Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“How is your time in New York going?” he asked.

“Busy. Apart from my political ambitions, we’re faced with dozens of requests for end-of-term interviews. Will is having me do as many of these as possible.”

“I should think those interviews could be very important to your ambitions,” Stone said. “After all, they won’t be hostile, they’ll be warm and admiring, and they’ll get the country accustomed to seeing your face and hearing you talk.”

“Yes, well, I tried to do a minimum of those things when I was still DCI, so I guess I’m making up for lost time. Stone, I’m curious about something.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve been close to Will and me for a long time, now, and you’ve never asked us for anything. Do you know how rare that is? Everybody, even among our closest friends, seems to want something—help with a bill in Congress, funding for some pet local project, something.”

“It never crossed my mind,” Stone said. “At least, not until this afternoon.”

“Is there something we—Will—can do for you?”

“Since you ask, yes. But my request is an odd one, and one you and Will might not wish to grant, for all sorts of reasons.”

“Tell me about it. If we can’t do it, then nothing will go farther than this conversation, but maybe we can help.”

“You recall the saga of Teddy Fay?”

Kate laughed. “How could I forget it? I knew him when he was still at the Agency, you know, and I liked him.”

“He’s surfaced,” Stone said.

“Oh, God, where this time?”

“First, in New Mexico, where he saved my son’s life.”

Kate’s jaw dropped. “How on earth did he do that?”

“You may remember a Russian mobster by the name of Majorov.”

“Of course, you had all that trouble with him in Paris.”

“Today’s front page of the New York Post is devoted to him. He was flying from L.A. to Moscow in his private jet, and when he arrived in Moscow, he was dead, ostensibly of a heart attack.”

“But?”

“Teddy did that. Majorov had been trying to take over The Arrington, and I wouldn’t deal with him, so he went after Peter. Teddy took two assassins off Peter’s trail when he, Ben Bacchetti, and Hattie Patrick drove across the country; then he turned up in L.A. and was helpful again. I owe him Peter’s life.”

“And you want what for Teddy?”

“A presidential pardon.”

Kate’s jaw dropped again. “I don’t see—”

“Hear me out,” Stone said. “Every president, at the end of his term, hands out pardons—sometimes few, sometimes many. Would it be possible for Will to issue a sealed pardon—say, at the request of the intelligence services—so that Teddy’s name and the pardon’s contents would never be disclosed?”

“I don’t know if that’s ever been done before,” Kate said.

“Kate, I know what Teddy has done—or may have done, but he’s never been convicted of anything in a court of law, and no notice has ever been given by the FBI that he’s wanted for anything.”

“You have a point,” she said. “Let me talk with Will about it. I’m sure he’ll want to get some advice, and I’ll ask him to limit who he asks for it. I wish I could give you an answer now, but it will have to wait, maybe until near the end of Will’s term.”

“Thank you, Kate. It’s an unusual request, and I’ll understand if it can’t be granted.”

The butler called them to dinner, and they went in.

9

Stone was having his usual breakfast in bed when his private line rang. Caller ID said the U.K. was calling. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Emma.”

“Good morning, or rather, good afternoon.” It was five hours later in London. “I hope you’re well.”

“Sort of well.”

“That sounds like not great.”

“Personally, I’m fine, but not business-wise.”

“What’s the problem? Not that I know a hell of a lot about business, but I’ll help if I can.”

“Somebody is copying our designs, stitch for stitch, and selling them at less than what it costs us to make them.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“No, and I don’t know how to find out.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Yes, days ago, but they don’t seem to take this sort of thing seriously. They say I’d have more luck bringing a civil action, but I don’t know who to sue.”

Stone thought for a moment. “Maybe a private investigator would be the best thing.”

“I don’t know any private investigators.”

“Neither do I, but I know a recently retired policeman, one Detective Chief Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton, who might be able to help.”

“Throckmorton? You must be joking—it’s like a name out of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it. But he knows policemen all over Europe, so he could be useful to you.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Tell me, how soon after you introduce something do the knockoffs appear?”

“Simultaneously. Once, a couple of days before.”

“Then it sounds like an inside job.”

“I know that term from film noir, but I don’t know what it means.”

“It means that somebody working for you—or for someone with access to your designs, like your manufacturer—is selling them to someone else.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I should have thought of that.”

“I’d give it some thought. It’s the first thing Throckmorton would want to investigate. Is there someone who works for you that you don’t entirely trust? A disgruntled ex-employee? Think along those lines. Would you like Throckmorton’s number?”

“Yes, please.”

Stone looked it up and gave it to her. “How are you coming along on moving some operations to Los Angeles?” He had an ulterior motive for wanting to know.

“Surprisingly well,” she replied.

“It might be harder for people to steal your designs in Europe if you were working out of the United States.”

“Oh, you just want me back in your bed!”

“Guilty!”

“If it’s any consolation, I miss being there. Soon, I’m going to have to start picking up lads in pubs to quench my fires.”

“Quenching fires is one of the things I do best,” Stone said, “but it’s hard on a transoceanic call. We could have phone sex, but all sorts of people might be listening.”

“I’ll see what I can do to move things along,” she said. “We can’t have the intelligence services eavesdropping on our sex lives.”

“Then get your ass in gear!”

“Let me speak to your DCI Throckmorton. The sooner I get this resolved, the sooner I can be back in New York.”

“Then why are you wasting time talking to me?”

“You’re right! Goodbye!”

They both hung up.

Stone got up, shaved, showered, and dressed and went to his office. He had not even gotten through the mail when Joan buzzed. “There’s a teddibly, teddibly British chap named Throckmorton on line one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Evelyn?”

“Barrington.”

“I don’t suppose I can call you Detective Chief Inspector since you’re retired, and Former Detective Chief Inspector seems a bit much. May we be on a first-name basis?”

“Stone,” Throckmorten said.

“I trust you’re enjoying your retirement.”

“I was, until I heard from this woman, Tweed, to whom you gave my private number.”

“It occurred to me that a DCI’s pension might do with an occasional bolstering.”

“Are you trying to sound British, old chap?”

“Hearing your voice brings it out in me. Are you taking the job, or did you tell her to get stuffed?”

“Who is this woman?”

“She’s one of Britain’s most famous fashion designers, actually—just the sort of person you would never have heard of.”