Стюарт Вудс - Class Act

“Stone?”

“Arthur,” he replied. Arthur Steele’s insurance companies were Stone’s largest and most boring account. He settled in for nearly an hour of hemming and hawing, then was finally released.

Weary, but looking forward to what was to come, Stone trudged up the stairs and turned the knob on the door of the master suite. It was locked. Never mind, he thought, I have a master key. He did, but it was not in his pocket; he realized he must have left it on his dresser. He rapped lightly on the door, waited, then rapped as hard as he felt he could without disturbing the Bacchettis. He put an ear to the thick, oaken door: nothing.

He tried, first, Tara’s cell phone, then Felicity’s. Both went straight to voicemail. “Unlock the door,” he responded to both of them.

He rested his forehead against the door and resisted the temptation to fall asleep standing up. Finally, with no other recourse, he wandered down the hallway and entered the nearest vacant guest room. He shed his Squadron mess kit, crawled into the bed, and was asleep almost instantly.

He awoke in a sunlit room, an hour later than he usually did, and found himself alone. He thought about it, then gathered his clothing and marched down the hall to the master suite and hammered on the door, not caring whom he woke.

After a minute or so, the door was opened by a sleepy Tara, who was naked. “What are you doing out there?” she asked. “We waited for you as long as we could.”

Stone walked into the room. “You locked me out,” Stone said.

“But you have a master key. You told me.”

“You’re right. I left it in my dressing room, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, baby,” she said, kissing him. “And we had such a good time. We both wished you were here. I don’t know how to order breakfast. Will you do it, please? I’d like another kipper with my eggs.”

Stone called down for breakfast, then got into a shower and a clean nightshirt, so as not to frighten the maid. Breakfast arrived in due course.

“Would you like a blow-by-blow description of last night?”

“Spare me,” Stone said.

“Well, suffice it to say, everything went swimmingly. I’ve never had such fun in bed.”

“Thank you. That tops off my morning.”

“I mean with another woman. It would have been even better with you here.” She squeezed his member. “This would have made all the difference!”

“Thank you, I take that very kindly.”

“What happened to you?”

“I got stuck on a meaningless conference call with Bill Eggers and my biggest client, Arthur Steele. I couldn’t have made much sense, because all I could think of was you two, upstairs.”

“That’s sweet,” she said, snuggling up to him. “Now, how can I make it up to you?”

Stone was about to tell her when breakfast arrived.

After the breakfast dishes were taken away, Stone made a move toward another foray, but his cell rang. He glanced at it. Felicity.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning, my dear. What happened to you last night?”

“I got stuck on a boring conference call for an hour.”

“Well, it wasn’t boring upstairs,” she said, “and we would have enjoyed having you there, so to speak.”

“I’m sure I would have enjoyed it, too.”

“About your request regarding the resting place of your Mr. Trafficante. He is ensconced in the Oscar Wilde suite at the Savoy and will be there for the remainder of the week. I had two men with nothing to do, so I’ve posted them there. They will follow him wherever he goes and report directly to you.”

“I’m sorry to have put you to that trouble, Felicity.”

“No trouble at all, my dear. It keeps them on their toes. Otherwise, they’d probably just nod off in the break room.”

Stone thanked her again and hung up. “Salvatore is not at the Dorchester, but at the Savoy, in the Oscar Wilde suite, I daresay their most expensive accommodation.”

“Ah.”

He set down the phone and made another move on Tara. The phone rang again. Caller ID read: Private.

“Yes?”

“Is that Mr. Barrington?”

“It is.”

“My name is Jeffers. Dame Felicity directed my partner and me to keep you apprised of the movements of Mr. Trafficante.”

“Thank you, she mentioned that.”

“Mr. Trafficante, after a five-minute taxi ride, is occupied at his tailor’s, in Savile Row.”

“Thank you. If you could just note his movements and ring me this afternoon, I’d be grateful.”

“Of course, sir. Good day to you.”

Stone hung up, rolled over and reached for Tara, but her part of the bed was empty. He heard the shower turn on in her bathroom. He sighed deeply.

Later, in the afternoon, he had another call from Jeffers.

“Sir,” he said, “your Mr. Trafficante returned to the Savoy after his tailor’s visit and lunch at Cecconi’s, and has been ensconced for more than an hour with two young ladies, whom, I suspect, do most of their work in the evenings, if you take my meaning.”

“I do, and thank you,” Stone said, hanging up. At least somebody has a sex life, he reflected.

Stone’s mood did not improve during the remainder of the day, though he rallied at dinnertime. He, Tara, and the Bacchettis dined in the library and drank a bottle of claret and much of a bottle of port.

At bedtime, he and Tara went freely at each other. As they fell asleep finally, he felt he had made up most of the lost time of the night before. Tara was only one woman, but she was a considerable one, with robust appetites.

The following morning, after sex, breakfast, showering and dressing, he came across a sealed envelope addressed to him. It was from the local constabulary, and postmarked just after his departure from Britain on his last trip over. Inside was a laminated card with his photograph on it and a cover letter from his friend, Chief Constable Holmes.

Dear Stone,

Enclosed please find your long-awaited licence to bear firearms. It is effective in England, Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland, and all British possessions and members of the Commonwealth for five years.

Kindly recall that it is a licence to carry, not to kill, and you are not, therefore, James Bond. It will, however, prevent your being arrested by any law enforcement official in the aforementioned places for going about armed.

With kind regards

Stone opened his briefcase and got out his passport, which was a diplomatic one, as a consequence of his consulting relationship with the director of Central Intelligence. He reckoned the two IDs, together, would keep him out of jail. He got into a suit and necktie and went downstairs to the library, where everybody was curled up with books.

“What are you all dressed up for?” Tara asked.

“I have to run up to London for a few hours.”

She leapt to her feet. “Oh, good, give me a minute while I get into something for the city.” She ran from the room before he could say, “But...”

“What are you doing in London?” Dino asked.

“Oh, not much. I’m going to murder Sal Trafficante, if I can get him to stand still long enough.”

“Right,” Dino said, turning a page. Viv didn’t bat an eye.

Tara returned quickly, and Stone went to the safe behind the picture, where there was a stash of cash, and removed a thick stack of sterling currency. “Here’s your budget for the day,” he said.

A stable hand had brought the Porsche around to the front of the house, and they got in. “Full tank,” he said.

“What will you be doing in London?” Tara asked.

“Taking care of business,” Stone said, turning onto the road to the village, where he would pick up the motorway.