Bartholomew nodded. “London, living with Mr. Cabot, quite fancily, in a rented mews house in Mayfair.” He opened a briefcase and handed Stone a file with a few sheets of paper inside. “Don’t bother reading this now, there isn’t time, but it contains everything I’ve been able to learn about Cabot, and something about Erica, as well. What I’d like you to do is to go to London, persuade Erica to come back to New York with you, and, if it’s possible without implicating Erica, get young Mr. Cabot arrested. I’d like him in a place where he can’t get to Erica. For as long as possible, it goes without saying.”
“I see.”
“Will you undertake this task? You’ll be very well paid, I assure you, and you will lack for no comfort while traveling.”
Stone didn’t have to think long, and mostly what he thought about was Sarah Buckminster, another relationship he’d managed to fuck up, though it wasn’t really his fault. “I will, Mr. Bartholomew, but you must understand that I will be pretty much limited to whatever persuasion I can muster, within the law, and whatever influence with the authorities I can scrape up. I won’t kidnap your niece, and I won’t harm Cabot, beyond whatever justice I can seek for him, based on crimes that are real and not imagined.”
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Barrington. I’m well aware that you are a respectable attorney and not a thug for hire. I’m also informed, by a number of people, Samuel Bernard among them, that you are a resourceful man and that your background as a police detective gives you entree to certain places.”
“Sometimes,” Stone admitted, “but not always. There are limits to what an ex-policeman can do.”
“I understand. I simply want you to do whatever you can.”
“On that basis, I’ll go,” Stone said. “I’ll ask my secretary to book me on a flight this evening.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bartholomew said, digging into his briefcase and coming up with an envelope secured with a rubber band. He tossed it onto Stone’s desk. “You’re booked on a two P.M. flight to London, and I’ve reserved accommodation for you at the Connaught hotel. There’s five thousand pounds sterling in the envelope and the name of a man at Coutts Bank in The Strand who will provide you with more, should you need it. Please enjoy whatever food, drink, and guests you may wish to have at the Connaught; the bill will come to me, and you need not keep track of your expenses.”
“That’s very generous,” Stone replied.
“All the relevant addresses and phone numbers are in the file, as is my card. Call me should you need advice or assistance of any sort. I understand that this may take a week or two, or even longer, so don’t feel pressed for time. I want this done in the best way possible, regardless of time or cost.” He reached into his briefcase, came up with a box, and placed it on Stone’s desk. “This is a satellite telephone that will work anywhere in Britain. Please use it to contact me when necessary; my number is programmed into the first digit. All you do is press one and hold it, and I’ll be on the other end. Please keep it with you at all times, in case I should wish to contact you.”
“All right.”
Bartholomew stood up. “Now, I must hurry to an appointment, and you have a flight to catch.” He shook hands with Stone, closed his briefcase, and marched out of the office, a man in a hurry.
Chapter 3
STONE WENT UPSTAIRS AND STARTED packing. He had no real idea what clothes he might need, so he overpacked, as he often did, taking three cases. He was gathering his toiletries when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dino. You all right? You got pretty snockered last night.”
“Yes, I did, but I’m bearing up. In fact, I’m off to London in a couple of hours.”
“For what?”
“Some client of Woodman and Weld has a niece who’s about to get herself in trouble in London, and I’m supposed to bring her back.”
“Who’s the client?”
“A man named John Bartholomew.” Stone dug in the file for Bartholomew’s card. It bore only a phone number and a cellphone number. “Sorry, I thought I had a business card, but it’s only a number.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes, you can see if a man named Lance Cabot has a sheet.”
“Just a minute,” Dino said.
Stone could hear computer keys clicking.
“Nope, nothing on him, either in our computer or the federal database.”
“Too bad, I was hoping for some ammunition. You know anybody at Scotland Yard?”
“Yeah, I think so; let me check the Rolodex.” Another pause. “Here we go: Evelyn, with a long
“You’re kidding.”
“I swear to God, that’s his name, and don’t forget the long
“Is that what he does? Chase terrorists?”
“Beats me; I didn’t get to know him that well, but he owes me a favor, so I’ll call him for you.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
“How you feeling about Callie this morning?”
“Okay, though you and Elaine were no help at all.”
“I seem to recall there’s a lady in London called Sarah Buckminster.”
“That crossed my mind.”
“She might be just the thing to help you get over Callie.”
“I’m already over Callie, but what the hell?”
“Okay, pal, have a good trip. Call me if you get in over your head.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m always having to pull you out of the shit, you know. What makes you think this trip will be any different?”
“I’ll try to get through it without needing rescuing.”
“Oh, it’s never any bother; you always get into such interesting shit. Makes my humdrum life just a little more exciting. See ya.” Dino hung up.
Stone drove himself to KennedyAirport while Joan sat in the passenger seat, taking notes on what to do while he was gone. She dropped him at the first-class entrance at British Airways, gave him a peck on the cheek, and drove off in his car. A porter took his luggage into the terminal and left him at the check-in counter.
A young woman looked at his ticket. “I’m sorry, sir, this is the wrong counter.”
Stone was annoyed. After Bartholomew’s seeming generosity, he’d expected to be in first class.
“You’re just down there,” she said, pointing to the Concorde check-in.
What a nice man Bartholomew was, Stone thought.
The cabin was tubelike, much smaller than he’d expected, and the seats were no larger than business class, but since the flight was only three hours, it hardly mattered. By the time he’d had a late lunch and read a couple of magazines, they were at Heathrow. He stood in line for immigration, then presented his passport.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. Welcome to Britain,” the young female officer said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”
