by Stuart Woods
“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.
23
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.
24
STONE WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING with a hangover, the result, he was sure, of the great quantity of port that he and Hedger had shared at the Garrick Club. They had dined in the club’s main dining room, a long, tall hall with acres of walls filled with fine portraits, the room’s red paint browned by decades of tobacco smoke. Stone had spotted a former American secretary of state and half a dozen well-known actors, and Hedger had pointed out government officials, barristers, and journalists among the crowd. Stone had been impressed.
Now he was depressed. He made a constant effort not to overindulge; he had failed, and the result was worse than jet lag. The phone rang—more loudly than usual, he thought. “Hello?”
“Good morning, it’s Sarah,” she said brightly. It was the first time they had spoken since the funeral.
“Good morning,” Stone struggled to say.
“You sound hungover.”
“It’s jet lag.”
“No, you’re hungover, I can tell. You always sounded this way when you were hungover.” She had him at the disadvantage of knowing him well.
“All right, I’m hungover.”
“And how did this happen?”
“How do you think it happened? The usual way.”
“And in whose company?”
“A business associate’s—not a woman—and at the Garrick Club. And don’t start coming over all jealous.”
“I am jealous, but the Garrick is my favorite London men’s club, so I’ll forgive you.”
Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”
“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”
Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”
“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”
“Do I need a dinner jacket?”
“Always a good idea at an English country house.”
“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”
“Of course you will.” She hung up.
Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”
Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”
“Perfect; see you then.”
Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.
“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”
“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”
“Know much about him?”
“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”
“Oh.”
“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.
Stone nodded.
“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”
Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.
“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”
“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.
“Get in!”
The doorman held the door open for him.
“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.
Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up Mount Street at a great rate, the car making a noise like an adolescent Ferrari. A moment later, they were in busy Park Lane, whizzing through traffic.
Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.
“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.
“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”
“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s very fast.” She changed down, accelerated across two lanes, and careened into Hyde Park.
Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.
“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”
“Port.”
“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”
“All too easily.”
“And who was your host?”
“A man named . . . Bartholomew.” He still didn’t feel comfortable calling him Hedger.
“English or American?”
“American, but an anglophile.”
“Thus, the port.”
“Yes.”
“How did you like the Garrick?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“They’re just about th
e last of the old London clubs that still bar women from membership,” she said. “I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male membership.”
“Hmmpf,” Stone said. He was drifting off.
He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He looked out the windshield to see the narrow road ahead filled with sheep. One came up to his window and briefly pressed its nose against the glass, and it was eye to eye with him. “Where are we?” he asked.
“In the middle of a flock of sheep,” Sarah replied. “They have the right of way in the country.”
“I mean, where are we?”
“Halfway there. You hungry?”
Oddly, he was. “Yes.”
“There’s a pub round the bend; we’ll have a ploughman’s lunch.” She drove on when the sheep had passed, then turned into a picturesque country pub. They went inside, picked up their lunch—bread, cheese, and sausage, and a pint of bitter each, then made their way into a rear garden and sat down.
Stone drank deeply from the pint. “There, that’s better,” he said.
“The bitter will set you right,” Sarah said.
“That’s the second time today I’ve been told that.”
“And we were both right, no?”
“Yes, you both were. What do you know about Lance Cabot?”
“I told you already—not much.”
“Remember everything you can. Anything ever strike you as odd about him?”
“Only that he seems to fit in awfully well with English people. People I know don’t even seem to regard him as a foreigner.”
“Have you ever seen him with anyone you didn’t know?”
She thought. “Once, in a London restaurant, I saw him across the room, dining with a couple—man and woman—who looked foreign.”
“What kind of foreign?”
“Mediterranean.”
“That’s a big area.”
“Turkish or Israeli, perhaps.”
“Describe them.”