by Stuart Woods
“That Salvatore was a real piece of shit,” she said. “That was about it.”
“Well, I’m glad they aren’t chummy,” Stone said.
“I didn’t say they weren’t chummy,” Tara replied. “My recollection is that they are very chummy. That’s why Tony can talk about him that way.”
“Does Tony spend a lot of time in Brooklyn?”
“He lives there, with his mother.”
“Does his mother have any siblings?”
“A sister. Just one.”
“Does the sister have any children?”
“Just one. Tony is an only child, too.”
“Is Tony’s aunt’s son Salvatore?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Tara,” Stone said, “I want you to call Tony. It’s late afternoon in New York, so he shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“No, he should be at work,” she said. “What am I to say to him?”
“I want to know if he’s told anyone else about where we are, using the references that you heard from me. I want to know if Sal knows, and if Tony knows why Sal went to London. Put the call on speaker, so we can all hear.”
“Why shall I say I’m calling?”
“Just checking in, everything all right? Like that. Then, casually, ask him if he’s told anyone where you are.”
“All right.” She dug her phone from her purse, dialed a number, pressed the speaker button, and set the phone on the coffee table.
“Tony speaking.”
“Hi, Tony, it’s Tara. How are you?”
“I thought you were on vacation in Paris.”
Tara started to correct him, but Stone waved both arms. “That’s right, I am. I just wanted to see if the new production is moving along.”
“It’s right where it’s supposed to be at this point,” Tony said, sounding exasperated.
“Tony: question for you.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, earlier today, when I called and told you where I am?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Have you mentioned that to anybody?”
“Yeah, I mentioned it to Mama. We talk a couple of times a day, and she likes to know what’s going on.”
“And you told her I was in Paris?”
“Yeah, I . . . Wait a minute, did I say Paris?”
“You tell me.”
“It was south of something. Did I say Paris?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Then that must be what I told her.”
“Do you think she might have told somebody else what you said?”
“She doesn’t talk to anybody but me— Oh, and her sister.”
“Is that the sister who is the mother of Salvatore?”
“Yeah, Sal. That piece of shit.”
Stone put his face in his hands and groaned.
“Why don’t you like Sal, Tony?”
“Well, I don’t dislike him. He’s just a piece of shit.”
“Is that what you call somebody you like?”
“Well, I don’t like him that much.”
“He clearly rubs you the wrong way.”
“He always has, since we were kids.”
“Do you speak to him often?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Are you likely to speak to him anytime soon?”
“Sometimes he brings his mother over to see my mother, and they have tea. That’s about the only time.”
“How often?”
“Usually on Friday.”
Stone winced.
“So they could be there today?”
“Probably.”
“Tony, I’d appreciate it if you’d do me a favor.”
“Sure, what’s that?”
“If you should see Sal or his mother, please don’t mention what I said to you about being where I am.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sal dislikes a man I know. He may even want to hurt him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be the guy Sal wants to hurt. He’s sort of in the hurt business, if you know what I mean.”
Stone shook his head and mouthed, Don’t ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you want somebody’s legs broken or a throat cut, Sal always knows somebody who knows somebody, you know?”
“I do now. Please remember what I said about Sal, Tony.”
“Oh, I forgot. Sal won’t be here today. He went to London.”
Stone made beckoning motions and mouthed, Why?
“Why did Sal go to London?”
“He said he had to see a man about a dog.”
“Okay.”
“No, that’s wrong. He said he had a throat to cut.”
Stone gritted his teeth. He mouthed, Hang up.
“Do you know where he stays in London?”
“Yeah, in that hotel where Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher used to stay. The big one.”
“Gotta run, Tony. Take care.” Tara hung up.
“Where did Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher used to stay?” Stone asked.
Dino began typing on his iPhone with his thumbs. “The Dorchester,” he said. “They stayed there while she was making Cleopatra and screwing Richard Burton at the same time.”
“Is that what it says on Wikipedia?” Stone asked.
“It’s what they wanted to say,” Dino replied.
“How did I do?” Tara asked.
“Nice, how you ran with the Paris thing,” Dino said.
“Stone?”
“Yeah, the part about Paris worked. I hope.”
38
Finally, everyone went upstairs. Bob curled up in his bed beside the fireplace.
Tara seemed to like the master suite. “I like the master suite,” she said.
“I’m glad. It likes you, too.”
She came out of her dressing room wearing a black sheath nightgown.
“It likes you better without the nightgown,” he said.
She stopped at the bedside, shucked off the shoulder straps, and let it fall to the floor. “Like this?”
“Like that,” Stone said, pulling her to him and kissing her on the belly, then working his way down.
“Mmmm, I’m glad you like that,” Tara said, doing what she could to help him. “Tell me about Dame Felicity Devonshire,” she said.
Stone stopped what he was doing. “Now?”
“Oh, okay, let’s finish, then you can tell me about her.”
He finished, and she expressed approval and appropriate gratitude.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
“Now Dame Felicity. How old is she? Let’s start with that.”
“No one knows,” Stone said.
“I bet I could find out.”
“You might want to steer away from that inquiry. It’s probably covered by the Official Secrets Act.”
“And what is that?”
“It’s a document that about half the British population has signed, swearing not to reveal any Official Secrets. Violating it could get you sent to prison.”
“Do you know how old she is?”
“Probably, but for reasons just stated I cannot discuss the subject.”
“Is she younger or older than I? Is that an ‘Official Secret’?”
“Maybe not, but I can only guess.”
“Which?”
“It’s probably best to say that she is of an indeterminate age.”
“Ah. Older, then.”
“You said that, not I.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Oh, yes. Nothing indeterminate about that.”
“Does she like men?”
“Certainly.”
�
�Does she like women?”
“Now, there we’re straying into Official Secrets territory again.”
“So she likes women, as well as men?”
“Why do you want to know? Are you aiming at seducing her?”
“I don’t know, yet. Would she object, if I did?”
“Probably not.”
“Would you object if I seduced her?”
“Not if I can watch.”
Tara laughed. “Wouldn’t you rather help?”
“It’s my nature to be helpful,” Stone replied.
“Does she work?”
“Oh, yes, ah . . . Do you mean does she have a job?”
“I do.”
“She works for the British government, in the Foreign Office.”
“What’s the Foreign Office?”
“It’s like our State Department. It conducts foreign affairs.”
“What does she do in the Foreign Office?”
“She holds an executive position.”
“Why are you trying so hard not to tell me what she does? Is it an Official Secret?”
“It used to be, until a newspaper printed the name of one of her predecessors. After that, there hardly seemed to be a point.”
“Then, if I can read it in a newspaper, you shouldn’t mind telling me.”
“All right, if we were living in a James Bond novel, she would be called ‘M.’ She is the director of MI-6, which is the foreign intelligence service.”
“Like our CIA?”
“Yes.”
“Is there an MI something else?”
“There’s MI-5, which is the domestic intelligence service, sort of like our FBI. “I don’t know if there are other MIs.”
“Dame Felicity sounds more and more interesting,” Tara said.
“She is certainly ‘more and more interesting,’ ” Stone agreed.
“She sounds very smart.”
“She is that, and a specialty of hers is upending persons who fail to perceive that.”
“I like smart, beautiful women,” Tara said.
“That makes two of us.”
She stretched out beside him and fondled his nether region. “I believe, as the saying goes, I owe you one.”
“You’re halfway there,” Stone said, making himself available.
* * *
—
When Stone awoke the curtains had been pulled back, and sunlight was streaming through the windows. Tara was still naked and laying out her riding habit on her side of the bed.
“Good morning,” she said.
“And to you. I take it you would like to go riding this morning.”
“I would.”
“May I persuade you to have some breakfast first?”
“You may. I’d like what is called on hotel menus, a ‘full English breakfast.’ ”
“With or without a kipper?”
“You want to have sex during breakfast?” she asked.
“A kipper is a smoked herring.”
“With breakfast?”
“It’s very popular with breakfast.”
“All right, I’ll give it a try.”
Stone called down and ordered.
* * *
—
Breakfast arrived. Tara tasted her kipper and was pleased.
“I’m glad.”
“I saw something last night.”
“Asleep or awake?”
“I think awake, but I can’t be sure.”
“What did you see?”
“I got out of bed and pulled back that curtain,” she said, pointing at a window.
“What did you see?”
“The lawn was moonlit, and I saw a figure run across it.”
“A figure? A figure of what?”
“A figure of a man. At least, I think it was a man. It was dressed in black, from head to toe.”
“And where did it run from and to?”
“From there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the Beaulieu River, “to there.” She pointed toward the front gate.
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Such as?”
“Such as a weapon. A rifle, perhaps.”
“I can’t be sure, since I’m not sure I was awake.”
“Well, as we ride, we’ll look for evidence of an intruder.”
“Good idea,” she said.
They both got into their riding clothes, and Stone pulled on a shoulder holster, shoved a small 9mm pistol into it, then slipped into a tweed jacket. “Ready?”
“Oh, yes.”
39
The horses awaited them in the stable yard, held by a girl groom. Another groom gave them each a leg up, Stone onto his favorite gelding and Tara onto a pretty mare. Someone handed her a helmet, and she tried it on. “Good.”
“Don’t forget to buckle the strap,” Stone said, buckling his own.
“What are the horses’ names?” Tara asked.
“I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced,” Stone replied.
The girl groom spoke up. “The gelding is Casey, the mare Connie. And my name is Peg. Your lunch is tied onto Casey’s saddle.”
“Thank you, Peg,” Stone said, and headed for the long front lawn, leading down to the airstrip and its hangar. Tara pulled up even with him, and they walked their mounts to warm them up.
“Keep an eye out for the ninja,” Stone said.
“That’s what he looked like, a ninja.”
“Do you often wake in the middle of the night and see things you aren’t sure are there?”
“Not as a regular thing,” Tara replied, “but it has been known to happen.”
“Did any of these sightings turn out to be real?”
“Not exactly. They just seemed real to me.”
“Then I won’t shoot first and ask questions later. We wouldn’t want to wing a girl groom.”
“Why do you call them ‘girl grooms’?” she asked. “It seems demeaning.”
“Because they’re young girls and they are grooms. It’s a traditional title around stables. If you like, you can take them aside and question them about their feelings on that subject. If it seems indicated, we’ll rename them.”
“Rename them what?”
“That can be between you and the grooms.”
“Fair enough.”
“Let’s gallop a bit. Are you comfortable with jumping?”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a stone wall a couple of hundred yards ahead that requires either jumping or getting down and opening a gate, then closing it behind us, so the cattle won’t get out.”
“I’ll jump,” she said.
“Then lead the way.”
She tapped the mare’s flanks with her heels and pulled ahead, while Stone followed, ready to stop if she didn’t make the jump.
Tara took the wall successfully and Stone followed. As the gelding cleared the wall, Stone glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. A man, he thought, and dressed in black. By the time he could rein up and call out to Tara, the shape had vanished into the brush.
“What?” she asked.
“I think I saw your figure in black,” Stone said, turning his horse toward the bushes. He got down from his mount, unbuttoned his jacket for access to his firearm, then he tied Casey to a branch. “Wait here,” he called to Tara.
“All right.”
He parted the bushes and made his way toward the main road, unable to see more than a few yards ahead. He unholstered the pistol, racked the slide, and flipped on the safety. Up ahead he could see a small roof rising above the brush. It was called the Hermit’s Cottage, where an actual hermit had once lived. He made his way there and peeked through a window. The two rooms were bare.
He circumnavigated the cottage, then walked back to where the horses were. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing I could see, anyway. We need to clear these woods of the undergrowth.” He got a foot into a stirrup and swung aboard the gelding, then they walked on toward the airstrip.
“Why is there an airfield here?” Tara asked.
“During the war, the big one, World War II, there was a training camp on the property for intelligence agents who would be parachuted into France. The airstrip was built so they would have one that wasn’t on the charts, and they camouflaged it. They even had a couple of buildings that could be rolled on and off the runway, to make it look like a farm from the air. After the war, when the property was restored to its owners, they kept up the strip, and the last owner before me repaved it as part of an estate-wide renovation of the property. It’s seven thousand feet long and accommodates my Gulfstream very nicely. After we land, a fuel truck is sent over from Southampton Airport to top us off. They sometimes, but not always, send a customs team over to gaze at our passports. It’s very convenient.”
“Judging from what I’ve seen of your life, you’re very good at making things convenient,” Tara said.
“It’s part of my native sloth,” Stone explained, “to have things set up that way.”
They walked over to the hangar, and Stone dismounted, handed Tara his reins, and walked over to the door. He examined the padlock and found some scratches on it and scarring on the hangar door around the hasp. “Looks like someone has tried to gain entry,” he said.
He took a clump of keys from his pocket, unlocked it, and pressed a remote control on his key ring. The door slid upward and back, revealing the Gulfstream. Stone did a slow walk-around, looking for anything amiss, but found nothing.
“Are you getting paranoid?” Tara asked when he returned.
“Maybe just a little,” he said. He led the horses beyond the hangar to a tree, where he tied them and helped Tara down, then he got their lunch from his saddle.
They were munching away at smoked salmon sandwiches and drinking a nice hock when Tara’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID, then got to her feet. “Excuse me, business call.” She walked a few yards away and had a few minutes’ conversation, then hung up and came back.
“That was Tony,” she said. “We’ve burnt up the motor on one of our machines, and he’s had to shut down production until we can replace it.”