Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

Stone saw to it that everyone had been well lubricated and Craig anesthetized before they sat down for dinner, so they were all in a jolly mood. He observed that Craig knew exactly the level of attention that Vanessa required, and he admired the way the man managed it.

“I don’t expect you have a projection room,” Craig commented as they settled in with after-dinner drinks.

“No,” Stone responded.

“How about a very large TV?”

“In your bedroom,” Stone said.

“A pity. I brought a copy of my latest film — hasn’t been released yet.”

“We are desolated,” Stone said. “I suppose we’ll have to fall back on conversation.”

“Are you sure you’re not English?” Craig asked.

“On both sides, all the way back, but not by birth.”

“I had rather thought you might be Eton and Oxford, but for the accent. I’m Harrow and Cambridge, myself.”

“I’m PS Six and NYU,” Stone replied.

“Not the Ivy League?”

“We used to call it the Poison Ivy League.”

“Do you have a London club?”

“Sadly, no.”

“I could propose you for the Garrick, but it takes years to work your way up the list. A lot of fellows have to die before your name comes up.”

“That’s kind of you, Craig, but I don’t think it’s worth bothering. I might not improve with age.”

“Felicity tells me you belong to the Royal Yacht Squadron. How’d you manage that, not being English?”

“By not being English,” Stone replied. “No members knew me well enough to vote against me.”

“Very good,” Craig said, chuckling, “very good.”

“Another brandy?”

“Thank you, but Ms. Pym expects to be serviced, if that dress says anything. And I’d better be up for the task, so to speak. I warn you, she’s noisy when in full flight.”

“You’re far enough down the hall, so don’t worry,” Stone replied. “She can cut loose.”

“Believe me, she will.” Craig got gingerly to his feet and, after good nights were exchanged, escorted her from the room, limping slightly.

Jamie was ready for bed, too. Mick O’Leary was in a chair before the fire with a book in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. “I think I’ll have another brandy and give Craig and Vanessa a head start,” Mick said. “I’m a light sleeper.”

Stone left him the decanter and walked Jamie upstairs.

Upstairs, Stone drew the curtains before unzipping Jamie.

“Stone,” she said. “Just how much danger are we in here?”

“Less than in New York, I expect,” Stone replied. “There are eight armed men patrolling the grounds in shifts. All are ex-SAS or Royal Marines, and they don’t mess about, as the Brits would put it.”

“How far down the hall are Craig and Vanessa?” she asked, slipping out of her underwear.

“Far enough that we shouldn’t hear Craig’s pitiful cries.” He got into bed with her. “I’m a little worried about them hearing you, though.”

“Am I that noisy?”

“Only in extremis,” he replied. “And I like it that way.” He nibbled lightly on a nipple.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, if you want noise,” she said.

“I’ll do the best I can,” he said, turning to his appointed task.

Sometime later, from outside, he woke to the crack of a rifle.

Jamie sat up in bed. “Stone, what was that noise?”

Stone pretended that she had awakened him. “Did you say noise? What noise?”

“You didn’t hear that?”

“All I heard was my name. Now I have to get back to sleep.”

“I’m sure it was a gunshot,” she said.

“What kind of gunshot?”

“A machine gun.”

Stone tried not to laugh. “Jamie, everything is all right. Please go back to sleep.”

“How can everything be all right, if there’s a machine gun outside?”

“Do you hear anyone returning gunfire?”

“Not yet.”

“That means everything is all right.”

“Go see.”

“Jamie...”

“Go see, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

Stone groaned, then got out of bed and into a dressing gown and slippers. “I’ll be right back,” he said.

“All right.”

He left the room, went downstairs, and made sure the front door’s exterior light was off before he unbolted the door and stuck his head outside. A man with some sort of weapon came out of some nearby trees and walked toward the house, his shoes crunching on the gravel beside the driveway.

Stone closed the door nearly all the way, but through a slit kept the man in sight. He didn’t look familiar. Stone closed the door.

A moment later there was a soft rap on the door. “Mr. Barrington?”

Stone opened the door six inches but kept a foot jammed against it. “What’s going on?” he asked. Somehow he felt he should not identify himself.

“You heard the gunshot?”

“Yes, a rifle?”

“An assault weapon. One of our men flushed a man out from some bushes near the front gate, and he went over the wall. Our man got off a round and thinks he hit the intruder, probably in the ass.”

“Poetic justice,” Stone said.

“Pardon?”

“They shot my guest in the ass.”

“Oh, yes. Well...”

“Are you satisfied he won’t be back?”

“I expect he’s back in his van with his trousers down, being attended to. It’s unlikely they’ll come back tonight.”

“Good, then I’ll go back to bed.” Stone thanked the man, went back upstairs, threw his robe on a chair, and got into bed.

“Well?” Jamie asked.

“A passing car backfired.”

“Oh.”

“Sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone slept peacefully in the knowledge that neither of the two men shot in the ass was himself.

The following morning Stone and Jamie were out horseback riding, followed by two men in a Range Rover. Stone’s phone rang. “Yes?”

“Mr. Barrington, this is Derek Forrest.”

“Good morning.”

“I wanted you to know that we got a blood sample from the wall this morning, and we’ve sent it back to London for DNA testing.”

“Oh, good,” Stone replied.

“We’ll run it against criminal databases in the U.K. and the States. I’ll call you with the report later today.”

“That’s fine, Derek. Thank you.” He hung up.

Jamie pulled up next to him. “What was that?”

“Just Derek, calling to say that all is well.”

“Is that a euphemism for ‘we’re all in terrible danger’?”

“It is not. His words mean what they say.”

“I never know when to believe you.”

“Life would be simpler for both of us if you would try to believe me all the time.”

“I don’t believe anybody all the time,” she said.

“You have a distrustful nature.”

“It comes from being a journalist. When people speak to me, they are usually lying.”

“How do you decide who to believe?”

“Instinct.”

“How reliable is that?”

“Better than ninety percent, I think.”

“I read somewhere there’s a course you can take that teaches you how to identify liars.”

“How do they do that?”

“Liars have what poker players call a tell .”

“I know what a tell is. I play poker sometimes. What is a liar’s tell?”

“It varies with the liar,” Stone said. “Some blink rapidly when they’re lying. Some don’t blink at all. Some can’t look you in the eye. Others can’t or won’t look away. Some distort their mouths when they’re telling really big lies that they know aren’t credible. These people often laugh when they’re lying, too.”

“Is that it?”

“Oh, no, there are dozens of other tells. This method was apparently developed by the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence service. It’s taught to all their interrogators and to their security people at airports.”