“No, sir; I’d like to stay on it in the hope of meeting the two gentlemen who did this to Bobby.”
“I understand, but I can’t promise that will happen.”
“It will, if I continue to follow Bartholomew.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt, too, Ted.”
“Believe me, Mr. Barrington, it is not I who will be hurt.”
“Ted . . .”
“Let me deal with this, please. I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t want anyone killed.”
“I’ve no intention of doing that.”
“I don’t want Bartholomew touched.”
“I won’t promise you that.”
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“I understand that, but it went that way.”
“I’ll continue to pay you to watch Lance Cabot,” Stone said. “But I don’t want you near Bartholomew. Don’t follow him again.”
“In that case, I’ll have to leave your employ, Mr. Barrington.” He handed over another sheet of paper. “Here’s my bill.”
Stone paid it.
Cricket stood up and offered his hand. “I’m sorry it turned out this way, Mr. Barrington; I know you’re a gentleman and that you didn’t intend for anything like this to happen.”
“Thank you, Ted, and I wish you luck.”
“And the very best to you, Mr. Barrington. Oh, by the way, I’ll leave the tape recorder going in the garage for the time being.”
Stone shook his head. “Don’t bother; I’ll be returning to New York, as soon as I take care of a couple of loose ends.”
“Then I’ll have the equipment removed,” Cricket said. He turned and left the hotel.
Stone went to the concierge’s desk and asked to be booked on a flight to New York the following day, then he went to his suite. He took out the little satellite phone, positioned himself near the window, and from the phone’s memory, dialed Bartholomew’s number.
It was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“It’s Stone Barrington.”
“What do you have to report?”
“You and I have to meet right away.”
“I’m in New York.”
“We both know that’s a lie; you’re staying at a house in
There was a grinding silence for a moment, then Bartholomew said, “The Green Street house in an hour.”
“No; someplace public.”
“All right, the Garrick Club, at six o’clock, in the bar; I’ll leave your name at the door.”
“I’ll be there.” Stone hung up. He stretched out on the bed and tried to nap. Jet lag took a long time to completely go away.
The Garrick Club porter directed Stone up the stairs, which were hung with portraits of dead actors, costumed for their greatest roles. The whole clubhouse seemed to be a museum of the theater. Stone found the bar at the top of the stairs, and in this room, the portraits were of actors more recently dead—Noel Coward and Laurence Olivier and their contemporaries. The bar was not crowded, and Bartholomew stood at the far end.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Nothing, thank you.”
Bartholomew shrugged. “As you wish. Let’s go in the other room.” He led the way to an adjoining reading room and settled into one of a pair of leather chairs. “Now, what’s so important?”
Stone fished an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “This is the remainder of the money you gave me, and an accounting of what I spent. I’m returning to New York tomorrow.”
“But you can’t do that,” Bartholomew said, alarmed.
“Watch me. I’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Hedger, if that’s your real name.”
“
“I had it done. And you’re responsible for putting a retired policeman in the hospital.”
“He was working for
“I should warn you that there’s another retired policeman, a much larger one, looking for you right now, and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when he finds you.”
“Oh, Christ,” Bartholomew said, tugging at his whiskey. “What the hell were you doing having me followed and my pocket picked?”
“I like to know the truth about the work I do, and I wasn’t getting it from you.”
Bartholomew rubbed his face with his hands.
“What is your real name?”
“That’s not important,” Bartholomew said. “You’re better off not knowing, believe me.”
“As you wish. Since Stanford Hedger is dead, I’ll assume that’s just another alias.” His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe not. You
“How the hell do you know about that?”
“I have my resources, Mr. Hedger.” Stone decided to fire a guess. “Tell me, was Lance Cabot one of your bright young men at the Company?”
Hedger shot him a sharp glance. “You’re wandering into an area where you shouldn’t be.”
“I’ve been in that area since I arrived in London,” Stone replied. “Thanks to you. What was it you really wanted to accomplish when you put me onto Lance Cabot’s back?”
“You’re better off not knowing.”
Stone guessed again. “It wasn’t exactly official Company business, was it?”
Hedger shook his head slowly.
“What was it about?”
“All right, I’ll tell you; I guess I owe you that. But you breathe a word of this, and you’ll be in more trouble than you can imagine.”
For a moment, Stone thought he probably shouldn’t know this; then he changed his mind. “Tell me,” he said.
Chapter 23
HEDGER, IF THAT WAS HIS NAME, leaned back in his chair and sipped his whiskey. “It was a Middle Eastern operation,” he said, “and those are always a mess. We had—still have—a shortage of Arabic- speaking operatives, locals who blend in—and that always makes things difficult. Even when you recruit them, you can never really put any trust in them; you never know if they’re doubling for Hamas, or some other radical organization.
“Cabot fit in really well out there; his Arabic was outstanding—so good that he could impersonate an Arab on the phone, if not in person; he wore the region like an old shoe. So much so that I began to suspect him.”
“Of what? Of being an Arab?”
