“Yes, I know.”
“Likes to see his name in the papers, always has, I’m told, as long as it’s favorable. He’s gotten a good press so far.”
They had dessert and coffee, and Stone signed the bill. They left the Grill and walked out into the main hall of the hotel.
Throckmorton stopped and shook Stone’s hand. “Splendid lunch,” he said, “many thanks. The two chaps you want are around the corner, there,” he said, nodding toward the sitting room. “I don’t want to be seen introducing you.” He walked through the revolving doors and left the hotel.
Stone walked into the sitting room, and it was immediately obvious whom he was meeting. Cops were cops. They were dressed in anonymous suits, and both wore thick-soled, black shoes. Stone went over and introduced himself.
Ted Cricket was the taller, more muscular man, and Bobby Jones was short, thin, and wiry. They were both near sixty, Stone reckoned, but they looked fit.
“How can we help you, Mr. Barrington?”
“There are two men I want surveilled,” Stone said. “The first is named Lance Cabot, and he lives at a house called Merryvale, in Farm Street. He’s American, in his mid-thirties, tall, well built, longish light brown hair, well dressed. He lives with a young woman named Erica Burroughs, and she is not to be followed, unless she’s with Cabot.”
Both men were taking notes.
“The second,” Stone continued, “is more problematical, because I don’t know his name. He’s American, too, somewhere in his mid-fifties, six-two or -three, heavy, maybe two-ten, looks like a former athlete. He has a hawkish nose, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy eyebrows.”
“And where does he live?” Cricket asked.
“That’s one of the things I want to know,” Stone said. “He’s in and out of the American Embassy, through the front door, and that’s where you’re going to have to pick him up. I want to know where he’s staying, who he sees, and where he goes. I don’t know if he lives in London or New York, but my guess is, he’s in a hotel not far from the embassy.”
“Right,” Cricket said. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know whether the weekend would be productive; why don’t you start first thing Monday morning?”
The two men nodded. “And we can reach you here, Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes, and I have a cellphone.” He gave them the number.
“We’ll report to you daily,” Cricket said.
“By the way,” he said, “I didn’t mention this to Throckmorton, but is it possible to tap Cabot’s phone and record all his conversations?”
“Not legally,” Cricket said.
“I understand that. Can you do it, or have it done?”
Both men looked wary. Finally, Jones spoke. “I know someone who can do it. But for how long?”
“Let’s start with a week,” Stone said.
“Could be pricey; I mean, there is a risk.”
“I don’t mind paying, but I want someone who can do it without risk to himself, you, or me. And I don’t want him to know who I am.”
“Understood,” Jones said. “I’ll get onto my man today.”
Cricket spoke up. “You understand, I didn’t hear any of that.”
“Understood,” Stone said. “Bobby, why don’t you take Cabot, and Ted, you can have the other man.”
Both men nodded. They shook hands all around, and the two men left.
Stone looked at his watch; he had half an hour to pack for the weekend.
Chapter 9
MONICA BURROUGHS ARRIVED AT THE Connaught in an Aston Martin, and the combination of the car and the beautiful woman at the wheel impressed the doorman. Stone’s luggage was loaded, and Monica drove up Mount Street to Park Lane and accelerated into the traffic, driving faster than Stone would have under the circumstances.
“Did you sleep well?” Monica asked.
“Very well, thank you.”
“I’m sorry to hear it; I thought you’d have lain awake, thinking of me.”
“I dreamed of you.”
“Something erotic, I hope.”
“Of course.”
She cut across two lanes of traffic and turned into Hyde Park. Shortly, they were in the Cromwell Road, heading west, as Monica constantly shifted up and down and changed lanes.
Stone tried to relax. “Who are our hosts for the weekend?” he asked.
“Lord and Lady Wight,” Monica replied. “He recently inherited the title from an uncle, although he managed the estates for many years while the old man was in a nursing home. The house is a nice old Georgian pile that has just undergone a five-year renovation that cost millions. I can’t wait to see it. His lordship made lots and lots of money in property development, so he can afford the title.” She glanced at him slyly. “Before he inherited, his name was Sir Robert Buckminster.”
Stone sat up straight. “Is he related to a woman named Sarah Buckminster?”
“She’s his daughter; know her?”
“Yes.” He had known her all too well in New York. They had practically lived together until someone had started trying to kill him, and when a bomb was placed in a gallery showing her paintings, she abruptly left New York, swearing never to return. “I knew her rather well. How do you know her?”
“My gallery represents her work in this country. We had a very successful show last month, sold out the lot.”
“Tell me, Monica, did you know that Sarah and I knew each other?”
She smiled a little. “I’d heard your name from her.”
“And does Sarah know I’m coming to her father’s house for the weekend?”