16
Before Stone and Felicity left the house, Peter Leahy did a quick jog down the street and back, then returned. “No sign of her,” he said.
Felicity said to Stone, “We can’t arrive together in the ambassador’s car; people would talk. You get a cab. Did you bring your passport?”
“Yes,” Stone said, patting his jacket pocket. “But I don’t know why.”
“Because you will be treading upon British soil,” she said. She gave him the address and then ran down the front steps and into the waiting Rolls.
Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. Ten minutes later he was deposited in front of a large, elegant town house near Sutton Place. He walked up the front steps and tried the knob. Locked. He found a bell and rang it.
A few moments later a middle-aged man in a black uniform with silver trim opened the door. He was wearing a sidearm in a polished, black holster. “Yes?”
“My name is Barrington. I have an appointment with Ms. Felicity Devonshire.”
“Dame Felicity,” the man corrected him. “Wait here.”
So she was Dame Felicity now. He hadn’t known.
The man opened the door a second time and allowed Stone inside. He found himself in a large, marble-floored foyer with a handsome desk to one side. A graceful double staircase climbed into the upper reaches of the house.
“Come this way, please.”
Stone followed the man through a door he hadn’t noticed into what was apparently the next building, which was plainer in decor. They got into an elevator with a thick, steel door, and the man opened a panel with a key and pressed a button. The car rose quickly to what seemed to be the top floor, and the door opened.
Another man, dressed in the same uniform as the first and also armed, stood waiting. The elevator door closed, and the first man went down with it.
“Your name?” the new man asked.
“Stone Barrington.”
“And with whom is your appointment?”
“Ms… ah, Dame Felicity Devonshire.”
“Your passport, please?”
Stone dug it out and handed it over. The man carefully compared the photograph inside with Stone’s face. He did not return the passport. “Come with me, please.”
Stone followed him through two more doors to what he assumed was the rear of the building, and then they entered a room the size of a large closet. “Stand against the rear wall, please,” the man said. Stone did so. The man rolled a steel box with a glass top in front of Stone. Etched into the glass were the outlines of two hands. He opened a drawer, opened Stone’s passport and placed it inside.
“Place your hands upon the outlines, please, and press down slightly.”
Stone did so, and then suddenly three lights flashed, one in front of him and one on either side. He realized that he had just been fingerprinted and photographed from the front and in both profiles. His passport had been photographed, too.
The man pressed a button, and Stone heard a whirring sound from the other side of the door they had entered. “Thank you,” the man said, returning Stone’s passport. “Come this way, please.”
Stone followed him out of the closet and down a hallway into what seemed to be a third building. The man stopped at a steel door and placed his palm on a recognition panel. The door slid open with a hiss, they both stepped through, and it closed behind them. Stone noticed that the inside of the door was sheathed in mahogany panels over the steel. They were in a small sitting room decorated with comfortable leather furniture and hunting prints, along with a few oil landscapes.
“Please take a seat,” the man said. “Someone will come for you.” He departed through the door they had entered.
Stone sat down and recognized a Vivaldi sonata for flute wafting through invisible speakers, and a stack of magazines was on a table next to him. He picked up the top one and found himself leafing through the current issue of Country Life, perusing ads for houses in Kent, Sussex, Devon and other counties. He had about settled on a charming cottage by the sea in Cornwall when a door on the other side of the room opened and a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit stepped into the room.
“Mr. Barrington, I presume?” she said.
Stone rose. “How could I possibly be anyone else?” he asked.
She tried not to laugh. “This way, please.” She led him through what was apparently her office and to a set of double mahogany doors, where she knocked twice.
“Come!” a female voice said.
The woman opened the door and stood back for Stone to enter. Felicity, who was seated at an antique desk, stood up. “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, extending her hand.
Stone shook it. “Ah, Dame Felicity,” he said.
“That will be all, Heather,” Felicity said, “until the other gentleman arrives.”
Heather closed the door, and Felicity motioned for Stone to sit down. He did so and was about to speak, when she held up a hand. “I trust you’ve been well since our last meeting,” she said, tapping an ear with a fingertip.
So they were being recorded. “Very well, indeed, Dame Felicity, and may I congratulate you on your honor?”
She blushed a little. “Thank you,” she said. “It comes with the job.”
“And what job is that?” Stone asked mischievously.
“Civil service,” she replied, making a face. They were not being photographed. Then there was another knock at the door.
“Come!” Dame Felicity said.
The door opened, and a slight, gray-haired man in a very good but not new suit entered. “Good morning, Dame Felicity,” he said.
“Good morning,” she said, rising and shaking his hand. “May I present Mr. Barrington?”
The man turned and shook Stone’s hand. “Smith,” he said.
“How do you do, Mr. Smith?” Stone asked.
“Very well, thank you.”
“Please sit, gentlemen,” Felicity said.
They sat.
“Mr. Barrington, Mr. Smith is in possession of more knowledge of Stanley Whitestone than I, being his contemporary. I thought it might be useful for the two of you to meet.”
“I hope so,” Stone replied.
“Mr. Barrington,” Smith said, “what questions do you have regarding Mr. Whitestone?”
“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Stone said. “Please tell me in as much detail as possible of the first time you met Stanley Whitestone.”
Smith looked at Felicity and got a nod from her, then turned back to Stone and began.
17
Smith gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “We were nine years old,” he said, “and we were at Eton. He impressed me immediately.”
“How so?” Stone asked.
“He was very bright and quick and had an acerbic wit, especially for a nine-year-old.”
“Go on.”
“He excelled in his studies and on the playing field, both without seeming to try very hard.”
