Stuart Woods - Worst Fears Realized

“Can I bring something?”

“You can bring the wine.”

“Red or white?”

“Red. Something Italian; something robust.”

“What time?”

“Eight?”

“Eight it is, and again, I apologize for the situation.”

“I’ll give you an opportunity to make it up to me.” She hung up.

Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Dino, it’s Stone; I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“This guy is obviously keeping tabs on me, and he’s not stupid; he’s already made the people you’ve got watching the house.”

“I agree.”

“You remember Sarah Buckminster?”

“The limey you used to go out with? Sure. Didn’t she flee the country to get away from you?”

“She’s back, and I have a dinner date with her. She’s staying at a friend’s apartment on Fifth Avenue in the Seventies, and I’m due up there at eight.”

“I’ll see that you’re followed.”

“No, he’ll expect that. Instead, have the building covered; put a guy in the lobby and one on the street. If he follows me, he won’t know what apartment I’m visiting. Maybe he’ll try and talk to the doorman, or maybe he’ll just lurk around, waiting for me to leave. Either way, we might get a chance to grab him.”

“What’s the exact address?”

Stone told him.

“Okay. Call me at home when you get there.”

“How are Mary Ann and Ben?”

“They’re at her father’s house in Brooklyn; one of his people is driving Ben to school every day for the duration.”

“They couldn’t be safer, then.”

“Yeah, I’d like to see the guy get past those people. Call me tonight.”

Stone hung up and returned to his ham sandwich.

Later in the afternoon, Stone went down to the cellar. He chose a Masi Amerone ’91, which filled Sarah’s wine order, then he went down to the end of the racks, where he had a few very special bottles. He found a bottle of champagne – a Krug ’66 – that he’d been saving for an occasion, then went up to the kitchen and put the champagne on ice. At seven-thirty, he found some tissue paper, wrapped the two bottles, and put them into a small shopping bag. He dressed in some cavalry twill slacks, a cashmere turtleneck, soft kid loafers, and a light tweed jacket; then he opened his bedside drawer, took out a 9mm automatic pistol, placed it in the bag, and covered it with more tissue paper. He picked up the shopping bag and let himself out of the house.

He looked up and down the street. There were a few people in the block, and he recognized two cops in a plain sedan across the street. He walked up to Third Avenue and hailed a cab, constantly checking behind him. It was what the perp would expect him to do.

Stone got into the cab. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he said to the driver. “I want you to take a right on Fifty-ninth Street, go across the bridge, then make a U-turn, come back across the bridge, then take First Avenue up to Seventy-ninth, over to Fifth, and I’ll direct you from there. There’s an extra ten bucks in it if you don’t ask me why.”

The driver gave an elaborate shrug, clapped a hand over his mouth, and, miraculously, did as he was asked. When they were on Fifth Avenue, Stone asked to be let out a block before Sarah’s building, tipped the driver extravagantly, and, shopping bag in hand, walked casually down the east side of Fifth Avenue. Traffic was heavy going downtown, and there were a lot of people on the street. He couldn’t spot anyone following him.

Stone found the address, and the doorman opened the door for him. Inside was a desk, and two uniformed men stood behind it. The younger one, Stone noticed, was a little too large for his jacket, and there was a bulge under his left arm.

“Yes sir?” the older man asked. He looked worried.

“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “I’m here to see Miss Buckminster.”

The man picked up a phone, announced Stone, then told him he could go up.

Stone recognized the elevator operator. “Evening, Andy,” he said when the door was shut. “The uniform suits you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Anderson replied. “Maybe I should make a career change.”

“Where’s Mick?”

“Sitting out on the street – eating doughnuts, probably.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“You think the guy followed you?”

“If he did, he’s good; I didn’t make him.”

“I hope he did; I’d like a crack at him.”

“May you get your wish.”

“Here we are; sixteen, top floor.”

The elevator doors opened, and Stone stepped into a private foyer. “Watch yourself, Andy,” he said, then he rang the doorbell.

THE DOOR WAS OPENED BY A BUTLER dressed in a dark suit. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington,” he said. “My name is William; will you follow me, please?” He led the way down a long gallery hung with very good pictures, and they emerged into a large, handsome living room. “Please have a seat, sir,” William said. “Miss Buckminster will be with you in a moment; she’s in the kitchen. May I get you something to drink?”

Stone handed him the shopping bag. “There’s a cold bottle of champagne in there,” he said, “and a bottle of red wine. If you would open the red and allow it to breathe, then bring us the champagne and a couple of glasses.”

“Of course, Mr. Barrington,” William replied. He took the shopping bag and left the room.

Stone walked slowly around the room, looking at the pictures; he had never seen such a collection in a private home. A Monet of water lilies covered most of one wall, and the smaller pictures were hung in rows, covering nearly every square foot of wall space. Stone recognized works by Picasso, Manet, Braque, David Hockney, and Lucian Freud. “My God,” he muttered to himself. “I wouldn’t want to be saddled with these people’s insurance premiums.” Next to the fireplace he was riveted by something that he recognized from his childhood: one of his mother’s paintings, of Washington Square Park. He stood before it, taking in the brushwork and the light. “You’re in good company, Mother,’ he said.

“Stone!”

He turned to see Sarah Buckminster walking toward him, dressed in tailored slacks and a silk blouse. She held out her arms to him, and he embraced and kissed her. She held him away from her and looked at him. “Dear God, the years have made you even more handsome.”

Stone blushed. “And you are even more beautiful.”

She turned and looked at the Matilda Stone. “I knew you’d find it immediately.”

“I haven’t seen it since I was, I don’t know, eleven or twelve.” He waved an arm. “Who owns all this?”

“Jack and Hillary Beacon,” she replied. “He’s the CEO of Celltell, the wireless-phone company. Do you know it?”

Stone nodded. “I bought some of the stock, as a matter of fact. I don’t have much, but it’s done well.”

“This is the heart of one of the country’s great private collections. The rest is scattered around the apartment, which runs to seventeen rooms, or on loan to museums.”

“It’s astonishing.”

William appeared with a tray holding the bottle of Krug, two lovely champagne flutes, some canapés, and something wrapped in a napkin.

“Come, let’s sit down,” Sarah said, drawing him to the sofa before the fireplace, in which a cheerful fire burned.

William poured them both a flute of the wine and nodded at the napkin on the tray. “Yours, I believe, Mr. Barrington.”

Stone winced.

“Something for me, I hope,” Sarah said.

“I’m afraid not,” Stone replied. “The Krug is for you.”

“William,” she said, “you and Martha may go, now; Mr. Barrington and I will take care of ourselves for the rest of the evening.”