The Short Forever

works for the government, probably in intelligence.”

                        “That doesn’t surprise me, based on who sent him to me, but I can’t elaborate on that.”

                        “I see.”

                        “I hope you do.”

                        “Of course I do, Bill, but should you get some information that doesn’t compromise your relationship with a client, will you pass it on to me?”

                        “Okay, I can do that.”

                        “Talk to you later.”

                        Stone thought it might not be too early to call his old professor, Samuel Bernard.

                        “Yes?” The voice was surprisingly weak.

                        “It’s Stone Barrington, sir; how are you?”

                        “Oh, I’ve had a bad couple of days, but I’m better now.”

                        “Is this not a good time to talk?”

                        “No, no, go right ahead. What can I do for you?”

                        “Does the name Stanford Hedger mean anything to you?”

                        “Indeed it does,” Bernard replied without hesitation.

                        “Who is he?”

                        “When I knew him, and later, when I only knew of him, he was considered one of the agency’s brightest young men.”

                        “Tell me about him.”

                        “He was a bit impulsive, perhaps even wild, but that doesn’t hurt one’s reputation in the Company, if the results are good. Of course, if one makes a mistake . . .”

                        “Did Hedger make a mistake?”

                        “He did, and I can’t tell you about it, except to say that it cost the lives of half a dozen operatives in a Middle Eastern country. Fortunately for Hedger, none of them was American, or he would have been in real trouble.”

                        Stone wasn’t sure what else to ask. “Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

                        “There was a wife, in his youth, but she died in an automobile accident. Hedger was driving, and he was said to have been broken up by the event, though I never knew him to be broken up by anything. He had a level of self-confidence that is usually only found in maniacs, and that seemed to make him impervious to most disastrous events, like his Middle Eastern debacle. I shouldn’t think it took him long to get over his wife’s death.”

                        “Anything else?”

                        “He was extraordinarily brave, in the physical sense, which, I suppose, comes with his level of self-confidence. I doubt if he believed that anyone could ever do him harm. He garnered a couple of medals for valor, and that stood him in good stead in the agency. Still, careful people never trusted him, and there are always a lot of careful people in the Company.”

                        “What about those who were not so careful?”

                        “There are always those in the Company, too, and they always found uses for Hedger. Later, when he rose to supervisory levels, he attracted younger men who seemed to share his attitudes. He was kept busy keeping them out of trouble, which some saw as his just reward.”

                        “Do you have any idea what he might be involved with now?”

                        “I shouldn’t think he’s involved with anything. He’s dead.”

                        That brought Stone up short. “Are you sure?”

                        “He died in an explosion in Cairo about two years ago—one caused by an Islamic fundamentalist suicide bomber.”

                        “Was his body identified?”

                        “Some body parts were, I believe. If you’ll forgive me, Stone, I have a visitor, who’s on the way upstairs now. I’ll call you if I think of anything else. You’re still at the Connaught?”

                        “Yes, sir, and thank you.”

                        Stone hung up the phone, baffled more than before.

                 Chapter 21

                        THE FUNERAL SERVICE FOR JAMES CUTLER took place at the Catholic church in Farm Street, which Stone remembered being mentioned in the novels of Evelyn Waugh. All the people present at the house party the weekend before attended, plus a great many others, many of whom Stone surmised were business acquaintances of the deceased. Julian Wainwright was prominent among them, looking suitably sorrowful. When the service was over, many of those present adjourned to the house occupied by Lance Cabot and Erica Burroughs, which was conveniently nearby.

                        A light lunch was served, and Stone had a glass of wine. He wandered idly through the house looking at pictures and taking in the place. It was handsomely decorated, and Stone wondered if Lance had had it done or if the house came that way when it was rented. As he strolled down a hallway, he heard Lance’s voice through an ajar door, apparently to the study.

                        “Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance was saying, “if you persist in this, if you send anyone else for me, I’ll kill them, then I’ll find you and I’ll kill you. That is a solemn promise.” Then he slammed the handset down onto the receiver.

                        Stone ducked into a powder room and closed the door. He wanted to hear all of that conversation, and fortunately, he had the means to do so quite nearby. He ducked out of the house and found Bobby Jones down the street.

                        “Good day,” Jones said.

                        “I want to hear what’s on the recorder,” Stone said.

                        “Of course; I’ll take you there.”

                        Stone followed the little man to a garage nearby. Jones unlocked a small door in the larger one and closed it behind them. He went to a cupboard at the rear of the garage, unlocked a padlock, and opened the door to reveal a small tape machine. “How far back today do you want me to go?”

                        “The last conversation,” Stone replied.

                        Jones rewound the tape, and the sound of voices backward and at speed could be heard, then stopped. He punched a button and the recorder began to play.

                        “Hello?” Lance’s voice.

                        “I want it,” another male voice said. “You’re all out of time.” The quality of the connection was poor, as if the call were coming from some Third World country.

                        “Let me make this as clear for you as I possibly can,” Lance said, and the rest was as Stone had heard a moment before.

                        “Let me hear it again,” Stone said.

                        Jones rewound the machine, and Stone listened carefully. The voice was American, he thought, but he could not be sure, and it didn’t sound like Bartholomew. “Once more,” Stone said, and listened.

                        “Sounds like he’s got somebody on his back,” Jones said, resetting the machine.

                        “Yes, it does.”

                        “Sounds like money to me.”

                        “Could be. Could be almost anything of value—even information.”

                        “I suppose so, but I’m a copper right to the bone, and I tend to think in the simplest terms, especially where a threat to kill is involved.”

                        “You could be right,” Stone admitted. “By the way, I checked with a knowledgeable friend in New York, and Stanford Hedger has been dead for two years.”