The Short Forever (14 page)

29

STONE LET HIMSELF INTO HIS SUITE and got out the satellite telephone. He pressed a speed-dial button and waited.

“Yes?”

“I have to see you now.”

“Can’t do it; how about tomorrow?”

“I’ll be in New York tomorrow, if I don’t see you now.”

A brief silence. “Where?”

“The lounge at the Connaught will do. Ten minutes.”

“All right.” He rang off.

Bartholomew/Hedger bustled into the lounge and sat down next to Stone, who was sipping a cup of tea.

“Some tea?” Stone asked.

“What is it?”

“Earl Grey.”

Hedger made a digusted noise and raised a finger to a waiter. “Bring me a pot of English Breakfast,” he said.

Stone waited while the tea was brought.

“All right, what?” Hedger said.

“Earlier today, I was grabbed by two men, stuffed into the back of a car, driven to an unknown location, stripped, searched, and interrogated by three men. By one man, really; the other two just sat and listened.”

Hedger stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear anything I said? I want an explanation.”

“Why do you think I know anything about it?”

“I believe you are a member of a group who indulges in such activities; you were my first thought, even though they asked me about you.”

Hedger held up a hand. “What did they want to know about me?”

“Whatever I knew; your name, for instance.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No.”

“If they didn’t know my name, how did they ask about me?”

“They asked about John Bartholomew. Obviously, they didn’t get the joke. They wanted to know Bartholomew’s real name.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them about our initial meeting and told them I had left your employ.”

Hedger looked relieved. “All right, now I want you to take me through this incident, step by step, and tell me exactly what happened and exactly what they asked you.”

“It was a big car, black, with blackened windows; a limousine, I believe. Plenty of room for me to lie facedown on the floor with some palooka’s foot on my neck.”

“Describe the two men who took you.”

“Big, muscular.”

“What did they say to you?”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“They told me to shut up. Oh, one of them told me to undress, once we reached their location.”

“Accent?”

“Pretty hard to determine from the words ‘shut up,’ but I’d say British.”

“Class?”

“I didn’t ask them where they went to school.”

“No,
class;
social class: upper or lower?”

“Jesus, I don’t know, but it’s hard for me to believe that members of the upper class indulge in broad-day-light kidnapping. Lower, I guess.”

“What about the other men, their accents?”

“Only one of them spoke. His voice was smooth, cultivated, definitely upper class, but there was some sort of accent underneath it.”

“You mean a foreign accent?”

“You know the actor Herbert Lom?”

“Yes.”

“An accent like that, sort of—foreign, but British upper class at the same time. It’s as if he were born elsewhere but educated here.”

“Do you know anyone else, an Englishman, with the same kind of upper-class accent?”

Stone thought about it. “James Cutler,” he said, “and his solicitor, Julian Wainwright.” Also Sarah and her parents, but he didn’t mention that.

“Do you know where Cutler and Wainwright went to school?”

“Eton, I believe.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, what?”

“Just ah. That would indicate someone fairly high up in the food chain.”

“What food chain?”

“The food chain in whatever country he’s from. They don’t ship out butchers’ sons to be educated at Eton.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me exactly what they asked you.”

“It was a list of names, nothing else.”

“What were the names?”

“Robert Graves was the first.”

“The poet?”

“They asked me if I knew the name in any other context.”

“Who else?”

“Two women’s names—an Irish first name, and the last name was odd—Klein something or other.”

“Maureen Kleinknect?”

“Yes, that’s it. Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter; she’s dead. What was the other one?”

“Joanna with a double-barreled last name.”

“Scott-Meyers?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Then there was Erica and Monica Burroughs, Lance Cabot, Sarah Buckminster, and you.”

“And what did you tell them about each of these people?”

“The bare minimum.”

Hedger sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Once again, describe the two men who dragged you into the car. This time I want every detail.”

“I told you—big.”

“What else?”

“Come to think of it, they both had dark skin—not
very
dark, but a little, and black hair.”

“Describe the three men who interrogated you.”

“They were seated behind the lights in the room, in shadows, so I could only see silhouettes.”

“Tell me about the silhouettes.”

“The two on the ends were just shadows, lumps, but the one in the middle—the one doing the interrogating—was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. That was all I could see of him, really.”

“That’s interesting; you were very good to pick that up, in the circumstances.”

“Thank you. Now give me a good reason why I should continue to work for you while this sort of thing is going on.”

“Two reasons. First, this won’t happen again; they believe they have everything you know. Second, I’m doubling your hourly fee.”

Nobody had ever doubled his hourly fee before; Stone was impressed, still . . . “That won’t do me any good, if I’m dead.”

“They’re not going to kill you.”

“Why not? What’s their motive for keeping me alive?”

“These people are from a foreign country—probably a foreign intelligence service, or at least some clandestine group. It’s a lot of trouble to kill people and dispose of their bodies, and they won’t do anything that will call attention to themselves. Anyway, if they’d wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Think about it; what do you know that you haven’t already told them?”

“Not much, just your name.”

“Exactly, and they don’t believe you know that. They believe they’ve milked you dry, so you’re of no further use to them. They’ll leave you alone, now.”

“If you say so,” Stone replied doubtfully.

“Trust me,” Hedger said.

Yeah, sure, Stone thought. But double his hourly fee sounded awfully good. It wasn’t until Hedger had left that Stone remembered that he had forgotten to mention the two Arab names he’d been asked about. What were they . . . Ali and Sheherezad, also known as Sheila? He couldn’t remember the last names.

30

STONE’S NEXT THOUGHT WAS TO HAVE the same discussion with Lance Cabot that he’d had with Stanford Hedger. Rain had begun to beat against the Connaught’s windows, so he retrieved his new raincoat and umbrella from his suite, and the doorman got him a cab. It was only a short way to Farm Street, but Stone was not going to dance over there in the rain.

The cabbie was just turning into Farm Steet, when Stone stopped him. “Just hold it right here for a minute,” he said. Lance Cabot and the couple he’d met with in the village pub were leaving the house, getting into a cab of their own. “Follow that cab,” Stone said, “but not too closely.” He could see the driver in the rearview mirror, rolling his eyes.

“Right, guv,” the cabbie said. “It’s your money; I’ll follow them to Cornwall, if you like.”

“I doubt if they’ll go that far.”

Lance’s cab set off. Stone’s driver reversed for a few yards, then drove up another mews. Stone thought the man had lost the other cab, until it appeared ahead of them. “Very good,” he said to the driver.

“It’s what I do,” the cabbie said. “You know about The Knowledge?” Lance’s cab turned into Park Lane, and Stone’s followed.

“What knowledge is that?”

“The Knowledge is what every London cabdriver has to have before he gets a license. You drive all over town on a motorbike for a year or two, taking notes on addresses, public buildings, pubs, theaters and tube stops—whatever you see; you go to classes at night; and finally you take the exam. A question would be, like, ‘A passenger wants to go from Hampstead Heath to Wormwood Scrubs Prison. Describe the shortest route, and name every cross street, public building, and tube stop along the way.’ Miss one cross street, and you’ve missed the question. Miss too many questions, and you’ve failed the exam. Get it right, and you have The Knowledge, and you get your license.”

Lance’s cab drove around Hyde Park Corner, through Belgrave Square, on to Sloane Square, and started down the King’s Road. Stone glanced at side streets as they passed and wondered if he could ever memorize them all. “That’s pretty impressive,” he said.

“I had a mate once, went through all that, passed The Knowledge, got his license, then he went out to celebrate that night, had a lot to drink, and got stopped by the police on the way home and Breathalyzed. Lost his license; he’d taken two and a half years to get it, and he kept it only a few hours.”

“Poor fellow,” Stone said. They were past World’s End now, continuing down the King’s Road, past dozens of antique shops. A large, black car overtook Stone’s cab and drove on.

“Who’s in the other cab?” the cabbie asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“My wife’s boyfriend, I think,” Stone replied.

“Don’t you worry, guv, I won’t lose the bastard.”

Up ahead, Lance’s cab was signaling a left turn. The black car turned, too. It was starting to look familiar to Stone. Lance’s cab approached a large building that had probably once been a warehouse but now bore a large sign declaring it to be an antiques market. Down the block, Lance’s cab came to a halt, and its three occupants got out. The black car stopped half a block behind them.

“Stop here,” Stone said. The cabbie stopped. Stone watched as two large, swarthy men got out of the back of the limousine and followed Lance and his companions into the building.

“Is there another entrance to this place?” Stone asked.

“Just around the corner, there, in the King’s Road,” the cabbie said.

Stone got out of the cab and handed the driver a ten-pound note.

“Thanks, guv,” the driver said. “You want me to wait for you? Won’t be easy getting a cab in this weather.”

Stone handed him another tenner. “Wait ten pounds’ worth, and if I haven’t come back, forget it.”

“Righto, guv.”

Stone walked around the corner and into the building. The place was a warren of antique shops, some large and rambling, some no more than a yard or two wide. It was uncrowded, with only a few shoppers wandering about. He had to make an effort not to window-shop; he worked his way quickly through the building, looking for Lance, and then he saw him and his two friends turn a corner down a long corridor and walk toward him. Stone ducked into a shop and pretended to look at a piece of statuary. After a two-minute wait, when they hadn’t passed the shop, he looked down the corridor again; they had disappeared.

Must have gone into a shop, Stone thought. He made his way slowly down the corridor; then he saw a small sign, hung at right angles to a shopfront: A&S ANTIQUITIES—MIDDLE EASTERN SPECIALISTS. Ali and Sheila? Stone stopped and peered through a corner of a window. The woman was sitting at a desk writing on a pad. He could see the back of Lance’s head in a small office behind her. Stone wondered how long it would take for the two men to find them and what would happen when they did. It wouldn’t be good, he thought.

He stood back from the window and read the phone number painted on the shop window, then went back the way he had come. When he was at the King’s Road entrance, he called the number on his satellite phone.

“A&S Antiquities,” the woman’s voice said.

“Let me speak to Lance at once,” Stone said.

“I beg your pardon? There’s no one here by that name.”

“He’s in the back room with Ali, and this is an emergency. Put him on and quickly!”

“Yes?” Lance’s voice said, warily.

“It’s Stone Barrington. Two very large Middle Eastern gentlemen are in the building looking for you at this moment. I’ve met them before, and they are not friendly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If I were you, I’d get out of there right now. I have a cab waiting at the corner, near the King’s Road entrance to the building. You don’t have much time.”

Lance’s voice could be heard, but muffled, as if his hand were over the receiver, then he came back on. “We’ll be right there,” he said.

Stone put the phone in his pocket and ran through the rain to the cab, not bothering with his umbrella.

“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked.

“Just wait. We’re being joined by some other people.”

“Whatever you say, guv.”

A moment later, Lance and his two friends dived into the cab. “Get us out of here,” Lance said to the driver. He turned to Stone. “Now,” he said, “what’s going on?”

They drove past the black limousine. “You recognize that car?” Stone asked.

“No.”

“The two gentlemen I described were in it; they followed you from your house.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was on my way to see you when you came out of the house; they followed you, so I followed them.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I had a rather unpleasant encounter with them and some friends of theirs earlier today,” Stone said. “I wanted to spare you the same experience, or worse.”

“Who are they?”

“I had hoped you could tell me. The man they work for is bald, with a bullet-shaped head.”

“Does that sound familiar?” Lance asked Ali and Sheila.

Both shook their heads.

They had driven around the block and were now on the opposite side of the antiques market building. As they drove toward the King’s Road, a section of the building exploded outward, followed a split second later by a huge roar. The cabbie, without a word, executed a speedy U-turn.

“I believe that was your shop,” Stone said to Ali and Sheila.

Lance was suddenly on a cellphone, punching in a number and waiting impatiently for an answer. “Erica,” he said, “I want you to leave the house right this minute; go to Monica’s gallery; take nothing with you. Do you understand? I’ll explain later; just get out of there immediately!” He ended the call and turned to Stone. “Thank you,” he said.

“Not at all,” Stone replied. “But now perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”