Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (92 page)

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.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Nothing, thank you.”

Bartholomew shrugged. “As you wish. Let's go in the other room.” He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. “Now, what's so important?”

Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I'm returning to New York tomorrow.”

“But you can't do that,” Bartholomew said, alarmed.

“Watch me. I've had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that's your real name.”

“
You
stole my wallet?”

“I had it done. And you're responsible for putting a retired policeman in the hospital.”

“He was working for
you
? I had no way of knowing that.”

“I should warn you that there's another retired policeman, a much larger one, looking for you right now, and I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when he finds you.”

“Oh, Christ,” Bartholomew said, tugging at his whiskey. “What the hell were you doing having me followed and my pocket picked?”

“I like to know the truth about the work I do, and I wasn't getting it from you.”

Bartholomew rubbed his face with his hands.

“What is your real name?”

“That's not important,” Bartholomew said. “You're better off not knowing, believe me.”

“As you wish. Since Stanford Hedger is dead, I'll assume that's just another alias.” His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe not. You
are
Hedger, aren't you? And you just want someone to think you're dead.”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“I have my resources, Mr. Hedger.” Stone decided to fire a guess. “Tell me, was Lance Cabot one of your bright young men at the Company?”

Hedger shot him a sharp glance. “You're wandering into an area where you shouldn't be.”

“I've been in that area since I arrived in London,” Stone replied. “Thanks to you. What was it you really wanted to accomplish when you put me onto Lance Cabot's back?”

“You're better off not knowing.”

Stone guessed again. “It wasn't exactly official Company business, was it?”

Hedger shook his head slowly.

“What was it about?”

“All right, I'll tell you; I guess I owe you that. But you breathe a word of this, and you'll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”

For a moment, Stone thought he probably shouldn't know this; then he changed his mind. “Tell me,” he said.

HEDGER, IF THAT WAS HIS NAME, leaned back in his chair and sipped his whiskey. “It was a Middle Eastern operation,” he said, “and those are always a mess. We had—still have—a shortage of Arabic-speaking operatives, locals who blend in—and that always makes things difficult. Even when you recruit them, you can never really put any trust in them; you never know if they're doubling for Hamas, or some other radical organization.

“Cabot fit in really well out there; his Arabic was outstanding—so good that he could impersonate an Arab on the phone, if not in person; he wore the region like an old shoe. So much so that I began to suspect him.”

“Of what? Of being an Arab?”

“Of course not; the man looks like a California surfer, doesn't he?”

No, Stone thought, but he understood what Hedger meant. “If you say so.”

“I began to feel that he was too much taking the part of the people who were supposed to be the opposition. He didn't like the Israelis we dealt with—thought they were too smart and too devious—and he seemed charmed by Arab custom and even by their fanaticism.
He said that's the way he would be if he were a Palestinian. That sort of comment doesn't go down well with one's colleagues, you know?”

“I can imagine.”

“Lance developed some Palestinian contacts—a man and a woman—whom he trusted, but I didn't. He kept making the case that we should take them inside, tell them more. I wouldn't do it. I always felt that, the moment we turned our backs, they'd be on the phone to Yasser Arafat or somebody, and that we'd end up paying the price. Well, we did.”

“Did trust them?”

“To an extent. And we paid the price. We put together an operation—I can't tell you exactly what, but it was supposed to disrupt the leadership of a particularly virulent organization. Lance and I went to Cairo, where our people there put together two explosive devices that were to be carried into buildings by our two operatives, concealed somewhere, then left with timers set. We arranged a meeting in a safe house, and both operatives showed up, but Lance didn't. He called and said he'd be late. I explained to these two people how the devices worked, and showed them how to set the timers. I waited as long as I could for Lance, then I sent them on their way. Five minutes later, the safe house exploded. The operatives had brought something with them. Lance was, apparently, watching from across the street, and he was on the scene very quickly.

“I was unconscious and was taken to a safe hospital. When I woke up and figured out what had happened, I told my people to tell Lance I had died. That's how Stan Hedger came to be dead.”

“Does Lance still believe you're dead?”

“No, certainly not. We ran into each other in Paris
last year, so that was that. Lance left the Company shortly after the Cairo debacle and went private.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he used the contacts he'd made in the Middle East while serving the Company to serve himself. He began trading in arms, drugs, Japanese automobiles, whatever he could get his hands on, buy or sell. He's still dealing with the two operatives who nearly killed me.”

“I can see how your people might be unhappy with him.”

“Unhappy, yes, but officially, he can't be touched.”

“Why not?”

“Because he can't be proved to have committed a crime, or even to have sold me out. Contrary to popular belief, the Company no longer blithely assassinates people who have annoyed it. Never did, really.”

“But you still want to hurt him.”

“I want him out of circulation. He's a danger to people he once served with, like me, and he's not exactly working in his country's best interests.”

“So you're doing this privately, without Company cooperation?”

“Why do you think I hired you?”

“Well, I'm afraid you've thrown a monkey wrench into my investigation of Lance.”

“How so?”

“There were two retired cops working for me, remember? They were taking turns surveilling you and Lance. Now one's in the hospital, and the other has quit. He's the one who wants to meet up with you in a dark alley.”

“I'm really very sorry about the whole thing with the man being hurt,” Hedger said, sounding sincere. “In my business, you do not deal kindly with strangers who follow you and pick your pocket.”

Stone felt a pang of guilt. That was something he should have considered. “In any case, I don't see how I can be helpful to you after all that's happened. Lance knows who I am; we've socialized. I can hardly sneak up on him. And I've used my only police contact to hire these two men, one of whom is now badly hurt. I don't feel I can go back to my contact and ask him for more help.”

Hedger looked thoughtful. “You say you and Lance have become friendly?”

“ ‘Friendly' may be too strong a word. We know each other; I like his girl and her sister.”

“Oh, yes, Monica took you down to Lord Wight's place, didn't she?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew Wight's daughter from New York?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Rather well.”

“So you have a plausible social history, as far as Cabot is concerned?”

“Yes.”

“Then I can't see any reason why you shouldn't continue to investigate him, but more from the inside.”

“For one thing, I mentioned your name to him yesterday.”

“What?”

“I asked him if he knew someone called Stanford Hedger; he said no, then walked away.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“I was still trying to figure out who you were, remember? If you had told me the truth—”

“Does he know why you asked about me?”

“No.”

“All right, here's what you do: At the first
opportunity, tell Lance everything that's happened—about my hiring you, and all that, right up to this meeting. But you tell him you quit, that you were disgusted with my lying to you.”

“What would that accomplish?”

“It would disarm his suspicions. Don't tell him that you know anything about Cairo or his having been in the agency; just tell him our conversation stopped at the point where you handed me back my money and quit.”

Stone thought about this. It was an intriguing situation, and he did not like Lance for doing the kind of business he was doing.

“You'd be doing a good turn for your country, if that means anything to you,” Hedger said, pushing the hook in a little deeper.

“I don't know.”

“Give it another week,” Hedger said. He removed another, fatter envelope from his pocket and tossed it into Stone's lap. “Live it up a bit; see more of London and Monica, Erica, and, above all, Lance. I just want to know what he's up to, so I can stop him doing it.”

“Tell me the truth; do you intend to kill him?”

“Stone, if I'd intended that, he'd have been dead two years ago.”

“All right,” Stone said finally. “Another week, and that's it.”

“It's all I ask. How about a drink, now, and some dinner downstairs? Have you ever visited this club? Know anything about it?”

Then Bartholomew/Hedger, who was suddenly not such a bad guy after all, launched into a history of the Garrick Club and a list of its famous members.

Stone was charmed, a little, and he accepted Hedger's dinner invitation.