Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (132 page)

Stone was halfway through his first bourbon when Dino arrived at Elaine's.

Dino gave Elaine a kiss and settled into a chair opposite Stone. “A Laphroaig on the rocks,” he said to a waiter.

“You're drinking single malts now?” Stone asked.

“Only when you're buying,” Dino replied. “And it's better than that corn whisky you drink.”

“Corn liquor aged in oak barrels for ten years,” Stone said. “And bourbon is a patriotic American libation.”

“Then you ought to get the Medal of Honor. What's going on?”

“I need your help.”

“So what else is new?”

“You'll be preventing a killing on the streets of New York, so just think of it as doing your job.”

“I'm real anxious to hear what your idea of doing my job is.”

“All right, pay attention, this is complicated.”

“I'll try to follow,” Dino said, “if you'll keep it to words of two syllables or less.”

“Actually—”

“That's four syllables.”

“Dino, shut up and listen.”

“Can I have another Laphroaig on the rocks?” Dino asked a passing waiter.

“You haven't finished the one you're drinking,” Stone pointed out.

“Yeah, but you're going to talk for a long time, and I don't want to interrupt you by ordering another drink.”

“You just did.”

“After this. Go.”

“I've arranged a meeting between the head of Carpenter's service and La Biche, and—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dino nearly shouted. “How the fuck could you do that when you don't know either one of them?”

“We've all met since I saw you last.”

“Last I heard, you were upset about their trying to kill her.”

“I still am. I'm trying to stop it from happening. That's why I need your help.”

“Okay, just a minute, there's something I want to know.”

“What?”

“What are four retired NYPD cops doing outside in the street and at the bar right now?”

“They're making sure I'm not being followed.”

“Stone, have you come over all paranoid?”

“Dino, if you'll just let me talk uninterrupted for a few minutes, all your questions will be answered, I promise.”

“I'm listening.”

“No, you're not, you're asking questions.”

“No, I'm listening.” Dino rested his chin in his hand. “See? This is me listening.”

“To begin again, I've arranged a meeting between La Biche and Sir Edward Fieldstone—”

“Where do the Brits get these names?” Dino asked, shaking his head.

“Dino, shut up and listen.”

Dino drew an imaginary zipper across his mouth.

“ . . . who is the head of Carpenter's service. He has proposed a truce between his people and La Biche—in short, they stop killing each other.”

Dino shook his head in wonder and laughed.

“Dino . . .”

“I didn't say a word, but that was funny.”

“The participants in this situation don't think it's funny.”

“Yeah, I'll bet. How many of this Fieldstone guy's people has La Biche got on the scoreboard?”

“Too many, that's why he wants the truce. So I've arranged a meeting between them.”

“Is the girl bananas? If she shows up at a meeting, the Brits will waste her.”

“That's what I'm trying to prevent, and that's why I need your help.”

“You want me to get her some body armor to wear?”

“That's not the worst idea you've ever had, but no, I don't think that will be necessary.”

“Well, I don't want to be anywhere nearby when this meeting happens.”

“That's exactly where I want you to be.”

“Not anywhere nearby?”

“No, nearby. In fact,
very
nearby.”

A look of incredulity spread across Dino's face.

“Just hear me out.”

“You want me to take a bullet for this broad?”

“No, but if you're there, nobody will take a bullet.”

“And how do we know that?” Dino asked. “Really, I'd like to know why my presence would stop them from pulling her plug.”

“Dino, you're a lieutenant in the NYPD. It's not in their interests to kill such a person. That's why they won't shoot if you're close to her and they know it.”

“And where is this meeting going to take place?”

“I don't know.”

“What?”

“I don't know
yet.
”

“Let's backtrack a minute here,” Dino said. “How is it you happen to be in touch with La Biche?”

“I got her number from Bobby, the bartender.”

“From Bobby, the bartender
here?
” Dino pointed down.

“Yes.”

“Let me get this straight: If you want to get in touch with an international terrorist and assassin, the guy to see is Bobby, the bartender at Elaine's?”

“In this case, yes. You see—”

“Boy, I've been underestimating Bobby. I thought all he did was pour drinks, but all the time, he's a clearinghouse for spies and assassins.”

“You remember the night you arrested her here?”

“I seem to have some recollection of that.”

“She was at the bar talking to Bobby. He asked her for her number, and she gave it to him. Her cell phone number.”

“Man, I wish I'd thought of that when I had her in custody. It would make it so much easier to get in touch with her the next time she kills somebody.”

“Dino, that's how it happened. I called her and met with her—”

“And why the fuck would you want to do a stupid thing like that. After that thing in the
Post . . .
”

“That's
why
I wanted to talk with her, to explain that I had nothing to do with trying to kill her. I didn't want her breathing down my neck.”

“And she took your word for that? She's not as smart as I thought she was.”

“She is very, very smart, believe me, and I can pull off this meeting and stop this killing, if you'll go along with me.”

“Sure, sure, I'll go along. It'll make a nice change. I haven't done anything this crazy in years.”

“All right,” Stone said, “this is how we're going to do it.”

Dino listened, rapt. When Stone had finished, he burst out laughing.

“Jesus, I love it. And what are you going to do if World War Three breaks out in this public place?”

“Trust me, Dino, this is going to work.”

“I hope to God you're right,” Dino said, “because if you're not, it's going to be my ass.”

“And mine.”

“Never mind yours,” Dino said.

Sir Edward Fieldstone stood in the middle of Rockefeller Center and tried to watch the skaters. He did not like being in the midst of all these . . .
people
 . . . these foreigners, these colonials, these Americans with what he assumed were Brooklyn accents. His idea of New York accents had been formed by watching a great many World War II movies, American ones, mostly. His idea of a New Yorker was William Bendix.

He had stood there, increasingly annoyed, for twelve minutes before the cell phone in his hand vibrated. He opened it and put it to an ear. “Yes?”

“Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” Marie-Thérèse said.

“If you say so.”

“Now, now, mustn't be unpleasant.”

His annoyance, and the thick body armor he wore under his jacket, caused him to begin to perspire. “May we get on with this, please?”

“Of course. You are to walk west on West Fiftieth
Street, to your right. When you come to Sixth Avenue, cross and turn left.”

“What . . .” But the connection had been broken.

“I'm to walk west on Fiftieth Street, cross Sixth Avenue, and turn left,” he said, lowering his head and hoping the microphone pinned to the back of his lapel was working.

“The van won't be able to follow you,” Carpenter replied, “because the traffic on Sixth Avenue moves uptown, and you'll be walking downtown, and I don't think we can take the risk of backup on the ground. But the chopper will keep you in view.”

Sir Edward looked up.

“Don't look up,” Carpenter said, “and don't lower your head when you speak. The microphone can pick up your voice. Speak as little as possible, and when you do, try not to move your lips.”

What was he, a ventriloquist? He hated that he had allowed Carpenter to talk him into this nonsense, but he had to agree that it was their only chance to get at La Biche. He began walking. At Sixth Avenue, he crossed and walked downtown at a leisurely pace. He didn't like Sixth Avenue; it was full of taxicabs and grubby people and those awful street vendors with their kebobs and foreign food stinking up the atmosphere. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“At the next corner, cross the street, then continue downtown.”

He followed her instructions, resisting the urge to look behind him. There was no one there anyway, unless La Biche had accomplices.

 

Stone's cell phone went off. “Hello?”

“It's Cantor. The Brit is crossing Sixth and heading downtown. None of my guys have been able to spot a tail yet. He may be clean.”

“Good,” Stone said, then closed his phone.

 

Sir Edward had walked for nearly eight blocks with no further word. He did not enjoy walking, especially in New York; he preferred his car and driver. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“Cross Forty-second Street, then turn left into Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. Ten paces into the park, stop and wait for another call.” She cut the connection.

“She's directed me into the park behind the library,” Sir Edward said to the air around him.

“I can't believe we're that lucky,” Carpenter replied, “unless it's not the final meeting place.”

“She told me to stop when I get into the park. Do you think she'll fire?”

“I don't believe she will. Now listen, when she's clear, your signal to fire is to take off your hat, smooth your hair, and put your hat back on.”

“I believe I remember that,” Sir Edward replied. “Just be sure your man doesn't miss.”

“His weapon mount is gyro-stabilized,” she replied. “The copter's movement won't muss his aim.” She glanced at Mason, who was standing beside her wearing a harness that held him in the helicopter and a baseball cap backwards. She thought he looked ridiculous.

“I hope to God you're right.” Sir Edward crossed
Forty-second Street, walked another few yards, then turned into Bryant Park. He counted off ten paces and stopped. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“Very good, Sir Edward. Do you see the line of park benches to your right? The ones in the center of the park?”

“Yes.”

“Go and sit on the fourth bench, at the end closest to Sixth Avenue.”

Sir Edward looked at the benches: They were strung out in a line with a few feet between them. He counted, then went and sat on the bench as he had been instructed. He looked around.

“What's happening?” Carpenter asked.

“She told me to sit on this bench.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Then let's wait for something to happen.”

“I don't see any alternative,” Sir Edward said, “unless she's drawing a bead on me now.” Someone sat down beside him on the bench.

“Who is that? The man in the hat?” Carpenter asked.

“Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” the man said.

“Barrington? What are you doing here? The meeting was to have been with Miss du Bois.”

“Stone Barrington is there?” Carpenter asked.

“Yes,” Sir Edward replied.

“Yes, what?” Stone asked.

“I wasn't talking to you,” Sir Edward said.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Ah, myself. Where is Ms. du Bois?”

“She will arrive in due course,” Stone replied.

Sir Edward looked around him. The park was fairly crowded with all sorts of people. Which one could be the woman? The bag lady pushing a shopping cart? The woman in a business suit with a briefcase? The girl on Rollerblades?

“Where is she?”

“Relax, Sir Edward,” Stone replied.

On the sidewalk behind the benches, a man in a suit and hat pushed a wheelchair bearing an old woman, who was hunched over, a large handbag in her lap. Sir Edward kept looking, trying to identify La Biche.

The wheelchair came to a halt between Sir Edward's bench and the next. The man bent over the woman, apparently his mother. “There, dear, is that comfortable for you?” he asked her.

“Very comfortable,” she replied in an old lady's voice. She reached over and plucked the tiny receiver from Sir Edward's ear. “Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” she said. Her voice was no longer old, and her accent was as British as Sir Edward's. “I am Marie-Thérèse du Bois. May I introduce Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti of the New York Police Department.”

“How do you do, Sir Edward?” Dino said. He was still bending over the wheelchair. His head close to that of Marie-Thérèse.