by Stuart Woods
Bobby sat his ground, resisting the urge to run to the corner to see if he had gone inside. Bartholomew would go inside, Bobby was sure; the man worked there, didn’t he? What he would do now was go upstairs, then peer out the window to see if his tail was still here. Bobby, accordingly, got up, crossed the street, and went into the little chemist’s shop on South Audley Street, where he browsed for a few minutes, then bought a small tin of aspirin. Finally, he returned to Grosvenor Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.
Bartholomew looked from his window down into Grosvenor Square. “He’s gone,” he said to his companion. “But I’m sure he was tailing me.”
“You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Stan,” the man said. “Who would want to follow you anymore? The Cold War is over.”
“Maybe for you,” Bartholomew replied.
At twelve o’clock sharp a handsome blonde woman in a black silk raincoat approached Bobby’s park bench. “Mr. Jones?” she asked.
Bobby stood. “Yes, indeed,” he replied.
“I’m Moira Bailey, Ted Cricket’s friend.”
“Glad to meet you,” Bobby said, shaking her hand. “Let’s take a stroll around the park, shall we?”
“Love to.” She took his arm.
They walked up and down the little park, always keeping the front door of the embassy in sight. “I’ll point him out when he leaves,” Bobby said, “then he’s all yours.”
“Right,” Moira replied.
They had to wait for three-quarters of an hour before Bartholomew appeared, walking with another man, no doubt the American that Ted Cricket had spotted him with the day before.
“He’s the taller of the two,” Bobby said. He handed her a card. “Here’s my cellphone number; let me know when you’re done.”
“Right,” Moira replied, then set off down the square, keeping Bartholomew in sight.
Bartholomew and his friend walked down into Berkeley Square, then down an adjoining mews and into a restaurant. Moira waited two minutes, then followed them in.
The two men were standing near the end of a crowded bar, each with a pint of bitter. Bartholomew was leaning on the bar, pulling his suit tight against his body. Nothing in the hip pocket, she thought. Then he fished his wallet from an inside coat pocket and took out a five-pound note to pay. Oh, thanks, she thought, taking it all in. She saw the ladies’ room door past them, up a couple of steps, and she walked toward it, catching Bartholomew’s eye and interest along the way, offering him a little smile. She went into the ladies’, freshened her makeup, and went out again. Bartholomew had stationed himself where he could watch her come out. She smiled at him again, then put a foot out, missed the first step, and began to fall forward.
Bartholomew took a step forward, his pint in his left hand, stuck out an arm, and, grazing a breast, caught her in his right arm.
She deliberately did not regain her feet right away, leaning into him, staggering him a couple of steps away from the bar.
“There,” he said, lifting and setting her on her feet again.
“I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “My heel caught on the step.”
“It’s quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”
“Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I’m on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies’.”
“Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What’ll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.
“No, really, I can’t,” Moira said. “I’d love to another time, though.” She didn’t want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.
“Give me your number, then.”
She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You’ll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”
“Name’s Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can’t you?”
“Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.
Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her pocket, checked Jones’s card, and punched in the number.
“Yes?” Jones said.
“I’ve got it.”
“Where are you?”
“In Berkeley Square.”
“You know Jack Barclay’s?”
“Yes.”
“Go and look at a Rolls; I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She hung up and walked along the east side of the square toward the Rolls-Royce dealer. She walked inside, immediately attracting a young salesman, who looked her up and down rather indiscreetly, she thought.
“May I help you?” he asked.
She glanced at her watch. “I’m meeting my husband here; we wanted to look at a Bentley.”
“Right over here,” the young man said, taking her elbow and steering her toward a gleaming white automobile. “This is the Arnage, in our Magnolia color,” he said. “Eye-catching, don’t you think?”
“It’s gorgeous,” she said, catching sight of Bobby Jones over his shoulder. “Oh, there he is!” She waved and smiled brightly.
Bobby approached them. “Hello dear,” she said, pecking him on a cheek. “Isn’t this a beautiful Bentley?”
Bobby looked at the car sourly. “You’ll have to be content with your Mercedes,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” He took her arm and guided her toward the door, with never a glance at the salesman.
Chapter 20
AFTER BREAKFAST STONE LEFT THE Connaught and began to wander aimlessly around Mayfair, window-shopping and thinking. He was making precious little progress in his investigation of Lance Cabot, and even less in his investigation of his client, John Bartholomew, or whoever he was. Still, he had been in England for only a few days; perhaps he was being impatient.
Finally, his impatience led him into Farm Street, where he saw Ted Cricket standing at the far end. He did not approach the house, but he motioned for Cricket to go to the next mews, and they met there.
“Anything to report?” Stone asked.
“Not yet, Mr. Barrington,” Cricket replied, “but then I didn’t expect for anything to happen. They haven’t left the house yet, and when I checked the tape, there had only been a couple of phone calls, both for Miss Burroughs, both innocuous.”
“Heard anything from Bobby?”
“Not yet, but I expect we’ll have some results before the day’s out. We have your cellphone number, if anything of note occurs.”
“Thanks, Ted; I’ll talk to you later.” Stone walked back up the mews and slowly back toward the Connaught. He passed the Hayward tailor shop, but didn’t go in; it was too soon for fittings on the jackets he had ordered. His pocket phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington, it’s Bobby Jones.”
“Yes, Bobby?”
“I have what you wanted; can we meet?”
“I’ll be at the Connaught in two minutes.”
“So will I, sir.”
Stone encountered Bobby at the front door, and they went in together and sat down in the lounge. Bobby reached into his raincoat pocket and presented Stone with a large wallet.
Stone received it in a handkerchief and lightly turned it over. It was of alligator, and it must have cost a bundle, Stone thought. He looked inside and found more than five hundred pounds, mostly in fifty-pound notes. One side of the wallet held three credit cards, an ATM card from Barclays bank, an international health insurance card, and half a dozen calling cards, all in the name of Stanford Hedger, Mayfair House, Green Street. The credit cards were in the same name. “Well,” he said, “
at least we have his name, now.”
“The lady pickpocket said he introduced himself as Bill, so Hedger could be a false name, too.”
“If it is, he’s gone to a great deal of trouble to establish that identity. Since we know he lives at the Green Street address, I’m inclined to think that Hedger is his real name.”
“Maybe so, but these buggers have a thousand names, if they want them.”
“Bobby, can you dust this for fingerprints and have them checked with the international database?”
“I have a friend who can,” Bobby replied. “Of course, my prints are on it, as are the pickpocket’s.”
“How long will it take?”
“A day or two, depending on how busy my friend is.”
“All right.”
“What do you want me to do with the wallet after that?”
“Wipe all the prints off it and stick it through the mail slot of Hedger’s building. Maybe he’ll think someone found and returned it.”
“All right, sir; I’ll be on my way then.” Bobby took the wallet back in a handkerchief of his own, tucked it into a raincoat pocket, and left.
Stone went upstairs. It was just coming onto nine o’clock, New York time, and he called Bill Eggers, who he knew came in early.
“Eggers.”
“Hi, it’s Stone.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”
“Sounds familiar,” Eggers said, “but I can’t place it. Who is he?”
“That’s what I want to know. I think it may be Bartholomew’s real name. By the way, he works for the government, probably in intelligence.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, based on who sent him to me, but I can’t elaborate on that.”
“I see.”
“I hope you do.”
“Of course I do, Bill, but should you get some information that doesn’t compromise your relationship with a client, will you pass it on to me?”
“Okay, I can do that.”
“Talk to you later.”
Stone thought it might not be too early to call his old professor, Samuel Bernard.
“Yes?” The voice was surprisingly weak.
“It’s Stone Barrington, sir; how are you?”
“Oh, I’ve had a bad couple of days, but I’m better now.”
“Is this not a good time to talk?”
“No, no, go right ahead. What can I do for you?”
“Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”
“Indeed it does,” Bernard replied without hesitation.
“Who is he?”
“When I knew him, and later, when I only knew of him, he was considered one of the agency’s brightest young men.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was a bit impulsive, perhaps even wild, but that doesn’t hurt one’s reputation in the Company, if the results are good. Of course, if one makes a mistake . . .”
“Did Hedger make a mistake?”
“He did, and I can’t tell you about it, except to say that it cost the lives of half a dozen operatives in a Middle Eastern country. Fortunately for Hedger, none of them was American, or he would have been in real trouble.”
Stone wasn’t sure what else to ask. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
“There was a wife, in his youth, but she died in an automobile accident. Hedger was driving, and he was said to have been broken up by the event, though I never knew him to be broken up by anything. He had a level of self-confidence that is usually only found in maniacs, and that seemed to make him impervious to most disastrous events, like his Middle Eastern debacle. I shouldn’t think it took him long to get over his wife’s death.”
“Anything else?”
“He was extraordinarily brave, in the physical sense, which, I suppose, comes with his level of self-confidence. I doubt if he believed that anyone could ever do him harm. He garnered a couple of medals for valor, and that stood him in good stead in the agency. Still, careful people never trusted him, and there are always a lot of careful people in the Company.”
“What about those who were not so careful?”
“There are always those in the Company, too, and they always found uses for Hedger. Later, when he rose to supervisory levels, he attracted younger men who seemed to share his attitudes. He was kept busy keeping them out of trouble, which some saw as his just reward.”
“Do you have any idea what he might be involved with now?”
“I shouldn’t think he’s involved with anything. He’s dead.”
That brought Stone up short. “Are you sure?”
“He died in an explosion in Cairo about two years ago—one caused by an Islamic fundamentalist suicide bomber.”
“Was his body identified?”
“Some body parts were, I believe. If you’ll forgive me, Stone, I have a visitor, who’s on the way upstairs now. I’ll call you if I think of anything else. You’re still at the Connaught?”
“Yes, sir, and thank you.”
Stone hung up the phone, baffled more than before.
Chapter 21
THE FUNERAL SERVICE FOR JAMES CUTLER took place at the Catholic church in Farm Street, which Stone remembered being mentioned in the novels of Evelyn Waugh. All the people present at the house party the weekend before attended, plus a great many others, many of whom Stone surmised were business acquaintances of the deceased. Julian Wainwright was prominent among them, looking suitably sorrowful. When the service was over, many of those present adjourned to the house occupied by Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs, which was conveniently nearby.
A light lunch was served, and Stone had a glass of wine. He wandered idly through the house looking at pictures and taking in the place. It was handsomely decorated, and Stone wondered if Lance had had it done or if the house came that way when it was rented. As he strolled down a hallway, he heard Lance’s voice through an ajar door, apparently to the study.
“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance was saying, “if you persist in this, if you send anyone else for me, I’ll kill them, then I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. That is a solemn promise.” Then he slammed the handset down onto the receiver.
Stone ducked into a powder room and closed the door. He wanted to hear all of that conversation, and fortunately, he had the means to do so quite nearby. He ducked out of the house and found Bobby Jones down the street.
“Good day,” Jones said.
“I want to hear what’s on the recorder,” Stone said.
“Of course; I’ll take you there.”
Stone followed the little man to a garage nearby. Jones unlocked a small door in the larger one and closed it behind them. He went to a cupboard at the rear of the garage, unlocked a padlock, and opened the door to reveal a small tape machine. “How far back today do you want me to go?”
“The last conversation,” Stone replied.
Jones rewound the tape, and the sound of voices backward and at speed could be heard, then stopped. He punched a button and the recorder began to play.
“Hello?” Lance’s voice.
“I want it,” another male voice said. “You’re all out of time.” The quality of the connection was poor, as if the call were coming from some Third World country.
“Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance said, and the rest was as Stone had heard a moment before.
“Let me hear it again,” Stone said.
Jones rewound the machine, and Stone listened carefully. The voice was American, he thought, but he could not be sure, and it didn’t sound like Bartholomew. “Once more,” Stone said, and listened.
“Sounds like he’s got somebody on his back,” Jones said, resetting the machine.
“Yes, it does.”
“Sounds like money to me.”
“Could be. Could be almost anything of value—even information.”
“I suppose so, but I�
��m a copper right to the bone, and I tend to think in the simplest terms, especially where a threat to kill is involved.”
“You could be right,” Stone admitted. “By the way, I checked with a knowledgeable friend in New York, and Stanford Hedger has been dead for two years.”
“You could have fooled me,” Jones said, letting them out of the garage and locking the door behind him. “What do you make of that?”
“Well, one of two things, I guess: either Hedger isn’t dead, or he’s dead and Bartholomew is using his identity for some purpose.”
“This is far too thick for me,” Jones said. “Give me a nice homicide any day; I never know what to make of these spooks.”
“You’ve had experience with them before?”
“Yes, but only with the blokes on our side—MI6. The trouble with trying to figure them out is you never know what they want, and if they explained it to you, you probably wouldn’t understand it.”
Stone laughed. “I see your point. I have a feeling, though, that whatever is going on here is taking place outside the bounds of any official action. It sounds awfully personal to me.”
Stone said goodbye to Jones and returned to the party. As he entered the house, he encountered Lance, who had an empty glass in his hand.
“Where did you go?” Lance asked, motioning him to follow toward the bar.
“Just for a stroll; I felt like some air.”
“I know the feeling,” Lance replied. “These wakes can be oppressive.”
“It was good of you to have it here.”
“I’m happy to help out Sarah at a difficult time.” He got a drink from the barman and led Stone out into a small garden. They sat down on a teak bench.
“Lovely house,” Stone said.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Lance said. “It came as you see it, right from the agency. The owner is with the Foreign Office; he’s in India or someplace.”
“Good break for you.”
“The rent isn’t a good break. Tell me, is what I’ve been reading in the papers true?”
“I don’t know; what have you been reading?”