Foreign Affairs

by Stuart Woods

  At one o’clock they and their luggage were loaded into a Mercedes S550, courtesy of Marcel. The bags went into the trunk, and Stone put his briefcase on the rear floor behind the driver’s seat, so that he would have ready access to it. He loaded the address of their Positano hotel into the GPS, and they drove away on schedule.

  They left the city and got onto the autostrada, headed south. The weather was sunny and warm, and traffic moved freely.

  “Where do you live in New York?” Stone asked.

  “I have a loft in SoHo. I live and work there. Do you know the area?”

  “Sort of. I get a nosebleed if I go below Forty-second Street, so I don’t hang out downtown.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Turtle Bay. Do you know it?”

  “I once went to see Katharine Hepburn there,” she said. “I was supposed to paint her for Vanity Fair, but she didn’t like my preliminary sketches, and they replaced me with Annie Leibovitz. Ms. Hepburn preferred photographs. Nice neighborhood, though.”

  “Ms. Hepburn was a neighbor, sort of. I didn’t know her, but I saw her come and go sometimes.”

  They were somewhere east of Naples when Hedy expressed an interest in a pit stop. Stone pulled into an autostrada service area, and they both went inside. He used the men’s, then got a cup of coffee and went outside to meet her. As they walked across the parking lot, Stone stopped in his tracks.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Stone pointed ahead of them. “Our car is gone.”

  6

  Maybe he had made a mistake, he thought. He looked over the whole parking lot: there was no black Mercedes S550 parked there.

  “Are you sure?” Hedy asked. “Maybe we parked on the other side.”

  “It was right there,” he said, pointing.

  “Oh, I remember—a truck pulled in next to us as we were getting out of the car.”

  “There’s no truck there, either.”

  “Uh, Stone, my handbag was in the car.”

  “What was in it?”

  “Everything. Passport, money, iPhone—absolutely everything.”

  “That pretty much covers it for me, too. Plus half my clothes.”

  “We should call the police,” she said.

  “Great idea. Do you know how to call the police in Italy?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then we’d better ask somebody for help.”

  “Another great idea. How’s your Italian?”

  “Where are we?”

  “I have no idea,” Stone said. “And I wouldn’t know how to tell the police to find us. I don’t even know the name of this service area. All I know is, it’s somewhere east of Naples.”

  “Do you have any money? All mine was in my bag, and my credit cards, too.”

  “I’ve got a thousand euros in my pocket and my credit cards. Come on.” He led her back inside the service stop and went into the shop. He found a map of Italy, took it to the cashier, and bought it. “Do you speak English?” he asked the cashier.

  “Little bit.”

  Stone opened the map. “Where are we?”

  She looked at the map and pointed. “Here,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Stone took his iPhone from its holster.

  “Who are you calling?” Hedy asked.

  “American Express.” He dialed the number on the back of his credit card and pressed the number on the menu for concierge. He gave them his name and card number.

  “How may we help you, Mr. Barrington?”

  Stone gave her the name of the service area. “My car has been stolen. I need a car and driver as soon as possible to drive us to Positano.”

  “I’m so sorry for your trouble,” the woman said. “Please hold for a moment.”

  Stone held.

  “You don’t want to go back to Rome?” Hedy asked.

  “Do you? I think Positano will be more fun. In the circumstances.”

  “How will we get back to Rome?”

  “We’ll rent a car.”

  “But we don’t have any clothes.”

  “There are many shops in Positano and Amalfi.”

  After about ten minutes, American Express came back on. “Mr. Barrington, I have a car and driver for you. What is your destination in Positano?”

  “Le Sirenuse, a hotel.”

  “The car will be there in approximately forty-five minutes,” she said.

  “We’ll be in the restaurant.”

  “The car is a Lancia sedan, and the driver’s name is Fabrioso. Everything will be charged to your Centurion card.”

  “Thank you very much.” He hung up. “Forty-five minutes. Let’s get some lunch.”

  They got a hot lunch in the cafeteria and sat down. Stone called Joan and told her what had happened. “Call my insurance company,” he said, “and make a claim.” He dictated a list of his things in the car, then turned to Hedy. “Give me a list of your possessions,” he said. “As much as you can remember.” She did so.

  “They’re going to want a police report,” Joan said.

  “I’ll deal with that later,” he said. “Thanks for your help, Joan.”

  “I hope this turns out all right,” Joan said, then hung up.

  “What time is it in New York?” he asked Hedy.

  “Eight AM.”

  Stone called another number, one he knew well.

  “Bacchetti,” Dino said.

  “It’s Stone. Sorry to call you so early.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Where are you?”

  “At an autostrada service area east of Naples. My borrowed car has been stolen, along with my briefcase and luggage and my companion’s things, as well. I don’t know how to call the police in Italy.”

  “I’ll deal with that. Where can they find you?”

  “In Positano, at a hotel called Le Sirenuse, in a couple of hours. A car is on the way to pick us up. I need to file a report with the police for my insurance company.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “And the companion?”

  “She’s fine, too.” Stone looked up; a young Italian man in a dark suit was standing there. “Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Fabrioso. Please call me Fabri. Are you ready to go to Positano?”

  “We certainly are.”

  “Where is your luggage?”

  “I wish I knew.” He explained the situation, then they followed him to the car and got into the rear seat.

  “To Le Sirenuse, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  They were on the autostrada for a few minutes, then got off at the exit for Sorrento. Soon they were driving very slowly along a narrow road cut into the mountainside to their left, with a vertical drop to the sea on the other side.

  “This is spectacular,” Hedy said.

  “Sorry about the road. It was built for goat carts, I think.”

  A giant tour bus appeared from around a bend and nearly nudged them over the side of the cliff.

  “Certainly wasn’t built for tour buses,” Hedy said.

  They entered the village of Positano, which clung precariously to the mountainside, then turned down a street toward the sea. Shortly, they pulled into Le Sirenuse.

  Stone gave Fabri fifty euros, then went to the front desk and registered.

  “Your suite is ready, Mr. Barrington,” the desk clerk said, “and there are two gentlemen from the police waiting for you over there.” He nodded toward a sofa.

  Stone went over and introduced himself to the two men. They spent an hour going over his story and filling out a form and listing everything lost. The desk clerk made a copy for Stone.

/>   Stone thanked the policemen and followed the clerk to their suite, which was spacious, with a large terrace overlooking the village below them and the sea.

  “This is absolutely spectacular,” Hedy said. “I’m glad you didn’t try to explain it to me.”

  Stone glanced at his watch. “Dinner in an hour?”

  “Fine.”

  His cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dino. Did the cops show?”

  “Thanks, they were waiting for us when we arrived at the hotel.”

  “For what it’s worth, they think it’s a professional job. Not just anybody can get a Mercedes started without a key.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

  “I will. Thanks again.” They both hung up.

  “It was a professional job,” he said to Hedy.

  7

  They woke with sunlight pouring into the suite and had breakfast on the terrace. The day was comfortably warm.

  “Shall we do some shopping?” Stone asked. “It’s on me. I’ll charge the insurance company.”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had in years,” she said.

  —

  Stone went downstairs and inquired about transportation. The most sensible thing available was a small, four-wheeled electric car, much like a motorcycle, with tandem seating.

  Hedy got into the backseat, and Stone drove.

  “This is a lot better for these roads than a big Mercedes,” Hedy said.

  “It’s more fun, too,” Stone replied, accelerating up the hill to the main road. In half an hour they were in Amalfi, which was more a city than a village, and sufficed as an elegant shopping mall. Stone walked into the Ermenegildo Zegna shop and found a lightweight blazer that fit him very well plus a couple of pairs of trousers, some shirts, and a small suitcase. Then he loosed Hedy upon half a dozen shops—Prada, Gucci, Ferragamo, and others.

  They packed their things into their new suitcases, strapped them to the top of their vehicle, and drove back to Positano. As they turned off the main road and down the hill toward their hotel, Stone saw flashing blue lights and smoke rising. It took them a good half hour to make their way through the backed-up traffic to Le Sirenuse. In the forecourt of the hotel was the smoking ruin of a car that could barely be recognized as a Mercedes.

  “Is that our car?” Hedy asked.

  “I think it used to be,” Stone said. He took the car key from his pocket and pressed a button. The car beeped, and the lights flashed. “It’s ours.” He saw the hotel’s manager standing nearby and introduced himself. “I believe that’s the car that was stolen from us yesterday,” he said to the man. “Did anyone see how it got here?”

  “A young man drove it into the forecourt, then got out and walked away, according to the doorman,” the man replied. “Have you offended someone?” he asked, with a flicker of incredulity.

  “Not intentionally,” Stone said. “I’ve only been in Italy for two days.”

  “You might see if any of your belongings can be recovered, before the firemen haul it away,” the man said. “The doorman managed to use a fire extinguisher on it before the firemen arrived.” He explained to the firemen that the car belonged to Stone, and he was allowed to approach it.

  He removed his briefcase and Hedy’s purse from the rear seat: both were charred, but their contents seemed unharmed. Stone used his key to try to open the trunk. It worked. A bellman came and removed their luggage, which seemed unharmed.

  Before they could get to their suite, the two policemen he had spoken to the day before were back; they checked things off the list of lost items that had been reported the day before and issued Stone a new police report. “Your insurance will be happy,” one of them said.

  Upstairs, they unpacked their bags, and Stone transferred the contents of his ruined briefcase to a shopping bag. Realizing that he had neglected to call Marcel duBois the day before, he did so now.

  Marcel reacted to the news of the loss of his car with equanimity. “I will notify my insurer,” he said.

  “I think you should ask for a new car,” Stone suggested. “It would cost them less than restoring the present one.”

  “Quite.”

  “Marcel, do you think there is a connection between the theft and burning of the car and the burning of the hotel?”

  “Possibly,” Marcel replied.

  “Would you care to expand on that?”

  “Not at the present time. When will you return to Rome?”

  “Tomorrow, I suppose.”

  “What time will you depart?”

  “After lunch.”

  “I will send another car for you.”

  “We can rent one.”

  “It will be safer if I send a car.”

  Stone refrained from mentioning that there was evidence to contradict that statement. “All right,” he said.

  They had lunch on their terrace, and Hedy surprised him by stripping naked and disporting herself on a chaise longue. “I forgot to buy a bikini,” she said.

  “Who’s complaining?” He took off his clothes and joined her.

  —

  They awoke later in the afternoon when the sun was behind an awning and a cool breeze swept over them. They took a shower together, made love on the bed, and fell asleep again.

  They went down to dinner at the hotel’s terrace restaurant. Another couple, apparently Italian, from their conversation, were seated at the next table, quite close to theirs.

  —

  Well,” Hedy said when they were on coffee, “I must say, Stone, there’s never a dull moment being with you.”

  “I try to keep things interesting,” he replied.

  “And I’ve gotten half a new wardrobe out of it, as well. What’s next?”

  “Only time can tell.”

  The woman of the couple at the next table, much younger than her companion, got up and headed toward the ladies’ room.

  “Excuse me,” the man said to Stone. He was in his sixties, Stone reckoned, suntanned, well-barbered, and dressed in elegant resort clothing. “I couldn’t help noticing your car this afternoon.” His English was lightly accented, with overtones of New York.

  “It was noticeable, wasn’t it?” Stone admitted.

  The man offered his hand. “My name is Leonardo Casselli.”

  “I’m Stone Barrington.” He shook the hand and found it soft but strong. “This is Hedy Kiesler. Your name has a familiar ring. Where might I have heard it?”

  “Apparently, you read New York’s trashier newspapers,” Casselli said.

  “Ah, Leo Casselli.”

  “Americans tend toward diminutives,” he said. “Please call me Leonardo.”

  Leo Casselli had been known in New York as a Mafia don for many years, until he either fled to Italy or was deported, Stone didn’t remember which. “As you wish,” he said.

  “I know your name, too,” Casselli said.

  “I’m surprised,” Stone said.

  “We had a mutual, ah, acquaintance in the late Eduardo Bianchi.”

  That did not surprise Stone, since (1) his good friend Eduardo had had a wide circle of acquaintances, and (2) his circle had included some of the Italian-American demimonde. “A lovely man,” Stone said.

  “He was that,” Casselli agreed, “to those he liked and respected. To others, well . . .”

  “Like most of us.” Stone wondered to which group Casselli had belonged.

  The young woman returned to the table, and Casselli rose before she could sit down.

  “You must excuse us,” Casselli said, “we have another engagement. It was interesting to meet you. And your car.”

  “Good evening to you,” Stone replied.

  “Perhaps the car was a war
ning,” Casselli said. “Perhaps you should heed it.” Then, without another word, he left.

  8

  Stone and Heddy went back to their suite; Stone called Dino.

  “So,” Dino said, “is your Italian adventure improving?”

  Stone had to think about that for a minute.

  “Hello?”

  “Sort of,” Stone was finally able to say.

  “Define ‘sort of.’”

  “Well, we got most of our stuff back.”

  “The Italian cops caught the thieves?”

  “No, the thieves returned the car, with our stuff still inside it.”

  “Well, that’s a win-win, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Why not?”

  “The car was a total loss—the thieves set it on fire. In front of our hotel.”

  “Did you report that to the police?”

  “We didn’t have to, they turned up almost immediately. Their big action was to revise the police report to exclude the items returned.”

  “Okay,” Dino said. “That makes sense. Anything else?”

  “Nothing. They ventured no information on the thieves or their motive.”

  “I see,” Dino said, clearly not seeing.

  “Something else, though: at dinner I found myself sitting next to Leo Casselli.”

  “Casselli? He got deported, didn’t he?”

  “Deported to Italy. He may have self-deported, I don’t remember.”

  “And how did you come to be seated next to him?”

  “Luck of the draw, I guess. He was there with a very young lady.”

  “And did you and Casselli converse?”

  “We did. He pointed out that we had a mutual acquaintance in Eduardo Bianchi.”

  “I’m not entirely surprised that he knew Eduardo. I’ll bet they hadn’t spoken for forty years.”

  “I didn’t ask, but if I see him again, I will.”

  “What makes you think you’ll see him again?”

  “He expressed an interest in my burned-out car—or rather, in Marcel duBois’s burned-out car. He said that maybe it was a warning, and that maybe I should heed it.”

  “Uh-oh.”