Stone could hear computer keys clicking.
“Nope, nothing on him, either in our computer or the federal database.”
“Too bad, I was hoping for some ammunition. You know anybody at Scotland Yard?”
“Yeah, I think so; let me check the Rolodex.” Another pause. “Here we go: Evelyn, with a long E, Throckmorton.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I swear to God, that’s his name, and don’t forget the long E, otherwise it’s a girl’s name. He’s in that Special Branch thing, with a rank of detective inspector. He was over here last year, looking for an Irish terrorist, and he needed an Italian cop for some help, since the Irish cops wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Is that what he does? Chase terrorists?”
“Beats me; I didn’t get to know him that well, but he owes me a favor, so I’ll call him for you.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
“How you feeling about Callie this morning?”
“Okay, though you and Elaine were no help at all.”
“I seem to recall there’s a lady in London called Sarah Buckminster.”
“That crossed my mind.”
“She might be just the thing to help you get over Callie.”
“I’m already over Callie, but what the hell?”
“Okay, pal, have a good trip. Call me if you get in over your head.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m always having to pull you out of the shit, you know. What makes you think this trip will be any different?”
“I’ll try to get through it without needing rescuing.”
“Oh, it’s never any bother; you always get into such interesting shit. Makes my humdrum life just a little more exciting. See ya.” Dino hung up.
Stone drove himself to KennedyAirport while Joan sat in the passenger seat, taking notes on what to do while he was gone. She dropped him at the first-class entrance at British Airways, gave him a peck on the cheek, and drove off in his car. A porter took his luggage into the terminal and left him at the check-in counter.
A young woman looked at his ticket. “I’m sorry, sir, this is the wrong counter.”
Stone was annoyed. After Bartholomew’s seeming generosity, he’d expected to be in first class.
“You’re just down there,” she said, pointing to the Concorde check-in.
What a nice man Bartholomew was, Stone thought.
The cabin was tubelike, much smaller than he’d expected, and the seats were no larger than business class, but since the flight was only three hours, it hardly mattered. By the time he’d had a late lunch and read a couple of magazines, they were at Heathrow. He stood in line for immigration, then presented his passport.
“Good evening, Mr. Barrington. Welcome to Britain,” the young female officer said. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure,” Stone said. “A little vacation.”
“And how long do you plan to stay?”
“Somewhere between a few days and a couple of weeks, I suppose.”
“And are you aware that your passport expires the day after tomorrow?”
He was not. “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”
She handed it back to him. “You can renew it at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. Enjoy your stay.”
Stone pocketed his passport. “Thank you.” He followed the signs toward baggage claim and retrieved his cases.
Stone made a point of dressing well when traveling; it seemed to smooth the way, somehow, and British customs was no exception. While a slovenly young man ahead of him had his bags searched, Stone walked through the “nothing to declare” gate and found himself staring at a man in a uniform holding up a sign with his name on it.
“I’m Mr. Barrington,” he said to the man.
The man took Stone’s luggage cart. “Please follow me, sir.”
Stone followed him to a large Mercedes, and a moment later they were on their way into central London. Stone reset his watch, noting that it was nearly eleven P.M., London time, and he was not at all tired or sleepy.
The Connaught was small by hotel standards, discreet, and elegant. At the front desk, he merely signed a check-in form; there were no other formalities.
“I believe the concierge has a message for you, Mr. Barrington,” the young man at the desk said. “Just behind you.”
“Mr. Barrington?” the concierge said, before Stone had barely turned. “Mr. Bartholomew rang and said that he had arranged privileges for you at these places.” He handed Stone a sheet of paper.
Annabel’s, Harry’s Bar, and the Garrick Club, Stone read. “Thank you,” he said to the concierge. “Where would you suggest I go for some dinner at this hour?”
“Well, sir, our restaurant has already closed, and room service would only have sandwiches this late. I’d suggest Annabel’s; it’s a short walk, and they go on quite late there.” He gave Stone directions. “If you’d like to go straightaway, the porter will be glad to unpack for you.”
“Thank you, I will,” Stone said. Following the directions, he left the hotel and walked down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, then turned right. The night was cool and clear, belying what he’d heard about London weather. He crossed a street and followed an iron railing to an awning over a basement entrance, then walked downstairs. He was greeted by a doorman who clearly didn’t recognize him, but as soon as he gave his name he was ushered down a hallway.
“Would you like to go straight into the dining room, sir, or would you prefer to have a drink first?” the man asked.
They had entered a beautifully decorated lounge and bar area. “I’d like a drink first,” Stone said. He was shown to a comfortable sofa under a very good oil of a dog and her puppies, and he ordered a glass of champagne. He looked around. There were many good pictures and an extremely well-dressed crowd. The women were beautiful in London, he reflected.