The Short Forever

                        “Do you know Lance well?”

                        “Not really, but he’s very nice.”

                        “What does he do?”

                        “Something mysterious; I could never figure it out.”

                        “Neither could I.”

                        They ate on, finishing with dessert and coffee.

                        “I think I’d like a brandy,” she said.

                        “Careful, you’re driving, and I hear they’re tough about that in this country. I want you to get home in one piece, and without getting arrested.”

                        “I can’t go home,” she said. “They’ll be waiting for me.”

                        “Can you go to a friend’s?”

                        “I can’t even leave the hotel; they’re bound to be waiting outside. I’ll stay with you.” Her foot rubbed against his leg under the table.

                        “No, you won’t,” Stone said. “First of all, you’re supposed to be in mourning.”

                        “I’m not a widow!”

                        “Near enough. Second, they have a photograph of us together; if you don’t leave the hotel, they’ll make a very big thing of that. What you have to do is, walk out of the hotel like a citizen, get into your car, and drive home. Ignore any questions or photographers, and lock your doors. Live your normal life, except stay out of men’s hotel suites. You can’t become a fugitive; they’ll go away eventually. Once the funeral is behind you, they’ll lose interest.”

                        “I hate this,” she said.

                        “It won’t last forever.”

                        “I mean, I hate not being able to sleep with you.”

                        “You’ve already done that, remember?”

                        She giggled. “I’ll bet you thought I was Monica.”

                        “No comment.” He pushed back from the table and walked her to the lobby. “Now, shake my hand,” he said. “They could be anywhere.”

                        She shook his hand, then stole a peck on his cheek.

                        “Oh, you should have these.” He handed her the will and the financial statement, and she tucked them into her bag. “Bye,” she said, then walked out.

                        As soon as she was out the door, flashguns began popping.

                 Chapter 19

                        BOBBY JONES STOOD ON GREEN STREET, half a block from the house where John Bartholomew resided. He wore a suit and a cloth cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a raincoat. Bobby had learned, after years of surveillance, how to stand for long periods of time without becoming too tired. He wore thick-soled black shoes, and inside were sponge pads to cradle his feet. He had been there since eight a.m. It was now nearly half past nine.

                        Bartholomew came through the front door and down the steps, then turned toward Grosvenor Square and the American Embassy.

                        Bobby crossed the street and followed, keeping the half-block distance. He had expected Bartholomew to go straight to the embassy, but instead, the man crossed the street and began walking east along the little park at the center of the square. Well, blimey, Bobby thought, he’s on to me already. Bobby didn’t follow; instead, he walked to a bench that offered a good view of the square, checked to be sure Bartholomew wasn’t looking at him, shucked off the raincoat, turned it inside out, and it became tweed. He stuffed his cloth cap into a pocket, sat down, opened his newspaper, and set his half-glasses on the tip of his nose, so he could look over them. In a practiced fashion, he would glance at Bartholomew, then down at his paper, turning a page occasionally, then look back at his quarry.

                        Bartholomew proceeded around the square at a march, swinging an umbrella and taking in the sunny morning like a tourist. He crossed the street again, but instead of walking into the embassy through the front door, he continued straight along the street toward the entrance of the passport office, disappearing around the corner of the building.

                        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.”