Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (137 page)

Carpenter dialed Mason's cell phone and he answered immediately. “Speak,” he said.

“It's Carpenter. Where are you?”

“At a restaurant called La Goulue, on Madison Avenue, at Sixty-fifth Street.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“I have news, but don't react.”

“Go.”

“Architect is dead.”

“Really?” he drawled, in his Etonian accent. “Anyone we know involved?”

“La Biche shot him in the men's room at the Four Seasons.”

“Goodness gracious. Who's next in line?”

“You and I.”

“Well, I wouldn't like that much.”

“I didn't think so. I think she followed him from the firm offices, so don't go back there.”

“Makes sense. Any suggestions?”

“Don't go back to your hotel, either.”

“Well, I suppose I'll have to seek shelter elsewhere,” Mason said, sighing.

“Good idea.”

“Do you have any plans?”

“I think we should get an RAF airplane over here and get out. I'd feel more comfortable at home.”

“Would you? I'm not sure I agree. After all, our, ah, friend is here, isn't she? I should think we'd have more luck making a connection with her right here in the Big Apple.”

“You might not like the connection.”

“Leave that to me.”

“I'll be on my cell phone. Let's stay in touch.”

“Where are you?”

“At the Waldorf Towers, in the director's company flat.”

“How cozy.”

“Don't make bad jokes. Stay in touch.”

“Righto.”

 

Mason hung up and gazed at the young FBI agent sitting across the table from him. “There's been a spot of bother. My governor is deceased.”

“Well, at his age . . .”

“It wasn't a coronary.”

The young man dug out a cell phone.

“Oh, don't do that,” Mason said. “They'll just put you to work. They'll get in touch if they need you.”

The agent smiled and pocketed his cell phone.

Mason leaned forward. “It's been suggested that I shouldn't go home. Mind if I bunk with you tonight?”

The agent smiled. “I'd be delighted.”

 

Carpenter went back into the suite's living room, where the director and his deputy were on separate phones.

“I'm getting zero cooperation from the New York police and the local administration,” the director was saying. “It might help if you called the mayor, sir.” He took the phone away from his ear when the reaction came. “Sir, I think you should consider the reaction in the press when they find out that a high figure in British intelligence has been murdered while in the company of a high American official. . . . Well, you have a point. The press will never have heard of Sir Edward, unless, of course, the NYPD decides to tell them who he is. I think that if you called the mayor, we might be able to keep this as the murder of a foreigner in a restaurant, nothing more. . . . Thank you, sir.” He hung up and sighed.

“Problems, Director?”

“Call me Jim, Felicity.” He patted the sofa next to him. Carpenter took a nearby chair, instead. “Jim it is.”

“The attorney general doesn't want to get involved,” the director said.

“One can hardly blame him,” Carpenter replied. “I don't think you need be concerned about the press's treatment of this event. We go to some lengths to see that our own management's names are never published, and the only member of the NYPD who knows who he is is Lieutenant Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth Precinct. I don't think he'll be loose-lipped.”

“Bacchetti, yes. I've heard of him. Somebody
recommended that I recruit him in a management position. What do you think?”

“He's a good man.”

“Maybe this would be a good time to broach the subject with him.”

“I wouldn't know about that.”

The director stood up, an empty glass in his hand. “Can I get you a Scotch?”

“No, thank you, sir. Officially, I'm still on duty.”

“What has London had to say about all this?”

“I have a call in to the home secretary, but he hasn't gotten back to me. It's the middle of the night there, and I doubt if his duty officer has the nerve to wake him. There's not much he can do, anyway, and I'd rather be free to act without his orders inhibiting me.”

“Are you planning something?”

“I'm planning to react, if I get the opportunity. I don't know if I will.”

“Well, you're safe here with me,” the director said, pouring himself another Scotch.

“Thank you, sir, that's very reassuring.”

“How well did you know Sir Edward?”

“I've known him all my life. He and my father served together.”

“Then I suppose my personal condolences are in order.”

“Not really, sir. Sir Edward was a shit, and I won't miss him.”

 

Stone and Dino stood outside the door of Suite 1917.

“Ready?” Dino asked.

“Whenever you are,” Stone replied, gripping the gun in his pocket.

Dino rang the bell. No answer. He rang it again. “What the hell,” he said, slipping the passkey into the lock.

Stone followed Dino into the suite, gun in hand.

“Hello?” Dino called. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody home?” He walked quickly to the bedroom door, flattened himself against the wall, and nodded to Stone.

Stone pushed the door open with his foot and stepped tentatively into the room. “Hotel maintenance. Anybody there?”

Dino put a foot against his backside and pushed him into the bedroom.

“Just like old times,” Stone said. “First through the door again.”

“You have a lousy memory,” Dino said, following him into the room.

They looked around. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

“Check the closet,” Dino said.

“You think she's in there?
You
check it.”

Dino opened the closet door, and the light came on. Inside hung half a dozen outfits. “She travels pretty light, for a woman.”

Stone pointed at the upper shelf, where three wigs
rested on plastic forms. “Not every woman travels with that much hair.”

“Okay,” Dino said, “let's turn it over, but leave everything exactly as it is.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Evidence. I'd love to find the weapon she's been using.”

“It's probably tucked into her bra.”

“I'm willing to look there.”

They went to work.

 

Downstairs in the Café Carlyle, Bobby Short's performance was drawing to a close. The applause was long and warm.

“Well,” the man next to her at the bar said. “Can I buy you a nightcap?”

“I'm staying here,” she said. “Why don't you let me buy you one upstairs? There's a bar in my suite.”

He held out a hand. “I'm Jeff Purdue. You're on.”

“I'm Darlene King. Right this way.”

They fell in with the crowd leaving the café.

“I take it you're not a New Yorker?” he said.

“I'm a Texan, sugar.”

“Dallas?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do down there?”

“My husband's in the oil business.”

“You have a husband? I hope he's in Dallas.”

“He sure is. If I know him, he's in bed with his secretary right this minute.”

His hand dropped from her waist to her ass. “What you need is a little revenge,” he said.

“Believe me, I know the deep satisfactions of revenge,” she replied.

 

Stone stopped looking. “That's it. There's nothing more.”

“There's a safe in the closet,” Dino said. “I'll call the manager. We'll get it opened.”

“It's late,” Stone said, looking at his watch. “We don't want her to walk in on us.”

“I need some evidence.”

“She's obviously carrying the weapon.”

“We don't even know this is her suite,” Dino said.

“It's her suite,” Stone said.

“How do you know?”

“Because when I met her the first time, she was wearing a red wig that's now on the shelf of her closet.”

Dino looked at his watch. “Let's get out of here and set up surveillance.”

“Okay.”

They let themselves out of the suite and headed for the elevators.

 

Marie-Thérèse and her new friend had made their way out of the café crowd and into the lobby. As they rounded a corner, headed for the elevators, she stopped and stepped back. She had just seen Stone Barrington and that police lieutenant step off the elevator into the lobby, and they were wearing workmen's coveralls.

“Something wrong?” Purdue asked.

“I just remembered what a mess my suite is. Where are you staying?”

“At the Waldorf, five minutes from here in a cab.”

“Why don't we go there?” she asked.

“Fine with me.”

She led him back past the café and out the Madison Avenue exit, where a couple of cabs waited at the curb. In a moment, they were driving away.

He leaned over and kissed her on the neck, cradling a breast in his hand.

She didn't react, just looked straight ahead, thinking fast. The cab turned onto Fifth Avenue.

He pinched a nipple hard. “What do I have to do to get your attention?” he asked.

“I'm sorry,” she said, patting him on the knee. “My mind was elsewhere for a moment. What do you do, Jeff?”

“I'm with the State Department, on the U.S. delegation to the United Nations. I spend two weeks a month in New York.”

“How very interesting,” she said, turning toward him with new interest. “So your wife's back in Washington?”

“She usually comes with me, so she keeps some clothes here. But she had some meetings this week.”

“Well, isn't that convenient,” she said, kissing him.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and it came away in his hand.

“Well, there's a surprise,” he said, holding the wig in his hand and looking at her short blond hair.

“I'm just full of surprises, sugar,” she said, running her hand up his thigh.

Stone and Dino sat in Dino's car outside the Carlyle, while Dino made a phone call. “Sir, it's Bacchetti. We've found out where the woman is staying. She's in a suite at the Carlyle. . . . Yes, sir, she certainly has good taste. I've ordered in a surveillance team. In very short order I'll have the place covered and a couple of men in the suite next door with a listening device. . . . No, sir, I don't want to take her in the street or in the lobby. There's sure to be weapons fired, and we don't want a mess. I want to let her come home and go to bed. We'll know when that happens. Then, when she orders breakfast in the morning or leaves her suite, we'll be waiting. I think we can take her clean. . . . Yes, sir, I know how important that is. I'll call you the minute anything happens.” Dino hung up. “He's not going to get any sleep tonight,” he said.

“I expect not,” Stone replied.

Dino's driver returned with a paper bag holding coffee.

“We may as well make ourselves comfortable,” Dino said.

“I had a thought,” Stone said. “Suppose she's in the café, listening to Bobby Short?”

Dino snorted. “Not everybody has your weird taste in music, Stone.”

 

The ride up in the elevator seemed a long one.

“I'm in the Towers,” Purdue explained. “The government rents an entire floor, where the UN delegation stays, and there are apartments for visiting dignitaries, including a presidential suite.”

“How interesting,” Marie-Thérèse said. “Who's in residence at the moment?”

“I'm the only one of the delegation in town. Most of the others arrive tomorrow, for the opening of the Security Coucil session. I saw the director of the FBI in the elevator earlier, though, so I guess he's staying. I'll bet he's commandeered the presidential suite.”

Marie-Thérèse laughed aloud.

“What's so funny?”

“It's just that I never thought I'd be this close to the director of the FBI.”

The elevator stopped, and they got out. A man in a dark suit holding a clipboard stopped them.

“It's all right,” Purdue said, “the lady's with me.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to see her ID, sir,” the guard said.

“No problem,” Marie-Thérèse said, digging out her wallet and her Texas driver's license.

The man wrote her name down and noted the
time, then returned the license to her. “Sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am,” he said.

“Right this way,” Purdue said, taking her elbow. They walked a few steps and he led them into a suite, tossing his keycard onto a table in the entrance hall.

“Very nice,” she said, looking around. It wasn't big, but it was certainly elegant. “Where's the bedroom?”

“A woman after my own heart. Right this way.” He led the way into the bedroom.

She unzipped her dress. “I want to hang this up,” she said, “since I'll be wearing it tomorrow morning.”

“Right over there,” he said, pointing at a closet, then he went into the bathroom. “Excuse me a second.”

Marie-Thérèse opened the closet door to find a small collection of outfits. She plucked one off the rack and held it up to her. “Not bad,” she said aloud.

“Don't mess with my wife's things,” he said, coming out of the bathroom. “She'd notice, believe me.”

“Don't worry, sugar,” she replied, hanging up the dress. “I won't disturb a thing. Tell me, have you got an early day tomorrow?”

“Nah, the session doesn't open until after lunch. We can sleep in, if you like.”

“Oh, good,” she said, hanging her dress in the closet and shedding her underwear. “You ready for me, sugar?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She slid into bed with him. This wouldn't take long, then she could get a good night's sleep.

 

Stone's cell phone vibrated. “Hello?”

“It's Carpenter.”

“Hi, there.”

“Turns out we're in the presidential suite, but I've managed to get a room with a lock on the door that opens into the hallway. Why don't you join me?”

“I can't, but you're going to like my news.”

“What's that?”

“She's staying at the Carlyle. Dino's people have got her suite staked out now. They'll wait for her to come home and go to sleep, then take her in the morning.”

“God, that's a relief,” Carpenter said. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather wait her out in the presidential suite?”

“I want to be here. You sleep well, and we'll talk in the morning.” Stone hung up. “Carpenter's staying in the presidential suite of the Waldorf Towers, with the director.”

Dino laughed.

“She says there's a lock on her door.”

 

Carpenter called Mason.

“Hello,” he panted, on the fourth ring.

“You sound a little winded,” she said.

“What is it, Carpenter? I'm busy.”

“The director wants a meeting tomorrow morning at eight. Think you can manage that?”

“I expect so. Can I go now?”

“I should have talked with the home secretary by then.”

“How nice for you. Good night.” He hung up and returned to his FBI agent.

 

The following morning at eight o'clock, Carpenter took her seat at the suite's dining room table. Mason had been on time, though he looked a little worse for the wear, and he was wearing the same suit and shirt as the day before.

“All right, let's get started,” the director said.

Carpenter's phone rang. “Excuse me, sir.” She stepped away from the table and opened the phone. “Yes?”

“It's Stone.”

“What happened?”

“She didn't come home last night.”

“Oh. I'll report that and call you later.” She closed the phone and sat down.

“Anything?” the director asked her.

“I'm afraid there's bad news, sir. As I mentioned earlier, the NYPD had her located in a suite in the Carlyle hotel. They staked it out, but she didn't come home last night.”

“Shit,” the director said. “I thought we had her.”

“So did I, sir.”

“I wonder where she is at this moment,” he mused.