“Isn’t that an Elvis Presley song?” she asked.
“Not today,” Stone replied.
They were halfway to London on the motorway when Stone’s cell phone rang. “Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington, it’s Jeffers here.”
“Good morning.”
“I thought I would let you know, Mr. Trafficante has not had breakfast yet, and seems to be sleeping in this morning.”
“Thank you. Is the Oscar Wilde suite the one facing the river?”
“It is, sir.” Jeffers gave him directions from the front desk.
“Is there a suite next door to it?”
“Yes, sir. There is the Gilbert & Sullivan suite abutting it. I’m told that when the occasion requires, the two suites can be made into one, via a door, when unlocked from both sides.”
“Is it occupied?”
“I believe not. I saw a bellman take away luggage, and the maid is in there now.”
“Please go to the front desk, ask for the manager, and book me into that suite for two nights, using Dame Felicity’s name, if necessary. I assume you have been trained in the art of breaking and entering?”
“We call it access of opportunity,” Jeffers replied.
“I would like you to practice this art by entering the Oscar Wilde suite and unlocking the adjoining door to the Gilbert & Sullivan suite, without disturbing the occupant. Can you manage that?”
“Of course, sir,” Jeffers replied. “It shall be as you wish.”
They both hung up.
Tara was staring at him. “Stone...”
Stone raised a hand. “Stop,” he said. “Don’t ask. You did not hear that conversation and will forget everything you did not hear.”
“Where will I be while forgetting this?”
“Shopping. I’ll drop you at a convenient spot on the way into town, say Harrods...”
“Harvey Nick’s,” she said.
“Harvey Nick’s. And I’ll pick you up on the way out of town. When I am headed that way, I will phone you. You will not phone me, got that?”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want my phone ringing while I’m hiding in a closet or in some other place, but I will not turn it off. You will not text me, either, because my phone makes a noise when receiving a text.”
“Gotcha,” she said. “Why...”
“You do not want to know the why of anything. Anything you buy, pay cash, and do not have a receipt issued in your own name. Make up a name, if you need it.”
“I assume I have also not been to London today?”
“An excellent assumption.”
“What was I doing, instead?”
“You remember our picnic lunch down by the airstrip?”
“Of course.”
“That was today, not yesterday. You may say that I kept you fully occupied for that time.”
“By ‘fully occupied,’ you mean...”
“Use your imagination. We may have frightened the horses.”
“I notice that you have booked the suite for two nights. Will we take advantage of that?”
“That remains to be seen. Now that you mention it, what you have in mind might make a good alibi, if we don’t have the linen changed.”
“A lot of fun, too. I’m still all rosy from last night.”
“And the night before, I expect.”
“Well, yes. I don’t often participate in that particular activity, but it certainly makes an interesting change.”
“I will not take that statement amiss.”
“Nor should you,” she said, kissing him on the ear.
“Fasten your seat belt,” Stone said. “We don’t want to start anything we can’t finish in the front seat of a Porsche.”
Stone dropped Tara at the Knightsbridge entrance to the Harvey Nichols store, then drove around Hyde Park Corner, up Piccadilly, down to Trafalgar Square, and into the Strand. He turned into the Savoy Hotel driveway and gave his car to a valet. As he got out of the Porsche, he was approached by a young man he didn’t know. Stone put his hand under his jacket, where his pistol lived.
“Easy. I’m Jeffers,” the young man said.
Stone relaxed.
Jeffers handed him an envelope. “Here are your key cards. You are registered under the names of Mr. and Mrs. John Withers, though I don’t see a Mrs. Withers here.”
“She’ll be along later,” Stone said.
“I’ll park myself in a little cubbyhole outside the Oscar Wilde suite. Shout out should you require assistance. I assume you have a firearm?”
“I do. A small 9mm.”
“Is it equipped for a silencer?”
“It will accept one, but I am not so equipped.”
Jeffers slipped something heavy into Stone’s coat pocket. “You may keep this. It has no identification marks.” He pressed a box into Stone’s hand. “This is a listening device, which can be held against a wall or door, amplifying sound from the other side. You may keep this, too. It is custom-made and carries no markings. There is also a paper surgical mask inside, which might come in useful for not being recognized.”
“Thank you, Jeffers.” Stone made his way into the hotel and down a ground-floor hallway to the end, where the Oscar Wilde suite lay. There was a do not disturb sign hanging on the doorknob. He went next door to the Gilbert & Sullivan suite, let himself in, and had a good look around. It was beautifully furnished and had two large windows in the living room, overlooking the River Thames, with a park in between.
Stone set down the box he had been given and the silencer beside it. He screwed the silencer into the barrel of the pistol; a perfect fit. He opened the box and found an unmarked black box. He flipped a switch on the side, held it to the door between the adjoining suites, and pressed his ear against the other side. He heard the sound of a man turning over in bed, and a sort of snort. The box did a beautiful job of amplifying.
Stone inspected his pistol to be sure it was loaded. He pumped one up the snout and switched on the safety. He listened again at the door and heard nothing. Slowly, he turned the lock on his side of the door, turned the knob, and pushed. The door opened an inch. He still heard nothing.
He opened the door enough to allow him to enter, closing it silently behind him. As an afterthought, he slipped on the surgical mask and adjusted it for easy breathing, then he slipped off his shoes and walked down a short hallway to an open door. He looked inside and saw an empty bed with the covers pushed back. There was no one in the room.
Then he heard a clearing of the throat, apparently coming from the open bathroom door on the other side of the bed. He walked around the bed, then peeked carefully into the bathroom. A man sat on the toilet facing him, his pajama bottoms around his ankles. Stone stepped around the doorjamb, the pistol held out in front of him, pointed at the man’s head. The man’s jaw dropped, but Stone remembered him from Caravaggio. It was Trafficante.
“Shut up and sit still,” Stone said to him.
Trafficante froze and held out his hands, as if to ward off an evil spirit.
“I believe I have you at a disadvantage,” Stone said. “My name is Barrington, and I believe that I have just demonstrated to you that I can find you anywhere in the world and kill you, if I so choose. Do you agree?”
Trafficante nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat again.
“First, I have some information for you,” Stone said. “My brief relationship with Hilda Ross had nothing to do with you. I did not know that you existed at the time. Now you are engaged in an insane attempt to murder me, apparently out of jealousy. Is that correct?”
Trafficante let his gaze drop, as if he didn’t want to answer.
“Would you like me to shoot you in the knee to gain your undivided attention?”
“No,” Trafficante said. “Please don’t do that.”
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