STONE SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY IN the most relaxed fashion possible. He was stuck in his investigation, he had no theories, and he had always found that was a good time to do nothing, to let the brain work on its own.
He had breakfast in his room, then did the museums: He started at the National Gallery, where he particularly enjoyed the Italian masters, went on to the National Portrait Gallery, which was fun but didn’t take long, then continued to the Tate, where he had lunch in the excellent restaurant before taking in the exhibitions. He walked slowly back to the Connaught—the rain had cleared and the day was lovely—and he was back in his suite when the satellite telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s Stan Hedger; do you possess a dinner jacket?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, did you bring it with you? I can send over something, if necessary.”
“Yes, I brought it with me; where am I wearing a dinner jacket?”
“To dinner at the American ambassador’s residence; I want you to look at some faces.”
“All right; what time?”
“A car will pick you up at seven o’clock; when you get to the residence, don’t recognize me; we’ll talk later.” He hung up before Stone could speak again. Stone shrugged and rang for the valet to press his tuxedo.
He was standing in front of the Connaught when a car pulled up to the entrance. Stone was startled because it was the car in which he had been abducted. The doorman went to the car window and briefly conversed with the driver.
“Mr. Barrington?” he said. “Your car, sir.” He opened the rear door wide.
Stone inspected the interior before getting into the car.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” the uniformed driver said.
“Good evening.” The car pulled away from the curb. “What kind of car is this?”
“It’s a Daimler limousine, sir; made by Jaguar.”
“And to whom does it belong?”
“It belongs to the embassy, sir; they have a small fleet of them; this particular one is assigned to the ambassador, but since he’s entertaining at home this evening, he didn’t need it.”
“Are these cars common in London?”
“Oh, yes; many of the foreign embassies use them, as does the Royal Family.”
Stone relaxed a little; he wasn’t being abducted again. “Where is the ambassador’s residence?”
“In RegentsPark, sir; do you know it?”
“No, this is my first trip to London in many years, and I never got to RegentsPark the first time.”
“It’s about a twenty-five-minute drive this time of day, sir.”
“You’re English?”
“Welsh, sir; the embassy employs quite a lot of locals. Cheaper than bringing over Yanks, I expect.”
“I’m afraid I don’t even know the ambassador’s name.”
“It’s Sumner Wellington, sir; I’m told the name went down rather well with the Queen.”
“Oh, yes, of course; he owns a big communications company,” Stone said.
“That’s correct, sir; it’s said that American presidents always appoint very rich men to the Court of St. James, because they can afford to do all the necessary entertaining out of their own pockets. Ambassador Wellington has paid for a complete renovation of the residence, as well.”
“Sounds like an expensive job.”
“I expect so, sir.”
“But Ambassador Wellington can afford it.”
“Quite so, sir. You said you were in London once before?”
“Yes, as a student; I did a hitchhiking tour of Europe one summer, and I spent a week of it in London.”
“I expect your accommodations this time are somewhat better than on your last trip.”
“Oh, yes. I spent most nights at a youth hostel, and, on one occasion, I got back after curfew and was locked out, so I slept under a railway arch somewhere.”
“So the Connaught is a big step upwards.”
“You could say that.” The man was awfully chatty for a Brit, Stone thought, especially for a chauffeur. “Are you the ambassador’s regular driver?”
“No, sir, I’m just a staff driver; I’ve driven the ambassador on a few occasions, when his regular driver wasn’t available.”
“Do you like him?”
“Yes, sir, I do; I find self-made Americans are much nicer to staff than the upper-class British. Oh, we’re in RegentsPark, now.”
They were driving along a wide crescent of identical buildings, with the park on their left. After a turn or two, the car glided to a stop before the residence, a very large Georgian house.
A U.S. marine opened the rear door of the car.
“Mr. Barrington?” the driver said.
Stone stopped getting out of the car.
“I was asked to give you a message.”
“Yes?”
“If you recognize someone, be careful.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, sir; I’ll be waiting when you’re ready to leave; just give your name to the marine on duty.”
“See you later, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stone got out of the car and entered the house. In the huge foyer, there was a reception line that was moving slowly. Stone got into it, behind a very American-looking couple. He was short and pudgy; she was taller, very blonde, and expensive-looking.
“Hey,” the woman said.
“Good evening,” Stone replied.
“That’s what I should have said, I guess; good evening.”
“Hey works for me,” Stone laughed.
She held out her hand. “I’m Tiffany Butts; this is my husband, Marvin.”
Stone shook their hands.
“We’re from Fort Worth, Texas,” she said. “Are you an American?”
“Oh, yes; I’m from New York.”
“I wasn’t sure about your accent.”
“I’ve been here a few days; maybe I’m picking up an English accent.”
“Oh, shoot, no, it’s just me.”
“What business are you in, Mr. Barrington?” Marvin Butts asked.
“I’m an attorney.”
“I’m in the scrap metal business,” Butts said. “In a fairly big way.”
I’ll bet you are, Stone thought, or you wouldn’t be at this party. “Sounds good.”
“Good, and getting better,” Butts replied.
They had been moving along the line, and suddenly they were before the ambassador and his wife. The ambassador was sixtyish, slim, and handsomely tailored. His wife was twenty-five years his junior, very
