6 Stone Barrington Novels (110 page)

MORGAN PARKED HIS CAR IN THE short-term lot at Heathrow, fastened his luggage to a folding hand trolley, and walked into terminal four. He found a men's room, let himself into the handicapped toilet stall, then took off his hat, got out of the raincoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his small suitcase, took out a loud Hawaiian shirt and put it on, followed by a tweed cap and sunglasses with heavy black rims. He wadded up his shirt and wrapped it in the raincoat, then stuffed the bundle behind the toilet. He left the stall, dug into his bag, and found a small bottle of pills marked
VALIUM
5
MG
. He took one, then looked at himself in the mirror. “Keep calm,” he said. He grabbed his luggage cart, left the men's room, and walked to the ticket counters.

From the departure board, he chose a flight, and, a minute later, he was standing in a ticket line. Then it occurred to him that he was going to have to go through security, and that the money in his valise might be discovered. As he stepped up to the counter, he made a snap decision. “Check everything,” he said to the ticket agent.

“Of course, sir,” she replied. “You're going to have
to hurry; your flight leaves in twenty-five minutes, and it's already boarding.”

“I'll hurry,” Morgan replied, accepting his ticket and boarding pass.

 

Dino screeched to a halt in front of terminal four. Before Stone could open his door, a man clutching a handheld radio opened it for him.

“My name's Bartlett,” he said. “Heathrow security.”

Stone introduced himself and Dino, then showed him the photograph of Morgan.

“I've already circulated it,” Bartlett said.

“He's shaved the mustache, and he's wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat,” he said. “And he'll be carrying a canvas valise, I'm sure of that. He's calling himself Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name.”

Bartlett used his radio, passing on the new description. “Let's go,” he said to Stone.

“How many people have you got working right now?” Stone asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you that, but I've pulled every available man and woman off nearly everything else. We're concentrating on the security checkpoint, since every passenger has to pass through it.”

“Let's start there,” Stone said.

With Bartlett leading the way, they made off across the busy terminal.

 

Morgan reached the security checkpoint, and immediately he was approached by two men in suits, one of whom flashed an ID card.

“Please step over here, sir,” one of them said, taking his arm and moving him out of the line.

“What's going on?” Morgan asked, as innocently as he could.

“May I see your passport and ticket, please?”

Morgan produced both.

“You are . . .” The officer looked at the passport. “Mr. Barry Trevor?”

“That's right,” Morgan said. “What's this about?”

“Just a routine security check, sir. And is this your current address?” The officer held up the passport.

“Yes, it is, and I've got a plane to catch.”

“We won't be a moment, sir. Would you remove your sunglasses, please?”

Morgan took them off and gave the officers a big smile. He knew his security photograph at Eastover made him look dour.

The officers compared him to a photograph one of them produced. They looked at each other; one shook his head. The officer handed back Mr. Barry Trevor's passport and ticket. “Thank you, sir; sorry for the inconvenience. Here, let me get you through security.” He led Morgan to one side of the checkpoint and signaled to the officer on station, who ran a detector wand over Morgan's clothes, then waved him through.

Morgan headed for the gate. With a little luck, his timing would be perfect.

 

Stone arrived at the security checkpoint, and Bartlett called two men over.

“Any sightings?” he asked.

“No; we've checked three men, but all seemed okay.”

“Any of them carrying a canvas valise?”

“No; one of them had a briefcase, but there were only business documents inside.”

“Any of them wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat?”

“No, sir.”

Bartlett turned to Stone. “Anything else you want to try?”

Stone nodded. “I hear Spain is a favored destination for fugitives.”

“That's right; we've no extradition treaty with them.”

“Let's go to the gates that have flights departing for anywhere in Spain.”

Bartlett looked up at a row of monitors next to the security checkpoint. “Three, no, five flights departing in the next two hours, from three gates.” He led the way through the checkpoint, then flagged down an oversized golf cart driven by an airport employee. Bartlett, Stone, and Dino boarded the vehicle, and, on Bartlett's instructions, it began to move down the long corridor.

 

Morgan walked along the people mover, dodging other travelers who were happy to stand still and ride. He tried to move quickly, without looking as though he was hurrying. He checked his watch; seven minutes to go.

 

Bartlett was on the radio, summoning officers to the three gates with departing flights to Spain. “I want two men at each gate, scrutinizing every male passenger even remotely resembling the photograph.” He turned to Stone. “If he's bound for Spain, we'll get him at the gate.” His radio squawked, and he held it
to his ear. “Say again?” He turned back to Stone. “One of my men has found a raincoat, a shirt, and a trilby hat, discarded in a men's room. A British passport bearing the name Sir William Mallory was in the raincoat pocket.”

“Costume change,” Stone said. “This guy is starting to do everything right.”

The cart pulled up to a gate, and Stone got out, followed by Dino and Bartlett. The first person he saw was Stan Hedger.

Hedger walked up to him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“It's a public airport; none of your business.”

“Have you seen Lance Cabot?”

“Is that why you're here? You're looking for Cabot?”

“That's right.”

“So is half the country, from what I hear.”

“I thought you had gone back to the States, Stone. Why are you involved in this?”

“It's personal,” Stone said. “See you around, Stan.”

“Come on,” Dino said, “we're wasting time.”

 

Morgan reached his gate two minutes before the flight was scheduled to take off. He went to the counter for a seat assignment.

“You'll have to hurry, Mr. Trevor,” the young woman said. “We're about to button up the airplane.”

“I'll hurry,” Morgan said, and made for the boarding ramp. There was no line, and a moment later he was strapping himself into a first-class seat.

 

Stone, Dino, and Bartlett made their way quickly from gate to gate, coming up empty-handed at each one.

“That's it,” Bartlett said. “We know he's in the airport, but we don't—”

“What are other likely destinations for fugitives?” Stone asked.

Bartlett shrugged. “Could be anywhere. There are more than a hundred international flights taking off in the next two hours; I don't have the manpower to cover them all, and I'm not about to shut down this airport, unless I get a personal call from the Home Secretary.”

“Shit,” Stone said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Bartlett replied. “But let's keep looking.”

 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said. “We are now pushing back from the gate, and in a few minutes we'll be taking off for our flight to Honolulu. While we're taxiing, we direct your attention to the video, which will explain the emergency procedures for this aircraft.”

Morgan picked up a magazine. Fuck the emergency procedures, he thought. He wanted a double Scotch.

 

Stan Hedger left the airport in disgust, along with one of his people, and got into a waiting car. He did not notice, nor did his driver, that the car was followed by another, which kept a respectful distance.

 

Stone and Dino stuck it out until nearly midnight, when departures slowed dramatically, then they drove back to the Brewer's Arms.

Carpenter, Mason, and Plumber were all in the suite
when they arrived. “Anything?” Carpenter asked.

“Morgan was at the airport,” Stone said. “One of the security people found his discarded hat, coat, and passport in a men's room. We covered the departures for Spain all evening, but there were too many departing flights to cover them all. What have you heard about Lance?”

“A farmer about eighty miles west of here reported that a light airplane landed and took off again at a disused RAF airfield near his house. Two local police officers found a brand-new BMW motorcycle abandoned there.”

“You think it was Lance's?”

“It was wiped completely clean of fingerprints,” she said, “and it was properly registered to someone in London. We're checking it out now, but who else would abandon an expensive motorbike at an old airfield and wipe off the prints?”

“I doubt if he's coming back for it,” Stone said.

“The police are keeping a watch, to see if anyone picks it up.”

Stone sank into a sofa. “This hasn't gone well, has it?”

Carpenter sat down next to him. “No, it hasn't, but it's not your fault; you were a big help. And you've lost all that money.”

Stone raised a hand. “Please, don't mention that again.”

“I'll do what I can to get you reimbursed, but I'm not very hopeful. My management are very annoyed that we've let these people get away.”

“Can I give you a lift back to London?”

“I have to stay here, but I'll walk you downstairs.”

They walked through the inn to the parking lot, and Dino got behind the wheel.

“I don't suppose we'll be seeing each other again,” Carpenter said.

“Oh, I don't know; I might get to London, from time to time.” He handed her his card. “You might even get to New York.”

“Possible, I suppose. Let me give you a telephone number; memorize it, don't write it down.” She gave him the number, then repeated it. “If you call that number at any hour of the day or night, you'll hear a beep; leave a message for Carpenter, and I'll get back to you when I can.”

“I'm sorry about the device,” he said.

“Spilt milk,” she replied. “They don't have the electronics to make it work, and they don't have the software—especially the software. It will take them months, hopefully years, to figure out how to use it, and by that time we'll have something better.”

Stone offered her his hand, but she snaked an arm around his neck and planted a wet kiss on his ear. “Hope I'll hear from you,” she said, then she turned and walked back into the Brewer's Arms.

Stone got into the car, and Dino drove off. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, gone,” he sighed.

Dino laughed. “And I was looking forward to a finder's fee.”

As they drove back along the M4, Stone looked out at the rolling landscape. He'd heard that the road had been planned to show off the countryside. “I love this country,” he said. “I feel as though I've been here forever.”

“A pretty short forever,” Dino replied.

LANCE CABOT WOKE UP IN HIS ZURICH hotel room at noon, wakened by his travel alarm. He showered, shaved, dressed, and applied his false beard, which on inspection in the mirror, he thought very becoming. Maybe he'd better grow one, he thought, since he was going to be hot for a while, even though no one had anything on him. Stan Hedger was his only real worry; Hedger wanted him badly, and he wouldn't stop looking. He felt sorry about Erica, but he couldn't contact her for a long time, he knew.

He called Ali's room. “I'm off,” he said. “As soon as the transaction is complete I'll pick you up here. Our flight to Cairo isn't until five o'clock. We'll change passports again.” He hung up.

 

Lance arrived at the bank on time. He gave the appropriate name to an officer and was escorted into a conference room. Two men of Middle Eastern appearance sat at the large table. They stood up when he arrived.

“There's a buzzer on the table, there,” the bank officer said. “Ring when you need me.”

Lance nodded and sat down.

“You have the item?” one of the men asked.

Lance set the catalogue case on the table and opened it. He handed over the device, wrapped in tissue paper.

Nervously, the man on the other side of the table tore away the paper, then held the device in his hands and weighed it. “It's very light,” he said.

“Very advanced metallurgy,” Lance said. “Are you ready to make the transfer?”

“How do we know this is the device you promised?”

“I would have thought that your people would have been smart enough to send someone with the skills to authenticate it.”

He handed the device to his companion, who inspected it for, perhaps, two minutes, then nodded.

“All right,” the first man said, “we are ready to make the transfer.”

“I think, perhaps, you should put that away,” Lance said, nodding at the device and pushing the catalogue case across the table. When the device was safely in the case, Lance pressed the button.

The bank officer returned with a file folder and sat down at the table. “Have you successfully completed your transaction?” he asked.

“We will have when the funds have been transferred,” Lance said.

“I have made out the paperwork as per your instructions,” the banker said. “Five million dollars to be transferred to your numbered account.”

“That's correct,” Lance said.

The banker laid the documents before the two Middle Easterners. They examined them, and one of them signed.

“I'll just be a moment,” the banker said. He took the documents and left the room.

Lance sat and looked at the two men, who impassively returned his gaze. No one said anything.

Presently, the banker returned. “Gentlemen, your transaction is complete.”

The two men rose and left the room without a word.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” the banker asked Lance.

Lance thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied.

 

Ted Cricket stood in a light rain outside the Guinea pub and restaurant, in a mews off Berkeley Square. It was nearly eleven o'clock. The door to the restaurant opened, and Cricket stepped back into the shadows and looked around. The mews was empty.

Hedger left the restaurant alone, weaving a little, and started up the mews toward Berkeley Square. He walked right past Cricket, no more than six feet away.

Cricket stepped from the shadows, reached out, cupped a hand over Hedger's mouth, and ran the slim blade into his back, thrusting upward. Hedger's knees gave way, and when Cricket released him, he collapsed onto the wet cobblestones.

Cricket looked up and down the mews again; empty. He rolled Hedger over, switched on a tiny flashlight, and shone it into Hedger's face. He was still alive. “This is for Bobby Jones,” Cricket said. He placed the knife point on Hedger's chest, over the heart, shoved it through the flesh, twisted it ninety degrees, and pulled it out, wiping the blade on Hedger's fine Savile Row jacket. Hedger coughed up some blood, then was still.

Cricket walked up the mews into Berkeley Square, then around the square and into the warren of streets that was Mayfair. He waited until he reached Park Lane before hailing a taxi.

 

The telephone was ringing as Stone let himself into the house.

“Hello?”

“It's Sarah,” she said. “I'm at Monica's gallery; Erica is here, and she's very upset.”

“Bring her here for the night,” Stone replied. “Don't take her back to the Farm Street house for any reason.”

“What's going on?” Sarah asked.

“I don't want to tell you on the phone,” Stone said. “Get here as soon as you can; I'll wait up for you.”

 

The two women arrived in a rush, carrying Erica's luggage.

“I moved out of the house,” Erica said. “It seemed very strange with Lance not there, and I was hearing clicking noises on the phone.”

“You did the right thing,” Stone replied. “I think you should fly back to New York tomorrow.”

“It seems the only thing to do,” Erica said.

“Stone, what is going on?” Sarah demanded.

“Lance has been involved in some sort of smuggling, I think, and they're looking for him.”

“Who's looking for him?”

“Just about everybody.”

“Good God.”

“I'm going home tomorrow, too,” he said. “Dino, will you call British Airways and book the three of us on the Concorde?” He still had some of Stan Hedger's money.

Dino went into the kitchen to use the phone.

“Why don't you get Erica to bed?” Stone asked Sarah. “I'm pretty bushed myself.”

By the time Sarah crawled into bed with him, he was out.