Stone Barrington 06-11

Lance.”
    “It is. You’ll have a signed copy of your contract soon, he says.”
    “Why don’t I go with you?”
    “I asked. He says no, and it’s his party.”
    “Party?”
    “So to speak. Make yourself at home in the house.”
    “Can I sleep in your bed?”
    “By all means. I’d like to think of you sleeping in my bed.”
    “And in London, whose bed will you be sleeping in?” she asked archly.
    “The Connaught Hotel’s bed. I don’t believe they supply sleeping partners.”
    “Good. You won’t tell me what you’re going to be doing there?”
    “I told you, I don’t know what I’m going to be doing there, and I may not be able to tell you, even after I find out.”
    “I love all this cloak-and-dagger stuff,” she said.
    “No, you don’t. You’d rather know what’s happening.”
    “Well, that’s true, I guess.”
    “I have to pack,” he said, going to his closet and taking down a carry-on suitcase.
    “Can I watch?”
    “Watch?”
    “I want to see what you take.”

    “Whatever turns you on.” He packed three changes of underwear, socks, and shirts, a couple of nightshirts, and folded a suit on top of it.
    “No toiletries?”
    Stone took down a small duffel from a shelf. “Already packed.”
    “That was pretty simple.”
    “I can go just about anywhere with a blazer and a blue suit.”
    “What if you get a black-tie invitation?”
    “If I think that might happen, I’ll take a dinner jacket, but that’s for a longer trip. Worse comes to worst, I can wear a black bow tie with the blue suit, or I can rent.”
    “What are you taking for shoes?”
    “A pair of black alligator loafers. They’ll work with anything.”
    “Everything is so simple for men.”
    “Yeah? Try shaving every day.”
    “Stubble is in.”
    “Along with bad haircuts and three-button suits, which are as ridiculous as stubble and bad haircuts.”
    “Why?”
    “They’re boxy and unflattering.”
    “Have a good trip. Daisy and I are off to the park. Call me when you get there, just to let me know you’re still alive.”
    “If I don’t call, I’m dead.”
    “You’d better be.” She kissed him goodbye and left with Daisy.

19
    A S THE CONCORDE began its takeoff roll, Stone started to think about Carpenter, whose real name was Felicity Devonshire. They had parted on not very good terms a few months before, and he wasn’t sure if she’d want to see him. Come to that, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see her.
    He took a nap and woke up as a flight attendant announced their descent into Heathrow. He made short work of Immigration, and he had no checked luggage. He walked through customs without being stopped and began looking for his name among the drivers gathered outside customs, waving cards with their passengers’ names on them. His was not among them. So much for deluxe travel.
    A man wearing a dark suit stepped up to him. “Mr. Barrington?”
    “Yes.”
    The man relieved him of his case. “Please follow me.” His accent was American.

    Stone followed the man outside, where a black Mercedes waited at the curb, a driver at the wheel. Stone got into the back, while the man stowed his luggage in the trunk, then got into the front seat beside the driver. The car moved swiftly away.
    “I had expected an American car,” Stone said.
    “Too much of a tip-off to the opposition,” the man said. “The Mercedes is more anonymous in London.”
    “What opposition?”
    “Whoever.”
    “Any news on what I’m doing here?”
    “Somebody will call you in the morning. I’m told you may be finished in time for an afternoon flight tomorrow. If so, we’ll pick you up at the Connaught.”
    Nothing was said for the remainder of the drive into London.
    Stone checked into the Connaught and was given a handsome suite on the top floor. He booked a dinner table downstairs, had a nap, showered and changed, and went down to dinner.
    Something was wrong. He looked around the handsome, paneled room as he was shown to his table. The big chandelier was gone; there was an odd, contemporary carpet on the floor; there were strange new sconces on the walls; the waiters were not dressed in their usual tailcoats; Mr. Chevalier, the restaurant manager, was nowhere to be seen; the elaborate menu had been replaced by a much shorter one.
    “Where is Mr. Chevalier?” he asked the captain.

    “He has left the Connaught. I understand he’s at Harry’s Bar now.”
    “What about the chef?”
    “Gone, too. We have a new