Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

A short, thin man in an excellent toupé, a handsome moustache, and a well-tailored suit entered the room and threw himself into Eddie’s arms. His wife, Edie, tall and beautiful, joined them and introductions were made. Shelley thought his toupé undetectable.

“How long can you be with us, Eddie?” Alfie asked.

“I think a few weeks will do it, if that’s all right.”

“Not long enough. How bad do they want you?”

“Not bad enough to come looking here. They don’t have a charge, really.” He told Alfie the story. “They didn’t even have time to assign me to a parole officer.”

“You’re good, then. We’ve got a nice little suite of rooms for you, one floor up.”

Stone, Maren, Dino, and Viv sat in the dining room at the Carlyle Hotel, sipping drinks while their dinner was prepared.

“What’s the latest on Eddie?” Dino asked.

“He seems to have vanished in a puff of smoke,” Maren replied. “Somebody saw them get into a town car, so we figured an airport, but we’ve no idea which one.”

“A computer search should have brought up their names and flights,” Dino pointed out.

“Funny you should mention that,” she said. “The computer system at JFK went down for a couple of hours and scrambled some files. We finally got them landing at Heathrow, London, but too late, and they haven’t checked into any known hotel in the U.K.”

“Staying with friends, no doubt,” Stone said.

“There was one other thing,” Maren said. “He filed a customs form, declaring two hundred thousand dollars in cash, outbound.”

“Probably staying with somebody not known to the police,” Viv remarked.

“Stands to reason,” Maren said.

Alfie took them all to the Sailing Sloop, an old Chinese restaurant, and ordered at least a dozen dishes for the four of them.

Alfie looked around to see that no other diners were close, then leaned in. “I’ve got an eye on a country house,” he said.

“I can’t imagine you living in a country house,” Eddie replied. “You’re not the type.”

“Not to live in, dummy, to steal from.”

“What’s there?”

“Pictures, four of them.”

“It’s worth the time for just four? Isn’t there a collection?”

“Oh, sure, and it’s nice stuff, but these four pictures are by an American artist named Matilda... something. I’ve got it written down at home.”

“And who’s Matilda?”

“She’s the best unknown painter you never heard of,” Alfie said. “She had a few pictures in the Metropolitan Museum, and the gift shop there printed up postcards of four of the pictures, and they sold out, wham! They reprinted, and they kept selling out, and now she’s one of the better-known artists in America, and the value of her work has increased by a factor of about forty, compared to what they were a few years ago.”

“I know this must be a dumb question, Alfie,” Eddie said, “but if she’s so well known now, where are you going to unload them?”

“I’ve got a buyer in a Scottish castle all lined up. He’s offering a quarter million apiece. Now, that’s a low price compared to what they’d bring at auction, but think about it: it’s a one-night, million-pound job!”

“That’s attractive, I’ll admit,” Eddie said, trying not to salivate. “What’s the security like?”

“Tough, but here’s the thing. The same owner has a house in Wilton Crescent, and it’s wired up with the same gear as the country house. I’ve been practicing on that. By the time we pull the job, I’ll be slick on all the gear.”

They finished dinner, and Alfie had the staff pack up all the leftovers, which were considerable. “Lunch, tomorrow,” he said. “Maybe lunch for a couple or three days.”

On the way home, Alfie had his driver swing down Wilton Crescent, driving slowly. “That’s the house,” he said, pointing out the window. “See the two lamps on? Looks like the owner is home, doesn’t it?”

“How do you know he’s not?”

“Because his airplane isn’t parked where it would be if he were in the country.”

“Where’s that?”

“On the estate where the country house is. There’s an old RAF station on the property that was used to fly intelligence missions into France during the Second World War. He’s got a Gulfstream, and he flies it in there, and they send a fuel truck down from Southampton to fill it up for the trip back. I got a guy who can check the hangar every day, if I like, and we pick a night when the hangar is empty. Simple as that.”

“Sounds like it,” Eddie said. “But I want to see you get by the security in the London house, before I’ll commit to the big job.”

“How about tonight?” Alfie asked.

Eddie Craft followed Alfie Bing into a nondescript saloon car housed in his flat’s garage. Alfie handed Eddie a zippered leather case. “Hang on to my tools,” he said.

They drove the few streets to Wilton Crescent, where the lights in the window of the subject house still burned. Alfie drove past the house in question, then turned into a mews with an electric gate. He took a remote control from the tool kit, clicked it, and the gate’s bar rose. “A gift from a mate who tends bar at the Grenadier pub at the end of the mews,” he explained.

The mews, Wilton Row, was lit by a pair of dim street lamps, just enough light for a drunk to stagger home without stubbing his toe on a paving stone.

Eddie parked the car and led the way to a small door next to the garage. “When this opens,” Alfie said, “I’ve got to run very fast to the control box on the landing. Your job is to quickly close the door when you’re inside. Ready?”

Eddie nodded. “Right.”

Alfie picked the lock, and the door opened. He ran as fast as he could up the stairs to the landing, while Eddie closed the door as instructed. Alfie opened the box and took out a coding device, fastening it to terminals in the control box with alligator clips. He turned on the instrument, and it began to search for a code at a very fast clip.

Eddie watched the numbers fly. “It’s not finding it,” he said.

“Patience, my son.”

The device found a number, and Alfie tapped it in. “Okay, we’re in. Follow me.”

Eddie followed Alfie up the stairs, and they emerged into a darkened hallway. There was a night-light burning green near the floor, nothing else.

“You see?” Afie asked. “It works the same way, down at the house in Hampshire.”

“Okay,” Eddie said. “I’m sold.”

They backtracked, reset the control box with the code, and left in Alfie’s car.

“Now, I’ve got one final advantage to show you,” Alfie said. “When we get home.”

Stone and Maren had just collapsed into each other’s arms when his cell phone rang.

“Don’t get that,” Maren said.

“It’s a scrambled line,” he said. “It only rings if it’s important.” He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Stone?” Familiar voice and accent.

“Felicity?”

“Yes, my darling.”

Maren covered the phone with her hand. “Is that Felicity Devonshire?” she asked.

“Please be very quiet,” Stone said. He got up and went into his dressing room. “How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you, but I’ve just had a call from one of our security patrol cars in Belgravia.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The lamps in your front window are out.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means?”

“It’s not a code word. It means that the two lamps in your front window, which should be burning, are not.”

“Oh. Is that bad?”

“They are wired into the very excellent security system that we installed in your Wilton Crescent house. The only thing that will turn them off is entering the six-digit security code into one of the control boxes.”