Stone Barrington 06-11

contents of the safe, not another scrap of paper yielded any useful information.
    TWO HOURS LATER they had finished and returned everything in the apartment to its original state. As they were about to open the door, there was a noise from the other side. Lance held a finger to his lips, and he and the other two men produced guns and stood away from the door.
    There was a scraping noise that went on for, perhaps, thirty seconds, then the door opened and two men walked in, followed by a woman.
    The woman was Tiffany Baldwin.

25
    TIFF STARED AT STONE. “What the hell are you doing here, and who the hell are these guys?” She gestured at Lance and his two men.
    Lance showed her his ID. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, looking appreciatively up and down her. “My name is Lance Cabot.”
    “How do you do?” she said, then turned back to Stone. “You really are mixed up with the CIA?”
    “ ‘Mixed up’ is a good way to put it,” Stone said.
    “You haven’t answered my question,” Tiff replied. She turned back to Lance. “What are you doing here?”
    Lance spoke up. “It would appear that we have a mutual interest in the gentleman who resides here. I should think we also have a mutual interest in not disturbing the contents of his apartment. If he knows either of us has been here, he’ll bolt.”
    “I assume you’ve already turned over the place.”
    “You assume correctly. The only items of any interest were four passports from as many English-speaking countries and some cash. They’re all in a safe, and we left it undisturbed. May I suggest that, if we have anything further to discuss, we do it outside? The man could come home at any moment.”
    “All right,” Tiff said. She led the way out of the apartment. The elevator had to make two trips to get them all downstairs.

    On the sidewalk, Lance spoke to her again. “I assume you’re after Mr. Stanford for financial crimes?”
    “You could say that,” Tiff replied.
    “We are here on a matter of national security,” he said, “and I’m afraid that trumps your investigation. I must ask you to stay away from the man. There’s a great deal more at stake here than you realize.”
    “We’ll see about that,” Tiff said.
    “Have your boss call my boss,” Lance said. “So good to meet you.” He herded Stone and his two men toward an anonymous-looking sedan.
    Stone stopped and whispered in Tiff’s ear. “Dinner tonight?”
    “You’re on,” she said.
    “Elaine’s at nine o’clock. See you there.”
    Lance held the door of the sedan, and Stone climbed in.
    He phoned Barbara Stein. “May I bring over my people now?”
    “Of course,” she said. “I have an appointment at my hairdresser’s, but I’ll instruct the butler to let you in and give you the run of the place. I won’t be back before five this afternoon. I’m leaving a note with the doorman for Whitney.”
    “Thank you, Barbara; we’ll leave the place as neat as possible.” He hung up and turned to Lance. “We’re on.” The car drove away.
    “I’m impressed with your resourcefulness, Stone, not to mention your acquaintanceship.” Lance said. “I was optimistic about your eventual value to us, but you’ve surpassed my expectations.”
    “I’ll bill you,” Stone said.
    “How ever did you learn about the wife and the apartment?”
    “I have my methods.”
    “We must discuss those sometime. You know, I think it might be valuable for you to take a little trip down to rural Virginia for a few weeks sometime, to undergo some useful training.”
    “Useful to whom?”
    “To us and to you. I think you might find the experience entertaining.”

    “Is this the famous ‘Farm’ you’re talking about?”
    “Camp Peary, to be precise.”
    “Lance, I would not find it entertaining to run around in the woods, being barked at by drill sergeants. I’m a little… mature for that sort of thing.”
    “Oh, it’s not like that at all. You’d enjoy learning some of the dark arts.”
    “You make it sound like Hogwart’s Academy.”
    “Well, I suppose it is, in its way.”
    They pulled to a halt in front of Barbara Stein’s building and got out of the car.
    “You know,” Lance said reverentially, “someone once said that, if there is a God, he probably lives at Eleven Eleven Fifth Avenue.”
    Stone spoke to the doorman, and they were sent upstairs, where the butler greeted them.
    “Gentlemen,” the man said in a tony British accent, “my name is