“All right.”
The man gave him an apartment number. “Would six o’clock be acceptable?”
“I’m afraid I have an engagement at six. Four would be better.”
“That will be satisfactory,” he said. “I will see you at that time.” He hung up.
Joan came in. “Was that a practical joke?”
“It could very well be. I’m going to play it out and see.”
—
Stone presented himself at the reception desk at UN Plaza, a handsome building across the street from the UN building that had been built in the 1960s. He remembered a character in a movie saying, “If there is a God, he probably lives in this building.” He gave his name to the desk clerk and was told to go right up, he was expected.
The door was answered by a butler in tails, who led him into a large living room furnished in white sofas and chairs, with a spectacular view of UN Headquarters and the East River.
“May I get you some refreshment?” the butler asked.
At that moment the ambassador appeared. He was a smallish man of about five feet seven inches, dressed in a sharply tailored Savile Row suit. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” he said, extending a hand.
Stone shook it. “Good afternoon, Ambassador.”
“May I offer you a drink? Alcohol is not prohibited in my residence.”
“Thank you, just some fizzy water.”
The ambassador instructed the butler to bring it, and a martini for himself. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, is that not the adage?”
“It is.”
They sat down and waited for their drinks.
“Before we begin, Mr. Barrington, may I ask, are you acquainted with a Major Ian Rattle?”
“Rattle? Is that a real name?”
“It is, I assure you.”
“No, I am not acquainted with him,” he lied.
“Good, because I wish to bring a lawsuit against him,” the ambassador said.
Gene Ryan was frightened of coming here but more frightened of not coming. He rang the bell in the late afternoon and waited. He was greeted by a chorus of barks, large and small, from somewhere toward the rear of the house. After a count of about twenty-five, a man came to the door, dressed in green hospital scrubs and about three days of stubble. “Yeah?”
“I’m the guy Eddie sent.”
“Right, come on in.”
The walls of the reception area were plastered with photographs of kittens and puppies and the occasional potbellied pig.
“It’s a shoulder wound, right?” the veterinarian asked.
“Right.”
“Take off your jacket and your shirt.”
Gene struggled out of the clothing; his shirt was bloodstained in spite of the makeshift dressing he had applied and the change of clothes. He was directed to sit on the examination table.
The vet ripped off the bandage. “Flesh wound, in and out,” he said. “Missed the shoulder joint.”
“You should see the other guy.”
The vet laughed. “It’s a thousand, cash,” he said, “including drugs.” Gene had the money already counted out and paid him. The vet pocketed the money. “This was what, a few hours ago?”
“Last night. It took some time to locate you.”
“Okay, lie down on your right side, so I can get at this thing.”
Gene stretched out on the table, which was Great Dane–sized.
The vet came at him with a large syringe and a curved, steel pan to catch the overflow. He irrigated the wound from both the front and the back, causing Gene to writhe in pain.
“You got some infection there,” he said.
“You got any novocaine?” Gene asked testily.
“Lidocaine, sure.” He went to a cabinet and came back with a filled syringe, then injected both the entry and exit. “Give it a minute,” he said.
Gene gave it a minute, and he began to feel the pain fade a little. “Okay, it’s working.”
“Good, because I’m going to run a swab all the way through.” He did so.
“Jesus!” Gene cried. “Give the novocaine a little more time, okay?”
“I’m done torturing you,” the vet said. “All I have to do now is stitch, and you won’t feel that.” He swabbed the area with a brown fluid, then attacked both ends with a curved needle and catgut. “There, all patched up.”
Gene started to rise.
“Not yet, you’ll need an antibiotic. Are you allergic to penicillin?”
“No.”
“Good.” The vet stabbed him in the upper arm with a syringe and emptied it into him, then he applied a dressing. “You’re done. You can get dressed.”
Gene got into his shirt and jacket and was handed a plastic bottle of pills.
“More penicillin,” the vet said. “Take one every four hours. That’s the Irish wolfhound dosage,” he snickered.
“This is for dogs?”
“It’s penicillin. Change the dressing twice a day and put some antibiotic cream on the wound when you do. You can get it at any drugstore. Call me in two or three days if the infection doesn’t go away. Now, beat it, I’m late for dinner.”
Gene got out of there. A fucking veterinarian! This was one more humiliation that he held against Barrington.
—
Stone stared at Ambassador Abdul-Aziz. “Who recommended me to you?”
“That is confidential.”
“All right, who is this Rattle, and what do you want to sue him for?”
“He is an intelligence agent of the British government,” the man replied, “and he is responsible for the murder of five of our sultan’s subjects.”
“Is Mr. Rattle a resident of Britain?”
“Major Ian Rattle, yes.”
“That would present difficulties. Why don’t you sue him in Britain?”
“Because we have information that he is in New York as we speak. And anyway, the court system here might be more favorable for our cause.”
Stone took a jotter from his jacket pocket and uncapped his pen. “What is Major Rattle’s address in New York?”
“Ah, we have not yet determined that, but we should know soon.”
“If you don’t know where he is, how do you know he’s in New York?”
“We have very accurate information from a source who must remain anonymous.”
“All right, who are you alleging Rattle killed?”
“Our sultan’s twin sons and his nephew and two pilots of his Royal Air Force.”
“They were killed in an airplane?”
“In an airplane crash.”
“And how did Major Rattle effect this crash? Was he aboard, as well?”
“No, his hirelings, who call themselves Freedom for Dahai, fired a rocket at the aircraft as it was approaching our airport.”
“How do you know who killed them?”
“They issued a press release claiming responsibility.”
“And how do you know that Major Rattle persuaded them to commit murder?”
“Again, from a confidential informant, who is completely reliable.”
“Ambassador, it is possible in this country to bring a civil suit for a criminal action, but usually, a conviction is sought first.”
“We have read of the intricacies of your criminal justice system and the appeals process. We believe we can more quickly satisfy our aims with a civil suit.”
“And what are your aims?”
“To show the world that the British are uncivilized and to receive compensation for the families of the dead and for the cost of the airplane.”
“If you want the world to know that the British are uncivilized, why don’t you simply hold a press conference and announce it. That would be much less expensive than bringing a lawsuit.”
“We wish our denouncement of the British to have the force of law, thus the suit.”