by Stuart Woods
“Let me give you some fresh intelligence, then you decide. Vanessa Pym is Craig’s houseguest.”
“Oh, shit!” Felicity said.
“That was very unladylike.”
“Perhaps, but it was heartfelt. If I go anywhere near that little bitch, she’ll make the most awful noises.”
“I’m told she does that anyway, but not at dinner.”
“Well, it’s beans on toast at home for me, then,” Felicity said. “Goodbye.” She hung up.
“Felicity says hello,” Stone said to the Bacchettis.
“Is she coming to dinner?” Viv asked.
“Craig already has a date, and Felicity can’t be in the same house with her.”
“Anyone we might have heard of?”
“Vanessa Pym.”
“Oh, my God! Two movie stars!”
Dino spoke up. “Put me next to Vanessa Pym at dinner,” he said.
“Dino,” Viv said, “you’re too short to see down her dress.”
“I’ll sit on a phone book,” Dino replied.
* * *
• • •
At the front door there was a line of six security officers to greet their boss from New York. Viv flattered them by asking each questions about what they were doing.
“I winged one of ’em,” one officer said.
“Oh, good,” Viv said, “is his hide nailed to the barn door?”
“Next time,” the man replied.
* * *
• • •
Craig Calvert did appear at lunch, to the delight of Viv, but Vanessa Pym wasn’t up yet, disappointing Dino. They were just finishing lunch when Major Bugg entered the kitchen and whispered to Stone, “Detective Chief Inspector Holmes to see you. I put him in the library.”
Stone excused himself and walked down the hall, wondering how he should handle this. He decided to let Holmes, whom he knew, tell him.
“Good afternoon, Chief Inspector,” Stone said as Holmes rose to greet him. “Can I get you something?”
“Well, I know it’s five o’clock somewhere, but not in the South of England, old fellow.” Holmes sat down again.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve just had a call from immigrations warning me of an assassination team on my patch. Is someone after you again, Stone?”
“Possibly,” Stone said.
“I’m sorry you didn’t think to call me.”
“Strategic Services in London handled it. I left it to them to call you, but apparently they didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“No, they didn’t. I shall speak to them about that. Would you like to bring me up to date?”
“The short version or the long version?”
“The long version. I’ve plenty of time.”
Stone started at the beginning and gave him every detail. When he was finished, it was nearly the cocktail hour, and the chief inspector succumbed to a scotch.
8
Rance Damien put down the phone and went looking for Henry Thomas, who didn’t like to wait for news. Henry’s grandson, Hank, was with him. It was the first time Damien had seen Hank since the fire.
“Come in, Rance,” Henry said.
Hank turned in his chair to look at him. “Good God, man,” he said, when he saw his cousin’s face.
“It will get better,” Damien replied, taking the indicated chair.
“You have news from England?” Henry asked.
“What’s in England?” Hank wanted to know.
“Stone Barrington,” Henry replied. “Damien sent a party to greet him.”
“I just had a call,” Damien said, trying hard to meet Henry’s gaze.
“Let’s have it.”
“First of all, Tony Farmer has been shot.”
“Was the body disposed of?” Henry asked.
“He’s not dead. He took a bullet to his backside, but he received the proper medical attention. Problem is, the immigration people have discovered that he’s in their country. We paid his way through Heathrow, but now immigration is putting all three of them on a plane to New York.”
“That’s better than being in a British jail,” Hank said.
“The Brits put them in coach. There’s going to be a lot of bitching and moaning about that, and they’ll also be met by the NYPD at the gate.”
“There are no charges against them here, are there?” Henry inquired.
“No. Anthony has an arrest record, but no convictions, and he has a good passport.”
“Then they’ll just get a ride home, won’t they?”
“Problem is: I’m not going to be able to speak to them before the police pick them up at the airport. They’re going to have to wing it, until a lawyer can see them. He’ll be waiting for them, but I think the boys in blue are going to take the opportunity to question them. I got word that Dino Bacchetti and his wife are at Barrington’s place in England, and I’m sure he’s made a call or two.”
“Is there a plan? Will they know what to say?” Hank asked.
“I’m afraid not. I hadn’t anticipated this turn of events. However, they know enough to shut up until the lawyer finds them.”
“Who do we know who can pave the way for them downtown?”
“I think we’re better off relying on their natural-born aversion to talking to the police. If we start making it easier for them, suspicions will be unnecessarily aroused.”
“I don’t like being unprepared,” Henry said.
“Neither do I,” Damien replied, “but our names will never come up.”
“Did they take weapons into the U.K.?” Hank asked.
“No, they were supplied over there, but immigration confiscated them when they were arrested.”
“If you haven’t spoken to Anthony, how did we hear about this?” Henry asked.
“The guy who supplied them with weapons and housing phoned me, but he hadn’t been able to talk to them, either. He’s staying away from the house and the weapons. There will be nothing to connect him to the guns.”
“Okay, then,” Hank said. “Once the three have been sprung, we’re back to square one, are we not?”
“That’s where we’ll be.”
“Then the good news is: We’re no worse off than we were a week ago.”
“No worse, no better.”
“We’ll have to settle for that,” Hank said, “until you have a new plan ready to go.”
“I’m already working on that,” Damien said. “We’ve had word from a friend at the newspaper that the Cox woman has finished her book. So they’ll likely be returning to New York soon, and they’ll be more easily reached here.”
“What about this copying-machine fellow, who planted the bomb?” Hank asked.
“One Robert Cantor, we think, but we can’t prove it. Nobody here can make him from photographs. We visited his home and workshop and left something of a mess. He managed to clean that up, rearm his security system, and disappear again.”
“Have you got word out on the street about him?”
“Yes, indeed, but he’s clearly holed up somewhere. He has a big van that will be hard to conceal, though.”
“No,” Hank said, “he could put it in any parking garage in the city, and we wouldn’t know.”
“We own or control nearly a hundred parking garages in the city, and we’ve circulated a description and the license plate numbers,” Damien said, “but no hits yet.”
“Why are these people always a step ahead of us?” Henry asked. “Do we have a leak in our organization?”
“We’re taking a hard look at that as we speak,” Damien replied. “I had thought that one of the receptionists, the one who let him into the building, might be a leak, but we’ve scared her witless, and she swears she doesn’t know the man.”
“What do we hear from the D.A.’s office?” Henry asked.
“Our sources there tell us that Burrows is dragging his feet, so things are going very slowly. We’ve had time to patch up our machinery here and there, and the D.A. can’t charge us for what our ancestors did.”
“Well,” Henry said, “we cleaned up H. Thomas & Son before Hank announced for the presidency, so they’re not going to get anything out of our people.”
“What have you done with the money from our contributors?” Damien asked Hank.
“We’ve completed all the paperwork for returning it to them, so they won’t have any tax problems.”
“What did that escapade cost us?” Henry asked.
“As best as I can figure it, about fifteen million dollars, but we’re in negotiations with our insurance company about the replacement value of the equipment we lost, so that figure is likely to drop below ten million.”
“Has the family of that boy who died in the fire been taken care of? And the boy who’s still in the hospital? I don’t want any lawsuits.”
“Yes, that’s all included in the fifteen million.”
“How will Barrington and the Cox girl travel back to New York?” Hank asked.
“He has an airplane that’s hangared at his place in England, and it’s being guarded.”
“Where does it live when it gets back here?”
“In the Strategic Services hangar at Teterboro,” Damien replied. “We don’t want to tangle with those people, I think you’ll agree.”
“Agreed. How long is Barrington going to be bulletproof?”
“For a while,” Damien replied, “but you know what they say: revenge is a dish best served cold.”
9
Bob Cantor carefully applied a Van Dyke–style mustache and goatee to his face, and pasted on eyebrows heavier than his own, then he left his bedroom in Stone Barrington’s house and took the elevator down to the garage and got into the car he had rented under another name. He drove up to P. J. Clarke’s and parked on the side street, then went inside to the bar. The girl and three of her friends were having their usual TGIF date after work. He had trailed her there the week before.
He found a spot next to them at the bar and injected himself into their conversation, while ordering them another round on him. He introduced himself as Van.
Sherry, the receptionist stationed outside the computer room at Thomas, looked happier than she had the week before.
Two of the girls left for home and husbands, and a third began gathering herself to go also. Bob pounced. “Sherry, as long as we’re here, would you join me for dinner? I have a table booked.”
She hesitated until her friend nodded. “Sure, Van, I’d like that.”
Bob showed her to the back room, where a table awaited. “Would you like another drink, or just some wine with dinner?” he asked.
“I think wine with dinner is the better idea,” she said. “Weren’t you here last week?”
“I was. I saw you here, too. You’re the reason I came back.”
“Well, that’s flattering,” she said.
“It seemed to me that you look happier tonight than last week, or is that my imagination?”
“You’re very perceptive,” she replied. “I had a bad couple of days the week before. My employer seemed to think I had done something disloyal. But finally, after a lot of questions, they believed me. They transferred me to another department, though.”
“You don’t seem like a disloyal person to me, Sherry.”
“Thank you for that.”
They ordered dinner and wine, and got along swimmingly. When the check came, Bob paid it. “I’ve got my car. Can I give you a lift home?”
“Which way are you going?” she asked.
“Whichever way you’re going.”
“Thanks, Van, but I think I’ll just get a cab.”
“May I have your number?”
She wrote it in a notebook and tore out the page. “Sure, call me sometime.”
Bob gave her a number, too, then he walked her outside and hailed a cab for her. He drove back to Stone’s house, put the car away, and then went upstairs and called Sherry.
“Hello?”
“It’s Van,” he said. “There was something I forgot to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“I bear some of the responsibility for the hard time they gave you at work. I want to make it up to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look in your handbag,” he said. “There’s a gift for you there, wrapped in a napkin.”
“Well, that was sneaky,” she said.
“Go ahead, take a look.”
There was silence when she did, then a little gasp. “What is this?” she asked.
“It’s ten thousand dollars in hundreds,” Bob replied.
“Van, can I ask you a question and get an honest answer?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you the copying-machine guy?”
“I was,” Bob replied, “but I won’t be paying any calls in the future.”
“They think you planted a bomb in the office.”
“They can think what they like,” Bob said. “I’m just sorry they tried to blame you. I hope the money will make up for that.”
“This is all so mysterious,” she said.
“And it will have to remain so. Listen, don’t put the money in your bank account. If you ever had a tax audit they would want you to pay taxes on it. Just hide it somewhere and use it whenever you need it. Don’t be seen paying with hundreds, though. Pop into a bank—not your own—now and then and break them for smaller bills. Also, it’s not impossible that your employer might take a look at your account, understand?”
“I don’t entirely understand, but I’ll do as you say, and thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
“Will I see you again, Van?”
“Maybe after some time has passed we can meet again, but not for a while. The people you work for are unforgiving. Tell me: Is your new job as good as your old one?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then, after a while, you might look for something better. You have my number. Call me, and perhaps I can help find you something.”
“All right, I will.”
“No one will answer, so just leave a message, as detailed as you like. No one but me will ever hear it, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Oh, Van, there’s a telephone with the money.”
“It’s a throwaway,” Bob said. “You can use that to contact me; never call on your office phone or from your apartment. Both lines are almost certainly tapped.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sherry said. “My employers can be creepy at times, especially Rance Damien. He was burned in the fire, and he looks creepier than ever.”
“Your instincts are very good, Sherry. I’ve got to run. Call me, if you should need me.” He hung up.
10
At dinner on Sunday night, Craig Calvert stood and raised his glass. “To Stone Barrington,” he said, “and all of you.” They drank. “Stone, you’ve been a marvelous host. Vanessa, Mick, and I thank you for all you’ve done. A car is coming for us tomorrow morning at five AM, since we have to be at Pinewood at seven. Our parting gift to you is not to wake you.” He sat down, and they enjoyed a good dinner.
* * *
• • •
The following morning just after five, Stone woke to the sound of car doors slamming and an engine starting. A moment later, all was silence again. But now he was awake and sleep did not seem to want to return. He looked at the sleeping woman next to him, one arm thrown out in his direction, and decided it was too early to suggest sex. Instead, he got up, showered, dressed in riding clothes, then called down to the stables for a horse.
* * *
• • •
Fifteen minutes later he was galloping through a cloud of ground mist, turned a beautiful color by the rising sun. He reviewed the past few weeks in his mind and decided it was time to get back to reality.
* * *
• • •
They had breakfast in the kitchen. “Well,” Stone said, “all the glamour has left the house. We may as well go home.”
“I need to get back anyway,” Viv said, “and so does Dino, even if he won’t admit it.”
“And I have corrections to make to my manuscript,” Jamie said.
“Then it’s unanimous. Breakfast at eight tomorrow, wheels up at nine. Given the time difference and the fuel stop and light headwinds, we should be at Teterboro by mid-afternoon, just in time to avoid rush hour going into the city.”
* * *
• • •
Back at Turtle Bay, Stone had Fred take his and Jamie’s bags upstairs, then he went to his office to see Joan and check his mail and messages. Bob Cantor was waiting for him. They shook hands and sat down.
“How’s it going, Bob?” Stone asked.
“Not as well as I would have liked. The Thomases trashed my house and workshop, so I took you up on your invitation to stay upstairs, and I’ve been driving a rented car. I had begun to think things were cooling off, so I hatched a plan to find out for sure. I followed the receptionist I used to pass on my copy machine visits to P.J. Clarke’s, and made her acquaintance, suitably disguised. We had dinner, and I slipped a throwaway phone in her handbag, along with some cash, by way of an apology for casting suspicion on her, and we talked later.
“I gave her my throwaway number, and yesterday she called and wanted to meet for dinner at Clarke’s. I parked my rent-a-car at the corner of Fifty-fourth and Third, half an hour early, and waited for her to show up. I watched three men take up stations within half a block of P. J.’s. Then, when she showed up, she got out of a black SUV with heavily tinted windows and went inside.