Foreign Affairs (18 page)

H
edy kept an intermittent watch on the trail and the house all day, and there was much foot traffic, people and donkeys delivering crates of wine, food, flowers, and anonymous cartons. She managed to snatch two oranges from another donkey, but she was very, very hungry.

Night came, but activity still continued in the kitchen, at the rear of the house, until after midnight. Finally, at around two
AM
, the house went quiet. Hedy crept out of her hiding place and padded down the trail to the rear deck, where she peered through the available windows for signs of life. Nothing.

She used her key to let herself in the rear door, leaving it unlocked for a quick escape; there was a night-light in the kitchen, which allowed her to see her way. She snatched a canvas shopping bag from a counter, went to the refrigerator and filled it with salami, ham, and cheeses and a bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water, tucking a loaf of bread in with them.

She turned to go and spotted something that made her heart
leap: an iPhone on the counter, plugged in and charging. She got out her dead phone and unplugged the other. Her heart sank: it was an older model, with the multiple pin connector. Hers was new and used the smaller plug. She turned on the phone and tried to use it, but she didn't have the password. Sadly, she plugged it back in again and tucked away her own phone.

In the back hall she found cases of wine stacked up. She grabbed a bottle of red, let herself out of the house, locked the door behind her, and returned to her hideaway, where she opened the wine with the corkscrew in her pocket and washed down cheese, bread, and meat until she was replete and more than a little drunk.

She berated herself for leaving the house so quickly, when there must be things there she could use, like a flashlight. Emboldened by the wine, she went back into the house and began to search again, going through all the kitchen drawers. No flashlight.

That done, she tiptoed into the huge living room, where she had been dragged to see Casselli before. She went carefully through the whole room by the light of a single lamp left on, and found not only no flashlight, but nothing else of use to her, except a cashmere blanket hung over a sofa. That, she tucked under her arm, then left the house again. She had been afraid to use the landline phones in the house, for fear of rousing someone, and anyway, she didn't know any useful dialing codes.

She finished the bottle of wine and, wrapped cozily in the cashmere, fell soundly asleep, determined to make her way out of there on the morrow.

—

C
asselli was going crazy. Every few minutes he got a report from his people who were out searching for Hedy, and every one was the same: no sight of her. He grew hoarse, screaming down the phone, and then the dreaded call came.

“All right, Casselli, where is the girl?” the cardinal demanded.

“I beg you to believe me, Your Eminence, we have not been able to locate her. Has no one heard from her?”

“No one, and you are going to hell.”

“I have doubled the number of men searching for her,” Casselli said, weeping. “I pray God will protect her.”

“He will not protect you from me,” the cardinal said, and hung up.

Casselli's secretary rushed into the room, frightened by the wailing noises coming from her boss. She had never seen him like this; no one had.

—

H
edy slept soundly until midday, and awoke with a hangover. She drank some of the fizzy water, then had a good lunch. First chance, she would steal another bottle of wine. Hair of the dog.

The trail still brought a steady stream of men and donkeys. There must be a party tonight, she thought. And she had nothing to wear!

—

A
t mid-morning, a makeup artist from the Rome station came and surveyed Stone's face. She clipped a sample of his hair. “You could use a haircut,” she said to him. “Want me to do it?”

“No, thank you, I am an artiste tonight, and I think the hair suits me.”

“Quite right. I'm going to take a bit more, though, for your mustache,” and she went about his head, taking a clump here and there. “It will look better if it's made from your own hair,” she explained.

Finally, she mixed some plaster, smeared some Vaseline on his nose, and took a cast of the proboscis. “I'll be back later with your new nose,” she said.

Stone, Dino, Jim, and Dante's assistant, Guido, spent some time rehearsing that morning, and Stone thought they sounded not half bad.

“Okay,” Jim said, “we depart this location at four
PM
, and remember, it's black-tie.”

“Nobody told me,” Dino said.

“Told you about what?”

“I didn't bring a tuxedo to Rome.”

Dante ordered Guido, their guitarist, to take Dino out and find him a rental.

S
tone got a call late that morning from a number he didn't recognize, but the country code was 44, Britain. “Hello?”

“I have Director Devonshire for you,” a man said. “Can you take the call?” Felicity Devonshire was an old friend and sometime lover of Stone's, who was also head of Britain's foreign intelligence service, MI6.

“Of course,” Stone said. Then he heard a click and some beeps.

“Stone?”

“Yes, Felicity, how are you?”

“My question is, how are you? In one piece?”

“Why, yes, why wouldn't I be?”

“I've been hearing rumblings about you.”

“From where?”

“The Italian DIA, the Agency, and the Vatican Bank, for God's sake.”

“You have very sharp ears.”

“I have many sharp ears all over Europe,” she said.

He didn't doubt that for a moment. “Of course you do. What have you heard?”

“That you're in some sort of rumble with a mobster named Leo Casselli.”

“That would be accurate, as far as it goes.”

“Why haven't you called me for help?”

“It didn't occur to me to call British intelligence about something happening in Italy.”

“And Paris, from what I hear. Do you need anything? Can I help?”

Stone thought about that for a moment. “I think I have all the help I need for the moment. That could change rapidly, though, and if it does, I'll call you, perhaps as soon as tomorrow.”

“You have my cell number, do you not?”

“I do.”

“I'm going down to the country this afternoon and take a couple of days.”

“To Kent?”

“No, to Hampshire. My father had what he called his ‘sailing cottage' on the Beaulieu River.” She pronounced it “Bewley.” “And that reminds me of something: When are you going back to New York?”

“In a few days, I hope. My airplane is here, and I'm flying it home.”

“Could you stop off in England for a few days?” she asked.
“There's something I want to show you that I think you'll find very interesting.”

“And what is that?”

“I'm not going to tell you—it will have to be a surprise.”

“Things, as you might imagine, are up in the air here. May I call you when they settle down?”

“You may, but hurry.”

“I'll hurry,” he said.

“And be careful tonight. I don't like the thought of you with bullet holes in your carcass.”

“Neither do I.” They said goodbye and hung up.

The others came and sat down around Stone. “We have a problem,” Jim said.

“Not another one.”

“Yes, and a big one: How are we going to get guns into the house?”

Stone blinked. “You've just thought of that now?”

“This is serious,” Dante said. “Casselli is a cautious man. He's going to have people searching everyone who enters the house. We've got five men and one woman who are going to be dressed as waiters: they're smuggling their weapons in wine crates with false bottoms.”

“I don't suppose there's room for ours in there?”

“No, and even if there was, they'll be operating out of the kitchen, at the rear of the house, while you'll be playing at the front of the house. They might have trouble getting them to you.”

“Why don't we put them in your bass fiddle, Jim?” Stone asked.

“Because they'll rattle around.”

Dino spoke up. “You can put them in my snare drum. The head comes off with a key.”

“They'll rattle around in there, too,” Jim said.

“So wrap them in pieces of soft cloth, like velvet.”

“When would you have an opportunity to get them out of the snare?”

“At our first break. Union rules: ten minutes every hour.”

Jim shook his head. “We may need them before that.”

“All right, I'll get them out of the drum while we're setting up to play. Nobody's going to be paying attention to the band, especially since they will already have searched us on the way in.”

“How long will that take?” Jim asked

Dino held up a key. “Let's find out.” He went to where the drums were set up, sat on the stool, and picked up the snare. It took him two minutes to loosen the clamps that held the drumhead on. “There you go. Come and get your guns.”

“Okay,” Jim said. “We've got a meeting at two-thirty for everybody who's going to be inside the house, so we can coordinate.”

Stone began to feel a little nervous. He consoled himself by thinking of Felicity Devonshire and her secret, waiting for him in England.

S
tone went two floors up, to Marcel's roof garden, for some air. The sun was shining, and the view was spectacular. His cell rang. “Hello?”

“It's Joan,” his secretary said. “Arthur Steele tried to call you but couldn't get through.”

“I don't know why not—everybody else is getting through.”

“You don't have to call him back, he just wanted to leave a message.”

“Okay.”

“He says that your insurance policy with him includes, under liability, up to ten million dollars for ransom money. He stressed that it was a liability clause—the person for whom you're paying the ransom doesn't have to be a spouse or a relative. This is just to cover any liability exposure you might have.”

“Trust Arthur to think of that.”

“Well, he does run a very large insurance company. I went back and read your policy—he's right.”

“I never got that far into the fine print,” Stone said. “Who reads his entire insurance policy?”

“Stone, are you in some kind of trouble? Why would you need ransom money?”

“I'll tell you all about it when I get home.”

“And when will that be? The mail is piling up here.”

“Answer as much of it as you can, then save the rest. If it's a legal matter, send it to Herb Fisher at Woodman & Weld.”

“And you're coming home when?”

“Maybe another week. I've got things to clear up here with Marcel, then I may have to stop in England on the way home.”

“Do you want me to get Pat Frank to come and fly back with you?”

“Joan, I'm rated as a single pilot, I can handle it.”

“If you say so.”

“Don't sound so doubtful when you say that.”

“I just don't want to have to start looking for a new boss at my age.”

“Stop it. Goodbye.” He hung up. Immediately, the phone rang again. “Hello?”

“It's Dino. Your makeup person is here. Where the hell are you?”

“Up on the roof.”

“Well, get down here.”

Stone walked back downstairs and saw Jim and Dino wrapping pistols in cloths and packing them into the snare drum.

The makeup artist, whose name was Marge, was unpacking
some things and laying them out on a table. “Come over here and sit down,” she said.

Stone walked over and took a seat.

“Okay,” Marge said, “let me show you how to put your nose on.”

“On, so that it won't come off?”

“Not unless someone rips it off. Avoid that.”

She held up a tiny plastic bottle. “This,” she said, “is, for want of a better word, glue. It's what insecure men use to stick on their hairpieces.” She held up some latex. “This is your nose. Let's try it on, first without glue.” She set up a little three-way mirror and then came at Stone with the latex, smoothing the edges. “Just a minute.” She got some scissors and did some trimming around the edges. “There, that's good.” She applied it to Stone's face and pointed him toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

“Good God!” Stone said, staring at himself. “It looks real.”

“Well, of course it looks real, I'm in the business of real. If I get it wrong, people can die.”

“Like me?”

“Yeah, like you.”

“Well, I don't know who the guy in the mirror is, but his nose looks real to me.”

“Good. Now for the glue: watch this, in case you have to make repairs.” She applied the glue to the edges of the latex, then came at him again, pressing and stroking the edges. “Now look again.”

Stone looked in the mirror. “I can't see the edges.”

“That's because I tapered them until they're very thin, so that they sort of disappear into your skin.” She picked up something that looked like a poorly made brush. “Now for your mustache: it uses the same glue, and what's more, it conceals the edges of the nose under your nostrils, where they are most likely to be noticed, because your upper lip moves.” She put glue onto the back of the mustache and pressed it into place.

Stone looked in the mirror. “It looks awful,” he said.

“Of course it does, because I haven't trimmed it.” Marge picked up some barber scissors and a fine-toothed comb and made snipping noises for a few minutes. “Now,” she said, pointing him at the mirror.

“Ah, much better,” Stone said. “I've always wondered what I would look like with a mustache. Now I know. I'll never wear one again after today.”

“It looks all the more real because it's your own hair.”

“It certainly does.”

“Now for the glasses,” she said, holding up a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Notice that they're darker in the middle than at the edges. That will let you use your peripheral vision. If someone looks directly into your eyes, he won't be able to tell where you're looking.”

“It's very dark in the middle,” Stone said.

“Let me give you a tip,” Marge said. “I knew a guy, once, who was almost but not totally blind. He could read a letter, if he held it up to just an inch or two from his eyes. If you get in
trouble because you can't see well enough, push the glasses up and hold something close as if to read it. That will give you a chance to look around.”

Stone tried it, and it worked.

Marge made some adjustments so that the glasses fit better, then she stood back and looked at her work. “What do you think?”

Stone checked the mirror. “I've never seen that guy before in my life.”

“Neither has Leo
Casselli.”