Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 14

something else,” Holly said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œStone wants to know about a man in the St. Marks Home Office named Colonel Croft.”
    â€œAsk Bill Pepper about him. Good-bye.”

    H olly joined the others on the beach and reported on her conversation with Lance.
    â€œI don’t get it,” Stone said. “If Lance already has a man in St. Marks, why did he send us down here?”
    â€œHow the hell should I know?” Holly said irritably.
    â€œTake it easy; I’m curious, aren’t you?”
    â€œOf course I’m curious. I’m sorry if I was short, but Lance was very irritating. He’s usually very smooth and courteous.”
    â€œMaybe something else is eating him.”
    â€œI had the impression that he was introducing me to this Bill Pepper very reluctantly.”
    â€œWell, if the guy is working undercover in one of the Internet casinos, maybe he’s concerned about blowing him.”
    â€œYeah, okay; maybe he was just in a bad mood,” Holly said.

    A t precisely twelve-fifteen, Holly dialed the number she had been given.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIt’s Holly Barker.”
    â€œMy wife and I will be at the inn for dinner at eight this evening; I’ll be wearing a bright green linen jacket. At nine-fifteen, before the dessert course, I’ll go to the men’s room. You wait until I’m gone, then walk past the ladies’ room and out into the parking lot. I’ll be sitting in a white Toyota Avalon; join me. Got it?”
    â€œGot it.”
    He hung up.

23
    H olly made sure her group was already seated for dinner when Bill Pepper and his wife arrived. They were placed three or four tables away, but the bright green linen jacket marked him well. He was in his late thirties, blondish hair, the very picture of the young American businessman.
    Holly and the others talked through dinner about everything but why they were there—Robertson and the colonel. Holly was worried that even the tables might be bugged.
    At nine-fifteen, Pepper rose from his chair and, ignoring them, walked out of the dining room toward the men’s room. Holly waited the prescribed minute, then headed for the ladies’. At the end of the hallway, past the restrooms, she opened a door with a big red “EXIT” sign over it and stepped into the parking lot. It took a moment for her eyes to become used to the darkness, then, a few yards away, the overhead light went on in a car, then went off again. She made her way to the white Avalon and got in. “I’m Holly Barker,” she said, offering her hand.
    â€œBill Pepper,” he said, shaking it.
    â€œIs that a trade name?”
    â€œProbably. What do you want to know?”
    â€œHave you found out anything more about this Robertson? Or about Pemberton or Weatherby?”
    â€œI think—and this isn’t official opinion yet, since not enough people at Langley agree—that Robertson, as he calls himself, is an Englishman named Barney Cox, who Scotland Yard believes is one of four men who robbed a shipment of money at Heathrow Airport about nine months ago. They got away with something over a hundred million pounds sterling.”
    â€œI read about that in the papers; I didn’t know the police there had identified them.”
    â€œâ€˜Identified’ is too strong a word. All they know for sure is that Cox disappeared simultaneously with the robbery, and they only know that because his wife made a missing persons report a day later.”
    â€œDid she have any information about the robbery?”
    â€œNo; all she knew was that her husband went to work one day and didn’t come back. They had been married for more than thirty years and had two grown children.”
    â€œDid he have a criminal record?”
    â€œNo, he was an ordinary civilian; he sold computers to businesses. In fact, he was director of sales for his company.”
    â€œWhy do you think Robertson is Barney Cox?”
    â€œDescription, timing, money, and the fact that he says he’s retired from the computer business, which, if he is Cox, is a stupid thing to say.”
    â€œDo you have any other possible identities in mind for him?”
    â€œWell, I don’t think he’s the Lindbergh baby; did you have somebody else in mind?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œThen what are you doing in St. Marks?”
    â€œI take it Lance didn’t tell you.”
    â€œNo,