The Short Forever

                        Stone went away and came back with a suit jacket. She examined the buttons and nodded, then opened her briefcase. She removed a small leather case, which held a selection of buttons. “Oh, good,” she said; “an excellent match.” She took some scissors and snipped off one of the four small buttons on Stone’s left sleeve, then deftly sewed on one of her buttons. “There,” she said. “Good match?”

                        “Excellent. Do you mean that tiny button is a bug?”

                        “In conjunction with this,” she said, holding up a fat Mont Blanc pen, made of sterling silver. She clipped it into Stone’s inside left-hand pocket. “The button transmits to the pen, and the pen transmits up to three miles, but we’ll keep the van within two, just to be sure. They pick up the transmission and record it.” She took out the pen and unscrewed the cap. “It’s a working pen, too.”

                        Stone examined the pen and tried to unscrew the other end.

                        “You can’t do that without a special tool; don’t worry, it has a fresh rollerball refill inside; you won’t run out of ink.”

                        “Good,” Stone said, replacing the pen in the jacket pocket.

                        “The only limitation is that the button has to be within six feet of whoever you’re talking to. I used a sleeve button because you can put your hands on the table and get it closer to Cabot. Don’t have any conversations with him from across the room.”

                        “I’ll remember that,” he said. “Tell me, how did a nice girl like you get into this business?”

                        “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to ask a whore?” she asked wryly.

                        “Spies, too.”

                        “I’m not a spy; I catch spies.”

                        “Come on, how?”

                        “I was recruited my last year at Oxford; my father had worked for the same firm, but he was killed in the line of duty when I was sixteen. I suppose I wanted to finish his job. How did you get from being a cop to being a lawyer?”

                        “I was recruited for the police department my last year in law school,” Stone said. “Fourteen years later, I was retired for medical reasons. I took the bar exam, and a friend found a place for me with his law firm.”

                        “You look pretty healthy to me,” she said, looking him up and down.

                        “It was a bullet in the knee. I got over it, except in cold weather.”

                        “Oh,” she said, retrieving a map from her briefcase. “Sit down, and I’ll show you how to get to the Waterside Inn.”

                        Stone sat on the arm of her chair and caught a faint whiff of perfume. He wondered if intelligence agents often wore perfume to work.

                        “Here we are, in Chester Street; you go down to the corner, turn left at Hyde Park Corner, that’s the big roundabout, here, and go straight out Knightsbridge, past Harrod’s, straight on out, as if you were going to Heathrow. You’ll end up on the M4 motorway; get off at the Bray exit and follow the signs to the village. You’ll see signs for the inn once you’re in the village. It’s at the end of a street that runs dead into the river, on your left.”

                        “What river?”

                        “The Thames; it’s pretty much the river around here. Have you driven on the right side before?”

                        “No, but it doesn’t look too hard.”

                        “It isn’t, but watch out for the first right-hand turn you make. Americans invariably turn into the right lane, instead of the left. The streets are littered with smashed rental cars.” She stood up. “Well, I have to go. Your car should be here shortly; I’d allow three-quarters of an hour for the drive; it could take an hour if traffic is bad.”

                        He walked her to the door, and with a final, fleeting glance at him and a little smile, she left. He wished he had more time to get to know her.

                 Chapter 48

                        AT TWELVE O’CLOCK, THE DOORBELL rang again. A man Stone had never seen before held out a set of car keys. “It’s the Jaguar S-type, parked along there, British Racing Green,” he said. “Here’s a car rental receipt from a firm in Knightsbridge; sign it here and here, and fill in your American driver’s license number. Ring Mason when you’re finished with the car and someone will collect it.”

                        “Thank you,” Stone said. The man left. Stone filled out the form, then turned to Dino. “You want a lift to Harrod’s? I’m going right past it.”

                        “Yeah, sure.”

                        “Let’s go, then.” Stone put on his jacket, checked to be sure the pen was still in place, and led the way out the door, locking it behind him. Sarah had given them each a key.

                        “Here we are,” Stone said, climbing into the Jaguar and adjusting the seat.

                        Dino got into the passenger seat, and Stone pulled out of the parking place, went to the corner, and turned left.

                        “Isn’t there supposed to be a steering wheel over here?” Dino asked.

                        “Nope, it’s over here.”

                        “It’s very weird sitting here with no controls,” Dino said. “I keep wanting to put on the brakes.”

                        “Relax,” Stone said, negotiating Hyde Park Corner. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s house over there,” he said, pointing, “and that’s Hyde Park behind it.”

                        “Got it,” Dino said.

                        They drove a couple of blocks through heavy traffic, and Stone pulled over in front of the department store. “Here’s Harrod’s,” he said.

                        Dino looked out at the line of store windows. “Which one?”

                        “The whole block,” Stone replied. “It’s the largest store in the world.”

                        “Jesus,” Dino said, “I’ll need a map.”

                        “Just wander, and ask somebody if you get lost.”

                        “Okay, pal; when will I see you?”

                        “I’ll come back to the house after lunch; if anybody calls and asks for me, except Sarah, you don’t know me.”

                        “I might be better off,” Dino said.

                        “Maybe, but you wouldn’t have nearly as much fun.”

                        Dino closed the door and walked into Harrod’s.

                        Stone drove on out Knightsbridge, which became the Cromwell Road, and soon he was on a four-lane highway, and soon after that, on the M4 motorway. Traffic was heavy, but he made good time. He got off the motorway at the prescribed exit and took the opportunity to check the traffic behind him. No one exited after him that he could see, and he felt tail-free, except for Mason’s van, which was nowhere to be seen.

                        He followed the signs to the village and the restaurant and parked the car. The Thames was before him, broad and slow-moving, with pretty houses on the other side. He went into the restaurant; it was precisely one o’clock. Lance was not there yet, and the maitre d’ seated him outside on the terrace, under an elm tree. He ordered a kir royale and sipped it. Lance, he figured, was driving around the village to see if either he or Stone had a tail. Another fifteen minutes passed before he entered the restaurant.

                        Stone shook his hand. “A very elegant place,” he said.

                        “Wait until you taste the food.”

                        They had only desultory conversation until the food arrived, then Lance took a look around to be sure they were not being overheard. “I’m going to have to pat you down,” he said to Stone.