The Short Forever

                 Chapter 28

                        STONE ARRIVED BACK AT THE CONNAUGHT and checked his mail and messages, among which was one from Doug Hayward to come back for a fitting. Quick, he thought.

                        He changed clothes, then left the Connaught and walked up Mount Street toward Hayward’s shop. In the middle of the block he stood, waiting for traffic to subside enough for him to cross, but before he could move, a large black car pulled up in front of him and stopped. He could not see through the darkened windows, and as he tried, a rear door opened and a large man reached out, took him by the lapels, and jerked him forward into the commodious rear compartment of the car. Before he could say anything, he was on the floor, with large feet holding him down, one on the nape of his neck.

                        “What is this about?” Stone managed to croak, even though his neck was held at an odd angle.

                        “Shut up,” a man’s deep voice said.

                        Stone shut up.

                        The car drove for, maybe, twenty minutes. Stone tried to keep track of the time and the turns, but he couldn’t see his watch, and, not knowing the street plan well enough, he couldn’t figure out where they were going. They seemed to drive around three or four traffic circles, and shortly after the last one, they made a right turn and stopped. The two men in the rear seat hustled Stone through an open door in a narrow back street and into a darkened hallway. They marched Stone along, making a couple of turns, then he was propelled forward into a small room, bouncing off the rear wall, and the door was slammed behind him.

                        “You have one minute to strip off all your clothes, or we’ll do it for you,” the deep voice said.

                        Stone thought about this for half a minute, then he got out of his clothes and laid them neatly on a bench along one wall. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and he could see that he was in a windowless room with a steel door. There was a bucket in a corner and the bench, no other furniture. A moment later, a small door in the larger one opened, then closed, then the two men came into the cell, took away his clothes, and slammed the door behind them.

                        Stone thought about it. These people did not seem like the police. Surely the London police had procedures about arrest and detention, just as the New York department did, and what he was experiencing did not seem to conform to any set of procedures in any civilized country. This was more like something out of a World War II film about the Gestapo, or a spy novel.

                        Perhaps three minutes passed, then the cell door opened again, and someone threw his clothes at him.

                        “Get dressed,” the deep voice said. “You have one minute.”

                        Stone was tying his necktie when the door opened again and he was half escorted, half dragged down another series of hallways, then pushed into a brightly lit room, the door slamming behind him.

                        Blinking rapidly, he discovered that all the room was not brightly lit, just the part containing a wooden stool. The other side of the room, some twelve or fifteen feet away, contained a table behind which sat three men. They were in deep shadows and he could see only their forms, not their faces. It seemed to be arranged as some sort of Stalinist tribunal.

                        “Sit down, please, Mr. Barrington,” a smooth male voice said.

                        Stone went and sat down on the stool. There was something odd about the man’s voice, but he couldn’t figure it out.

                        The smooth voice spoke again, and Stone figured it was coming from the man in the middle, who was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. “Tell us, please, if you have ever heard the following names, in any context: Robert Graves?”

                        “What?”

                        “Robert Graves.”

                        “Yes. The poet.”

                        “Any other context?”

                        “No.”

                        “Maureen Kleinknect?”

                        “No.”

                        “Joanna Scott-Meyers?”

                        “No.”

                        “Jacob Ben-David?”

                        “No.”

                        “Erica Burroughs?”

                        “Yes.”

                        “In what regard?”

                        “A friend of a friend.”

                        “How well do you know her?”

                        “I’ve had lunch with her once, dinner with her a couple of times, in a group.”

                        “Lance Cabot?”

                        “I’ve had enough of this,” Stone said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

                        “I’ve just told you what we want, for the present. Lance Cabot?”

                        “If you are acting in some sort of official capacity, tell me now; otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”

                        “Lance Cabot?”

                        Stone said nothing.

                        “If you would prefer it, Mr. Barrington,” the smooth voice said, “I can arrange for the two gentlemen who brought you here to come and persuade you to answer.”

                        Stone said nothing. The voice was very English, but the speaker was not. There was an underlying accent.

                        “Just once more; Lance Cabot?”

                        “He is the companion of Erica Burroughs; I’ve seen him when I’ve seen her.”

                        “How does Mr. Cabot earn his living?”

                        “He styles himself a business consultant; I have no idea what that means.”

                        “Did you know him before arriving in London?”

                        “No.”

                        “Ali Hussein?”

                        “Pardon?”

                        “Ali Hussein?”

                        “Never heard of him.”

                        “Sheherezad Al-Salaam, also known as Sheila.”

                        “Nor her.”

                        “Sarah Buckminster?”

                        “Yes.”

                        “Go on.”

                        “I knew her when she lived in New York; we renewed our acquaintance after I arrived in London. Don’t you read the papers?”

                        “Monica Burroughs?”

                        “The sister of Erica. Art dealer. Spent part of one weekend in her company.”

                        “John Bartholomew?”

                        “No.”

                        “John Bartholomew?”

                        “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

                        “Mr. Barrington, don’t try my patience.”

                        Stone said nothing. The man made a small movement with one hand, and Stone heard a