The Short Forever

                        Everyone began to move toward the door, and Stone gave the waiter his room number for the check. He wondered if Bartholomew would bridle at the appearance of a Krug ‘66 on the bill.

                        Outside, they turned right into Mount Street, and Stone fell into step with Monica, behind Lance and Erica.

                        “We’re going to Harry’s Bar,” she said. “It’s just around the corner.” She dropped back a few paces behind her sister and Lance. “It’s nice to see somebody turning the tables on Lance,” she said. “He can be awful.”

                        “It’s all right; I don’t have anything to hide,” Stone said.

                        “Really? How boring.”

                        Stone laughed. “I’m afraid I’m an open book, as boring as that may be. How about you?”

                        “I have a great many secrets,” Monica replied, “and you will have to ply me with a great deal of champagne and work very hard to learn what they are.”

                        “I’ll look forward to it,” Stone said, taking her arm.

                        They walked past the Hayward shop, turned left, and walked another few yards until they came to an unmarked door. Lance rang a bell, and a moment later a woman in what appeared to be a maid’s uniform let them in.

                        “Have you been here?” Monica asked Stone.

                        “No, in fact it’s been many years since I’ve been in London, so there are a lot of places I haven’t been. Just about everywhere, in fact.”

                        “You’ll like it; the food is marvelous.”

                        They were led into a dining room hung with many original Peter Arno cartoons, mostly from The New Yorker and Esquire, Stone thought. The headwaiter seated them at a corner table, and Stone drew the gunfighter’s seat, in the corner, which allowed him to view the other diners. He immediately spotted a well-known actor and a man whose photograph he was sure he’d seen in The New York Times—something to do with British politics, he thought.

                        Then he glanced toward the door in time to see two men enter: One was sixtyish, white- haired, very English-looking. The other was John Bartholomew. They were handing their coats to the woman in the maid’s uniform.

                        Stone leaned over and whispered to Erica, who was sitting on his right, “A man just came in who looks very familiar, but I can’t place him.”

                        Erica turned and looked toward the door. “The white-haired one? That’s Sir Antony Shields,” she said. “He’s in the cabinet, I think, but I don’t remember which portfolio.”

                        “No, it’s the other man who looks familiar.”

                        She looked again. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said. The two men disappeared around a corner to a table out of sight.

                        So much for Uncle John, Stone thought. He wondered if Lance, whose back was to the door, would recognize him.

                 Chapter 7

                        STONE HAD THE BRESAOLA, THINLY sliced, air-cured beef, and a pasta dish with seafood. Lance ordered the wine, and when it came, it was a Le Montrachet ’78. Stone reflected that the cost of the wines they were drinking on this occasion would pay for a dozen dinners at Elaine’s. Having gotten to know Lance just a little, he fully expected to end up with the check.

                        They dined in a leisurely manner, and with the wine, Lance became a bit more bearable, even charming, at times. They were on dessert when Stone saw Bartholomew and Sir Antony Shields leave the restaurant. Bartholomew had never looked in his direction. He was tempted to ask Lance if he recognized the man, but the men were too quickly gone. Stone waved at the headwaiter.

                        The man was there in a flash. “Tell me,” Stone said, “the two gentlemen who just left; one was Sir Antony Shields; do you know the other man’s name?”

                        “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t. The reservation was Sir Antony’s, and although I’ve seen the other gentleman here before, I never learned his name.”

                        “Thank you,” Stone said, and the headwaiter went away.

                        The bill arrived, and as Stone started to reach for it, Erica pushed it toward Lance. “You’re our guest,” she said.

                        Lance hardly noticed. He signed the bill with a flourish, and they got up to go.

                        “We’re going this way, to Farm Street,” Erica said as they went out the door.

                        “I’ll get a taxi for Monica,” Stone said, grateful to be alone with her. He shook hands with both Lance and Erica and said good night.

                        “No cabs in sight,” Stone said. “Let’s walk down to the Connaught; there’s usually a taxi parked out front.” Monica agreed, and they strolled down Mount Street, which was shiny from a rain that had come and gone while they were at dinner.

                        “I think Lance liked you,” Monica said.

                        “I’d be surprised if that were true,” Stone replied.

                        “No, he turned out to be quite friendly toward you, for someone he has nothing to gain from.”

                        “Is he friendlier when he has something to gain?”

                        “Isn’t everyone?”

                        Stone laughed. “I suppose so.”

                        “And I thought you showed great forbearance, especially early in the evening.”

                        “The remainder of the company was good.”

                        They were nearly to the hotel. “Would you like to . . .” he began.

                        “Oh, I hardly think the Connaught is the proper place for that,” she said, reading his mind. “However, if you’re free this weekend, there’s a promising house party down in the country. Would you like to go?”

                        “I’d like that very much,” Stone replied.

                        “Grand. I’ll pick you up at, say, three tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”

                        “Fine. What clothes shall I bring?”

                        “It’s for two nights, so I’d bring some tweeds, a dark suit, and a dinner jacket. That should cover just about anything, except tennis or sailing. The house is on the coast.”

                        They stopped in front of the hotel, and Stone indicated to the doorman that they would like a taxi. “I’ll be right here at three o’clock,” he said, aiming a kiss at her cheek.

                        She turned slightly, and he caught the corner of her mouth, and there was just a flick of her tongue.

                        “Wilton Crescent,” she said to the doorman. “I’ll point out the house.” The doorman told the driver.

                        Stone put her into the cab and went into the hotel. On the way up in the elevator he thought about John Bartholomew and who he might be. He glanced at his watch. It was only seven o’clock in New York, so he went to his room, undressed, and picked up the telephone. He called Bill Eggers’s home, and a maid answered.

                        “Oh, Mr. Barrington,” she said, “they’ve gone skiing in Chile.”

                        “Chile in South America?” Stone asked.

                        “Yes, there’s apparently snow there this time of the year. They’ll be back on Monday.”

                        “Thank you,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought some more. Bartholomew had mentioned Samuel Bernard, an old professor of his at NYULawSchool. Bernard had been in the OSS during World War II, and he had remained in intelligence when the CIA was founded, serving during the agency’s formative years. He had left at the time of the Bay of Pigs disaster, along with a lot of others, including Alan Dulles. Stone found his address book