“You stop killing his people, his people stop trying to kill you. He'll remove all traces of you from British and European intelligence computers, keeping only backup files, in case you renege.”

“What if
he
reneges?”

“I asked him that, but I didn't get a straight answer. Presumably, you could go back to killing his people.”

“I don't get it. Why would he stop trying to kill me?”

“So far, you've killed, what, half a dozen of his people? And he hasn't even killed you once. He's losing, and he knows it.”

“It's unlike him to relent,” she said. “In Northern Ireland he had a reputation of never giving up until he got his man. Or woman.”

“Maybe he's getting old. He's got to be in his mid-sixties. Maybe his fires are cooling.”

“Maybe. I doubt it.”

“Marie-Thérèse, how long do you think you can continue like this before you end up in somebody's gunsights?”

“As long as I want to.”

“Don't you ever get a hankering for a more normal life?”

“What, husband? Children?”

“Whatever you want—being able to live your life without changing your identity every other day; being safe, with no one hunting you.”

“Sometimes I think about that, but you don't understand what I'd be up against if I stopped this. There are other people who would not be pleased if I gave up my work.”

“I can understand that, but they don't have the sort of facilities at their disposal that the intelligence services have. Granted, they may have large networks of people, but they don't have computers that scan your face every time you cross a border. You could disappear, find a haven where you could live a more normal life—whatever you'd like that to be.”

She sighed. “You make it sound very attractive.”

“Look, the people you've been working with are going to lose, eventually. They're being hunted, too, and that's not going to stop. They're going up against a group of big nations that have virtually unlimited resources, and they're going to be ground down. Even the countries that have been sheltering them are going to start pulling away, because the cost to them is going to be too great. Eventually, they're going to see that it's easier to do business with the Western powers than trying to destroy them. This is inevitable. When that happens, where do you want to be?”

“You have a point, but it's not going to happen tomorrow. And in the meantime, I'm quite enjoying myself.”

“I don't believe that. I think you're getting tired, and if you're tired, you're going to start making mistakes. And you can't afford to make mistakes.”

“I may meet with Sir Edward, under the right circumstances, and you're authorized to negotiate those for me. Tell him that if we do meet, it would be a very great mistake to make any move on me.”

“I'll relay that.”

“Call me when you have something like an agreement, in writing.”

“Agreements like this don't get put into writing.”

She sighed. “All right, do the best you can, but I want an immediate truce while we're negotiating.”

“I'll tell him that.”

She stood up, holding on to a bar to keep her balance. “You free for dinner this evening?” she asked.

“Not this evening or any evening,” Stone replied. “It's dangerous to be around you.”

“Well, if we can make it less dangerous with this deal, maybe later.”

“Maybe later,” Stone said. But he didn't mean it.