Stone nodded. “Or maybe he lives in the neighborhood.”
“That’s not a residential part of Park. You don’t find apartment buildings until uptown of Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Good point,” Stone agreed. “Can you round up some more help?”
“Sure. How many you want?”
“I want a man in the plaza in front of the Seagram Building, watching who comes and goes, and I want somebody near that bank, doing the same thing. I want cameras and long lenses, and I want to see the guy’s face, preferably without the hat.”
“I’m on it as soon as I pay Willie’s bill,” Cantor said, “which I’ll forward to you.”
“Right,” Stone said.
“There’s Willie,” Cantor said, rising. Willie was on a gurney, being wheeled toward the elevator. Stone, Cantor and Peter intercepted him.
“How you doing?” Stone asked.
“I’ve got a headache,” Willie replied, “but they gave me something for it. I’m sorry, Stone. I never saw this coming. Last thing I remember was sitting in your kitchen. Did she come into the house?”
“No. I called you, and you were following her.”
“I don’t know how she got behind me, then,” Willie said.
“You get some rest, and we’ll bail you out of here tomorrow.”
Stone and Cantor left Peter with his brother and walked outside, where Stone hailed a cab. “You beginning to see what we’re up against with Dolce?” he asked Cantor.
“I got the picture,” Cantor replied. “I’ll put Peter and another guy in the house; next time, we’ll double-team her.”
Stone nodded, got in the cab and drove away. He took the elevator upstairs and stepped out into the master suite. As he did, he heard a pffft! noise, and he was showered with plaster fragments.
“Hey, it’s Stone!” he yelled, flattening himself against the wall.
“Let me see you!” Felicity shouted.
“Okay, I’m coming in-don’t shoot.” He walked into the bedroom and found Felicity sitting up in bed, bare breasted, holding a small semiautomatic pistol equipped with a silencer.
“You were supposed to call,” she said, reprovingly.
“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Stone said, sitting down on the bed next to her.
“Is your man all right?”
“Concussion, held overnight for observation. He was black-jacked.”
“I could use a woman like that,” Felicity said. “You think she’s job hunting?”
“Go back to sleep,” Stone said. “It’s three in the morning.” He took the gun from her, made sure the safety was on and put it on her bedside table.
Felicity fell back onto the pillow, and Stone tucked her in. “Don’t forget our appointment tomorrow morning,” she said, closing her eyes.
Stone got undressed and joined her in bed, but he had a hard time getting to sleep. He had a feeling Dolce was going to change her tactics now, and he couldn’t fathom what she might do next.
16
Before Stone and Felicity left the house, Peter Leahy did a quick jog down the street and back, then returned. “No sign of her,” he said.
Felicity said to Stone, “We can’t arrive together in the ambassador’s car; people would talk. You get a cab. Did you bring your passport?”
“Yes,” Stone said, patting his jacket pocket. “But I don’t know why.”
“Because you will be treading upon British soil,” she said. She gave him the address and then ran down the front steps and into the waiting Rolls.
Stone hailed a cab and gave the driver the address. Ten minutes later he was deposited in front of a large, elegant town house near Sutton Place. He walked up the front steps and tried the knob. Locked. He found a bell and rang it.
A few moments later a middle-aged man in a black uniform with silver trim opened the door. He was wearing a sidearm in a polished, black holster. “Yes?”
“My name is Barrington. I have an appointment with Ms. Felicity Devonshire.”
“Dame Felicity,” the man corrected him. “Wait here.”
So she was Dame Felicity now. He hadn’t known.
The man opened the door a second time and allowed Stone inside. He found himself in a large, marble-floored foyer with a handsome desk to one side. A graceful double staircase climbed into the upper reaches of the house.
“Come this way, please.”
Stone followed the man through a door he hadn’t noticed into what was apparently the next building, which was plainer in decor. They got into an elevator with a thick, steel door, and the man opened a panel with a key and pressed a button. The car rose quickly to what seemed to be the top floor, and the door opened.
Another man, dressed in the same uniform as the first and also armed, stood waiting. The elevator door closed, and the first man went down with it.
“Your name?” the new man asked.
“Stone Barrington.”
“And with whom is your appointment?”
“Ms… ah, Dame Felicity Devonshire.”
“Your passport, please?”
Stone dug it out and handed it over. The man carefully compared the photograph inside with Stone’s face. He did not return the passport. “Come with me, please.”
Stone followed him through two more doors to what he assumed was the rear of the building, and then they entered a room the size of a large closet. “Stand against the rear wall, please,” the man said. Stone did so. The man rolled a steel box with a glass top in front of Stone. Etched into the glass were the outlines of two hands. He opened a drawer, opened Stone’s passport and placed it inside.
“Place your hands upon the outlines, please, and press down slightly.”
Stone did so, and then suddenly three lights flashed, one in front of him and one on either side. He realized that he had just been fingerprinted and photographed from the front and in both profiles. His passport had been photographed, too.
The man pressed a button, and Stone heard a whirring sound from the other side of the door they had entered. “Thank you,” the man said, returning Stone’s passport. “Come this way, please.”
Stone followed him out of the closet and down a hallway into what seemed to be a third building. The man stopped at a steel door and placed his palm on a recognition panel. The door slid open with a hiss, they both stepped through, and it closed behind them. Stone noticed that the inside of the door was sheathed in mahogany panels over the steel. They were in a small sitting room decorated with comfortable leather furniture and hunting prints, along with a few oil landscapes.
“Please take a seat,” the man said. “Someone will come for you.” He departed through the door they had entered.
Stone sat down and recognized a Vivaldi sonata for flute wafting through invisible speakers, and a stack of magazines was on a table next to him. He picked up the top one and found himself leafing through the current issue of Country Life, perusing ads for houses in Kent, Sussex, Devon and other counties. He had about settled on a charming cottage by the sea in Cornwall when a door on the other side of the room opened and a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit stepped into the room.
“Mr. Barrington, I presume?” she said.
Stone rose. “How could I possibly be anyone else?” he asked.
She tried not to laugh. “This way, please.” She led him through what was apparently her office and to a set of double mahogany doors, where she knocked twice.
“Come!” a female voice said.
The woman opened the door and stood back for Stone to enter. Felicity, who was seated at an antique desk, stood up. “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” she said, extending her hand.
Stone shook it. “Ah, Dame Felicity,” he said.
“That will be all, Heather,” Felicity said, “until the other gentleman arrives.”
Heather closed the door, and Felicity motioned for Stone to sit down. He did so and was about to speak, when she held up a hand. “I trust you’ve been well since our last meeting,” she said, tapping an ear with a fingertip.