“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 and dialed the number.
“Yes?” The voice was the same, but older.
“Good evening Dr. Bernard,” he said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”
Bernard’s voice brightened. “Oh, Stone, how are you?”
“I’m fine, and I hope you’re well.”
“I’m better than I could justifiably expect to be at my age,” Bernard replied, chuckling. “I haven’t seen you for a while. What have you been up to?”
“Life has been fairly boring until recently, when it got more interesting.”
“Oh? How interesting?”
“That remains to be seen. A man came to see me a few days ago, sent by Woodman and Weld, but he also mentioned your name; said you had more or less recommended me to him.”
“Strange,” Bernard said. “I don’t recall discussing you with anyone recently. What is the man’s name?”
“John Bartholomew.”
There was total silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Bernard spoke. “John Bartholomew,” he said tonelessly. “How very interesting. Can you describe him?”
“Mid-fifties, tall—six-two or -three, athletically built, salt-and-pepper hair, beaked nose, fierce eyebrows. Do you know him?” Stone asked.
“No one knows him,” Bernard replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Stone, do you remember an Alfred Hitchcock film called North by Northwest?”
“Of course; it’s a favorite of mine.”
“Then you’ll recall that, early in the film, Cary Grant is abducted from the Plaza Hotel by foreign agents who have mistaken him for a guest at the hotel. I believe the guest’s name was George Kaplan, or something like that.”
“Yes, I remember. The Grant character goes across the country, chasing after Kaplan, but he turns out not to exist. He’s a fiction contrived by some American intelligence agency.”
“Exactly. Well, in the early fifties there actually was an operation that resembled the one in the film; in fact, I’ve often wondered if Hitchcock had heard about it. A fictional character was created, given an identity, and checked in and out of various hotels. It was very similar to the film.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stone said, but he couldn’t think why.
“May I ask, what did this man want you to do?”
“Well, of course, I must observe client confidentiality, but suffice it to say, as a result of our conversation, I’m now in London. I’m not quite sure what I’m involved in. I saw him earlier today at the American Embassy—at least I think I caught a glimpse of him—and again tonight, at a restaurant, with a man named Sir Antony Shields.”
“The Home Secretary,” Bernard said. “Something like our Attorney General. He supervises, among other departments, MI5, the British domestic security department, which is analogous to our FBI.”
“Well, he’s certainly well connected. But why did you tell me about the Hitchcock film?”
“As I said, we ran an operation something like that. Our fictional agent was called John Bartholomew.”
Stone felt as if someone had rapped him sharply on the skull.
“The name became, over the years, something of an inside joke, generally referring to a hoax of some sort.”