Стюарт Вудс - Stealth

As Stone reached for the second volume, an incredibly bright light blinded him.

“Get out of the way!” a man’s voice shouted, and Stone was pushed roughly aside.

“I disconnected volume one,” Stone said, blinking rapidly, trying to see something, anything. “I didn’t have time to get to volume two.” He sat up and he could make out, blurrily, the shape of a uniformed policeman bending over the book.

“Got it,” the man said, setting down his large flashlight, then half a second later the display in his hand lighted up. “Jesus God,” he muttered to himself. “Why didn’t it ring?”

“Because,” Stone said, “we’re in a dead zone, courtesy of the Central Intelligence Agency.” He got out his cell phone, tapped it, and showed it to the policeman.

“I want one of those,” the man said.

Chief Inspector Holmes stepped into the room behind Stone and the policemen. “Good evening,” he said.

“It is now,” Stone replied. “Thank you for coming.”

The policeman next to him was inspecting the two bombs. “I reckon,” he said, almost to himself, “that if one of these had gone off it would have blown out the windows and destroyed everything in the room, including the paneling.”

“And what,” Holmes asked, “would the effect have been if they had both gone off?”

“Then, I believe, the resulting blast would have removed this corner of the house, upstairs and down, from the main building and distributed it around the lawns.”

“Any idea who might have wished you distributed around the lawns, Stone?” Holmes asked.

Stone picked up one of the volumes and showed him the binder’s name on the spine. “This gentleman, I believe. He has a shop in the Burlington Arcade in London called Literary Antiquities, with a bindery in the basement. Beautiful work, isn’t it?”

“The binding or the bomb?” Holmes queried.

“Take your pick.”

“Odd that he would stamp his name on an instrument of murder,” Holmes observed.

“I think he probably bound the books first, then decided to use them to house the bomb. In any case, his name on the spine would not have survived a detonation.”

“Was he working alone, do you think?”

“The man is a spy for the Russians, and he’s working with half their London embassy,” Stone replied.

“And how did you come to know this?” Holmes asked.

Stone reached into a bedside drawer and found one of his new business cards.

Holmes digested the information thereon. “I see,” he said, though he clearly didn’t.

“I’ve been a consultant for them for a number of years,” Stone said, “but recently I’ve been sort of promoted.”

“And the Russians knew about this?”

“It’s public knowledge,” Stone said, “though it hasn’t been formally announced. I think the Agency thought that those who needed to know would find out in the normal course of events.”

Felicity and Rose appeared in the doorway, back in their dinner dresses.

“Also, I think they may have been trying for both of us,” Stone said. “Dame Felicity, Chief Inspector Holmes of the Hampshire police. And this is Dr. Rose McGill, of St. George’s Hospital, London.”

Holmes shook their hands, but said little. It was obvious that the policeman was putting together one plus two and forming an opinion about why the bombs were under the bed.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Stone, I believe you said there was a poisoning afoot. The officer standing behind Dame Felicity is Sergeant Pepper, no relation, and he is our resident expert on lethal substances.”

“Come with me,” Stone replied. He led the officers downstairs to the kitchen and found the Château Palmer ’61 on a corner counter, beside it a folded towel. He shook the towel, and the cork containing the needle and the top of the capsule fell out.

Sergeant Pepper pulled on latex gloves, picked up the suspect cork, and sniffed it, then he removed the new cork from the bottle, swirled the wine in it, and sniffed again. “As far as I can tell without an actual chemical analysis, the only thing wrong with this wine, apart from being corky, is that someone has injected a substance into it and, in the bargain, broken off his hypodermic needle. I observe that, perhaps, half a glass of wine is missing from the bottle. I sincerely hope that no one drank it.”

“It was decanted and the lees thrown away,” Stone said.

“It’s troubling that I cannot smell any foreign substance in the wine,” he said.

“Sergeant Pepper,” Holmes said, “is famous for his nose, which can identify hundreds of aromas.”

“I’ve been offered a job in a distillery, blending whiskys,” Pepper said with a touch of pride. “As I’m sure you know, blenders do not taste their product, but smell it. Tasting would render the palate incapable of discerning differences in whiskys.”

“Ah,” Stone said, as if he knew what the man was talking about.

“I will take charge of this bottle and its contents and the damaged cork and needle,” Pepper said, “and I will order a proper analysis done.”

“How long will that take?” Holmes asked.

“If it’s an easy poison to identify, we’ll know in a day or two. Something more exotic could take a week or, perhaps, weeks. That will probably be the case, given that the Russians are involved.”

“Well,” Holmes said, “I believe we have some arrests to make, so we’d better get started.”

“Chief Inspector,” Stone said, “you might consult Dame Felicity before you start collaring people. Most, if not all, of the suspects will have diplomatic immunity. Perhaps Mr. Thomas may not, and I should think he would be quite a catch. May I suggest that you have the appropriate officers in London pick him up as soon as possible? His bomber may not have told him yet of his failure here.”

“Good suggestion,” Holmes said. “I’d better go and find the good lady.” He left the kitchen.

Roger Fife-Simpson watched from the woods across the road as other vehicles arrived at the house. He was trapped where he was until all this quieted down and he could escape in the van.

Stone found Chief Inspector Holmes in the library, chatting with Dame Felicity. “May I join you?” he asked, pulling up a chair.

“Of course,” Holmes replied. “Do you have any other suggestions for our investigation? You’re doing very nicely so far.”

“I think it might be a good idea to search the woods on both sides of the road from Beaulieu. The culprit may have hidden there and been trapped by the arriving police.”

“Stone,” Holmes said, “may I offer you an inspector’s commission with the Hampshire police? We could use you.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector,” Stone said, “but I am otherwise engaged.”

“Of course. Tell me, have you seen any strangers about the house today?”

Stone thought about it. “Yes,” he replied. “A man from British Gas was here — to read the meter, I suppose.”

Holmes frowned. “I don’t think gas has reached this far south, yet.”

Stone’s face fell. “Oh, God, I forgot. We have two large propane tanks out back that are periodically filled by a local supplier. You’re right, we don’t have a gas meter.”

“I think my people should have a look around the neighborhood then,” the chief inspector said. He excused himself and left the room.

Gradually, the police drifted from the house, and Stone was once again alone with Felicity and Rose.

He gave them each a kiss. “Where were we?” he asked.

Roger Fife-Simpson could hear people on foot nearby now. He abandoned the van and melted into the woods. Then it occurred to him that the safest place for him might be near the house, since the police had, apparently, completed their search there.