Stuart Woods: Lucid Intervals

“I’ve copied them and done some editing and enhancing,” Cantor said, “so what you’re seeing is the most likely candidates.”

Stone watched a videotape of men entering the building and the elevators. An hour later he said, “Stop.”

“Which one?” Cantor said.

“The one with the hat, the beefy one.”

“Why him?”

“It’s his walk, it’s not completely natural. Do you see what I mean?”

Cantor rewound and watched the man. “Yeah, I see what you mean about the walk. It’s like one leg is stiffer than the other. Maybe he has an artificial leg?”

“I don’t think so, but I was told he walks funny.”

“Who wears a hat these days?” Cantor asked. “Nobody.”

“Maybe an English gentleman,” Stone said.

“Are his clothes custom-made?”

“Freeze the shot,” Stone said, then looked carefully at the man’s back. “I think so.”

“How can you tell?”

“For a start, his suit jacket has double pleats; ready-made suits more commonly have a center pleat. Then look at his shoulders: there’s no wrinkle near the collar, and there’s no puckering on the center seam. The sleeve has four buttons, too, and it looks like they have buttonholes. A man could get that from an expensive shop, but it all adds up to bespoke.”

“Bespoke?”

“What the Brits call custom-made. He’s showing more shirt collar than usual, too. His shirts are probably custom as well, so make a note to check out shirtmakers, starting with Turnbull and Asser. And the hat is a Trilby, taupe in color. That’s very British. See if you can find a shot of him in the elevator.”

“Why?”

“Because a gentleman removes his hat in an elevator.”

Cantor ran through some more shots at high speed. “Here we go,” he said.

“Maybe we can see what floor button he pushes,” Stone said, but the man didn’t push a button. He removed his hat, though, revealing a head full of dark hair, gray at the temples. The camera was set high, in a corner, and they could see only the back of his head.

“He’s not balding,” Cantor said.

“Maybe. He didn’t push any buttons; he was apparently going to a floor somebody else had already pushed.” Sure enough, the man followed another passenger off the elevator.

“That’s an express elevator,” Cantor said. “It goes only to the higher floors.”

“Yeah,” Stone said. “The trouble is, none of what we see here actually makes him as our guy. Okay, his clothes look English, and he wears a hat; that’s about it. We don’t know if our guy has gained a lot of weight over the years or gone bald. I can’t tell if he’s wearing a toupee. We can’t really see his nose, either.”

“Well there’s one thing about him I like,” Cantor said.

“What’s that?”

“Of all the people we’ve looked at on this date, he has the most to recommend him.”

“Good point. What’s the date?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Let’s look at the earlier dates, too,” Stone said, and Cantor racked up another cassette and began his search. An hour later he was done.

“Nope,” Cantor said. “We don’t have him on the earlier dates, just the most recent one.”

“How many men appear on both dates?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know, dozens, maybe many dozens. A lot of them work in the building every day.”

“Well, this guy, Mister Smith, doesn’t seem to work in the building. I think he’s visiting.”

“Visiting who?”

“Could be anybody-doctor, lawyer, dentist.”

“Are there dentists in the Seagram Building?”

“I don’t know. They’d be really, really expensive dentists, though, if they had offices there.”

“Nah,” Cantor said, “medical professionals need special plumbing and electrical; they mostly stick to buildings that specialize.”

“Can we do more to identify the floor he got off on?”

“I’ve tried,” Cantor said, “but people’s heads were in the way of the buttons.”

“Do we have shots of him returning to the lobby?” Stone asked.

“I haven’t seen any,” Cantor replied. “I’ll go through them again, though.”

“Let me know what you find,” Stone said, getting up from his seat. “I can’t look at that screen anymore.” He looked through one of the van’s darkened windows across the street. No sign of Dolce. “Bob, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“I’m being stalked by a tall, slender, dark-haired woman. She stands across the street and stares at my house.”

“Maybe she’s in real estate.”

“No. I know her. She was traveling with a keeper, but she knifed him the day before yesterday, then disappeared.”

“You want somebody in the house?”

“Yes, please. Joan is frightened, and I have a houseguest, too. I don’t want them hurt.”

“Do you want the stalker hurt?”

“No, not if it can be avoided.”

“I’ll put Peter Leahy on it,” Cantor said.

“Tell Peter to cuff her, if he can, but tell him to watch his ass; she’s very good with a knife.”

“Jesus, Stone, where do you find these women?”

“There’s only one like her,” Stone replied, “and she found me.”

Stone sat with Felicity, tucked into a corner table at La Goulue, one of his favorite restaurants. “You seem a little tired,” he said, as she took her first sip of her Rob Roy.

“It’s the job,” she said, “and it doesn’t change much when I’m out of the country. Of course, when I’m in New York I have you to, ah, entertain me.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

She smiled. “Don’t you believe it.”

“Tell me about the job,” Stone said. “As much as you can anyway.”

“There are the usual things,” she said. “Agents get themselves killed, sometimes for little or no reason. Last month I had two die in a car crash in Rome. Of course it was on that racetrack the Italians call the Piazza del Popolo. It’s insane.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I have to make the phone calls and write the letters, and even in the case of the car crash, the spouses don’t want to believe there wasn’t foul play. They’ve spent years worrying that a husband or wife will be taken out by the opposition, and I think it’s something of a letdown when they’re lost to a simple accident.”

“Is running the firm more fun than working in it?”

Felicity thought about that for a moment. “Marginally,” she said finally. It’s more fun to know everything instead of just about your own assignment; it’s fun to put the pieces together when you have all the information, or at least all of it that’s available.”

“You don’t always have it all?”

“Of course not. Even in my position I can’t know everything, and Whitehall and Downing Street are insatiable; they have an almost religious belief that their service is all-seeing, all-knowing. We could be closer to that if they would triple our budget, but that’s not going to happen unless there’s another war.”

“What about terrorism?”

“MI-5 does all the domestic stuff; we’re the foreign service, and we did get about a twenty percent bump in the years after 9/11, but inflation has eaten that up. I still have to send one agent out when I’d rather send two or three. Deciding where to allocate the resources is the hardest part of the job.”

“Is there anything fun about it?”

“The equipment is fun. We’ve long since surpassed that Q fellow in the Bond films.” She leaned close to his ear. “I have a pen in my purse that can administer a drug without your feeling it. Then I could walk out in the middle of dinner, and you’d be dead of cardiac arrest before you got to dessert. And the autopsy would reveal nothing.” She smiled. “We call it the toe tag.”