Stone Barrington 06-11

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Where did you find it?”

    “It was under the fax machine.”
    “I was waiting for it all morning,” Hattie said, laughing. She checked her watch: after closing time in Switzerland. She typed a message confirming receipt of 750,000 euros from Manhattan Trust and clicked on the send button. It was Friday night in Switzerland. They would receive the e-mail when they opened on Monday morning.

48
    Marie-Thérèse yawned. It was boring, this sort of surveillance, but at the moment, it was her only way to keep track of these people. She had been waiting for nearly two hours in that most anonymous of vehicles in New York City, a black Lincoln Town Car.
    “How much longer?” the driver asked. He had been provided by her friend at the embassy.
    “As long as it takes,” she replied. “Read your paper.”
    “I’ve read it.”
    “Then do the crossword.”
    “I can never do those things in English.”
    “Then shut up.”
    He was silent.
    They were parked in a legal spot on Third Avenue, near the anonymous building that housed the people she wanted. She had a good view of the front door, and her eyes rarely left it. Then, finally, something happened. Three large, black SUVs with darkened windows passed her car and turned left into the street. They drew up to the front door of the building, and immediately, four men came out the front door and began looking up and down the street.
    “Now,” she said aloud. “Wait until the three black vehicles move, then start the car.”
    “Right,” her driver replied.
    A man and a woman emerged from the building and quickly got into the middle SUV, and the three cars began moving.
    “Let’s get going,” she said. “Stay as far behind them as you can without losing them.”
    The driver did as instructed, and the trip was short. The three cars drove to Park Avenue, turned, then turned again into Fifty-second Street and stopped at an awning protruding from the lower level of the Seagram Building. Four men emerged from the first and third vehicles, had a good look around, then, at a signal from one of them, the rear doors of the middle SUV opened, and three men and a woman got out and went inside. The three SUVs drove off, no doubt to find a convenient parking spot.
    Marie-Thérèse, whose car was waiting on Park Avenue, spoke. “Drop me at the awning, then drive around the block and park where you can see the doors. If the police hassle you, show them your diplomatic passport, but don’t move from the spot until I appear.”
    The car stopped before the awning, and Marie-Thérèse got out, smoothing her little black dress and pulling on a pair of short, black kid gloves. Her hair was long and dark for the occasion. She went inside and started up the broad staircase. Her quarry was only yards ahead, and as she emerged on the second floor, his group, along with two bodyguards, were disappearing down a hallway toward the pool room of the Four Seasons.
    This was not good. There was no way in or out of that room except by a hallway, perhaps ten feet in width, except maybe a kitchen door that she didn’t have access to. She took a seat at the corner of the large, square bar, facing east, with the hallway on her left. One of the bodyguards returned after a couple of minutes, presumably having completed his scan of the large dining room, while his companion had stationed himself there. The man took up a station across the bar from Marie-Thérèse, facing west, so that he could watch the hallway from his seat. He ordered a mineral water and sipped it slowly.
    He was not British, she thought. His suit was wrong, and his hair cut too short. He looked like a very boring young businessman.
    Marie-Thérèse put a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and glanced at her watch. “I’m early,” she said to the bartender. “A very dry Tanqueray martini, straight up, please.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” the bartender replied, then went to work.
    How long would this take? Her man was in his mid-sixties, so probably not all that long. Before the main course was served, was her guess.
    The young man sitting across the bar from her picked up his drink, walked around the bar, and sat down next to her, facing south. Now his back was to the hallway he was supposed to be watching. “Good evening,” he said. Yes, American.
    “Good evening,” Marie-Thérèse replied coolly.
    “I hope I’m not intruding,” the man said, “but I find you very attractive. May I buy you a