Stone was tying his necktie when the door opened again and he was half escorted, half dragged down another series of hallways, then pushed into a brightly lit room, the door slamming behind him.
Blinking rapidly, he discovered that all the room was not brightly lit, just the part containing a wooden stool. The other side of the room, some twelve or fifteen feet away, contained a table behind which sat three men. They were in deep shadows and he could see only their forms, not their faces. It seemed to be arranged as some sort of Stalinist tribunal.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Barrington,” a smooth male voice said.
Stone went and sat down on the stool. There was something odd about the man’s voice, but he couldn’t figure it out.
The smooth voice spoke again, and Stone figured it was coming from the man in the middle, who was bald, with a bullet-shaped head. “Tell us, please, if you have ever heard the following names, in any context: Robert Graves?”
“What?”
“Robert Graves.”
“Yes. The poet.”
“Any other context?”
“No.”
“Maureen Kleinknect?”
“No.”
“Joanna Scott-Meyers?”
“No.”
“Jacob Ben-David?”
“No.”
“Erica Burroughs?”
“Yes.”
“In what regard?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“How well do you know her?”
“I’ve had lunch with her once, dinner with her a couple of times, in a group.”
“Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Stone said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I’ve just told you what we want, for the present. Lance Cabot?”
“If you are acting in some sort of official capacity, tell me now; otherwise, you can go fuck yourself.”
“Lance Cabot?”
Stone said nothing.
“If you would prefer it, Mr. Barrington,” the smooth voice said, “I can arrange for the two gentlemen who brought you here to come and persuade you to answer.”
Stone said nothing. The voice was very English, but the speaker was not. There was an underlying accent.
“Just once more; Lance Cabot?”
“He is the companion of Erica Burroughs; I’ve seen him when I’ve seen her.”
“How does Mr. Cabot earn his living?”
“He styles himself a business consultant; I have no idea what that means.”
“Did you know him before arriving in London?”
“No.”
“Ali Hussein?”
“Pardon?”
“Ali Hussein?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Sheherezad Al-Salaam, also known as Sheila.”
“Nor her.”
“Sarah Buckminster?”
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“I knew her when she lived in New York; we renewed our acquaintance after I arrived in London. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Monica Burroughs?”
“The sister of Erica. Art dealer. Spent part of one weekend in her company.”
“John Bartholomew?”
“No.”
“John Bartholomew?”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Mr. Barrington, don’t try my patience.”
Stone said nothing. The man made a small movement with one hand, and Stone heard a buzzer ring in another room. A moment later, the door opened and the two thugs entered.
“John Bartholomew?” the smooth voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell us.”
“Mr. Bartholomew visited me in New York and asked me to come to London to persuade his niece to return with me to the United States.”
“What is the name of his niece?”
“Erica Burroughs.”
“And why did he want her returned to America?”
“He said he was concerned that her boyfriend might involve her in illegal activities.”
“What sort of activities?”
“Drug smuggling.”
Stone heard a low laugh. “What is the real name of John Bartholomew?”
Stone tried to sound puzzled. “Real name? I know him only by that name.”
“Are you still in his employ?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I discovered that Miss Burroughs is not his niece, and that he seemed to have other motives for hiring me.”
“What motives?”
“He seemed to have some animus for Mr. Cabot.”
“For what reason?”
“He did not confide that to me. When I discovered he was lying to me, I resigned from his employ.”
“Have you seen him since that time?”
“No.”