Lucid Intervals (15 page)

“What did he tell you of his background?” Stone asked.

“He was the son of a career Royal Army officer, a colonel, educated at Harrow and Sandhurst, served for some years in the army as an intelligence officer, rose to the rank of major, then left and traveled for several years. He had an inheritance, I believe.”

“What impressed you?”

“Intelligence, wit, knowledge of the political situation in a number of countries, especially in the Middle East. I needed someone to work out there, to be based in Saudi Arabia.”

“Did he tell you where he had traveled?”

“Middle East, North Africa. I believed he lived in Morocco for a while.” Hackett looked at his watch. “I said I’d have you back by dinnertime. You can keep the photographs if you like. I expect Dame Felicity would like to see them.”

Stone didn’t reply to that. He stuffed the items back into the envelope and took it with him.

Back in the airplane, he followed Hackett’s instructions again and flew them back to Teterboro, where he flew an instrument approach into the airport. “I’m very impressed with the airplane,” he said, as they shut down the engines. “Thank you for letting me fly it.”

“Come to work for me, and you’ll have one of your own next year,” Hackett said.

“I don’t think I could afford to run it,” Stone replied.

“I’ll see that you can,” Hackett said as they deplaned. The man who had seen them off was there to tend to the airplane.

Back in the car, Hackett pressed a switch, and a thick glass window between the front and rear seats slid up. He turned toward Stone. “You think I’m Stanley Whitestone, don’t you?”

“It crossed my mind,” Stone said.

“I invite you to check out my background as thoroughly as you like,” Hackett said. “I’m sure Dame Felicity would want you to.”

Stone still didn’t acknowledge the reference.

“Have you known her for long?”

Stone said nothing.

“Oh, come, Stone,” Hackett said. “The two of you were together at the ambassador’s dinner, and you introduced her to Wight. You can’t deny that you know her.”

“I don’t deny it,” Stone said.

“How did you meet?”

“In London some years ago. I was doing some work for a client there.”

“Did you know what she was at the time?”

“She didn’t talk about her work. Ours was a social relationship.”

“Interesting that Whitehall is still interested in Whitestone,” Hackett said. “I’m sure that’s where the inquiry originated, not with Dame Felicity. Whitestone was before her time. I mean, they may have overlapped, but she would have been in the field when he was in Cambridge Circus.”

“Cambridge Circus?”

“That’s where their offices are, or were at the time of Whitestone’s departure.”

“What did you hear about the reasons for his departure?” Stone asked.

“Some sort of row occurred in the higher reaches of the firm, I think, and Whitestone lost. His position became untenable as a result, and he left.”

“Why would Whitehall want to find him now?” Stone asked.

“Interesting question,” Hackett said. “I’m curious enough to want to know the answer. Would you like to find out for me?”

“I don’t think so,” Stone said.

“Oh, right: conflict of interest.”

Stone didn’t address that.

“Shall I drop you at home?” Hackett asked.

“Eighty-eighth and Second Avenue, if it’s not inconvenient,” he replied.

The car deposited him at his corner, and he walked the few feet to Elaine’s. Dino was there, and so was Felicity.

30

S
tone sat down, and a Knob Creek on the rocks was placed before him. “Evening, all,” he said, placing the envelope on the table. He turned to Felicity. “Where have you been?”

“Away,” she replied.

“I tried your cell phone and got a message that it was not in service.”

“It’s back in service,” she said. “Where have you been?” She took a sip of her Rob Roy.

“Meeting Stanley Whitestone,” he replied.

Felicity choked on her drink, and Stone had to pat her firmly on the back. “Start at the beginning,” she said, dabbing at her watering eyes with a napkin.

Stone started at the beginning and gave her a blow-by-blow account of his afternoon.

Dino spoke up. “Hackett let
you
fly his jet?”

Stone ignored him. He handed Felicity the envelope and watched as she opened it and peered at the photos.

“It
could
be Whitestone,” she said. “And he
could
have died as a result of a motorcar accident.” She looked at the death certificate and the fingerprint card.

“Run the prints,” Stone said. “That should settle it.”

“Was he cremated?” Felicity asked.

“Hackett didn’t mention cremation. I shouldn’t think he’d have bothered with buying a cemetery plot if the body had ended up in an urn. And it’s unlikely that there’s a crematorium anywhere near the island.”

Felicity put the photos and documents back into the envelope and stuffed it into her briefcase.

“That will be a hundred thousand pounds,” Stone said.

“You haven’t earned your fee yet,” she replied.

“Well, I’m not performing an autopsy. Hackett didn’t say if the body was embalmed, but if it wasn’t, it’s either mush or dust by now.”

“I want everyone involved in Maine to be talked to: the hospital doctors and nurses, the police, the undertaker, the lot.”

“My assignment was to locate Stanley Whitestone and report his whereabouts to you. I have done so. You said that after you knew where he was, others would deal with him.”

“I think Hackett is Whitestone,” Felicity said.

“I considered that. In fact, he brought it up himself. He invited me—or you—to investigate his background thoroughly.”

“I will certainly have that done,” she said. “I’d like you to handle the task on this side of the water.”

“I will be happy to accept a new assignment,” Stone said, “just as soon as I’ve been paid for the previous one.”

“Your fee was predicated on success,” she pointed out, “and we have not confirmed who, if anyone, is buried in that churchyard on Mount Desert Island.”

“I’ve given you photographs of the body, a death certificate and his fingerprints. What more could anyone ask? If the prints aren’t Whitestone’s, then we can talk,” Stone said. “You can open the grave and examine the corpse if you like, after having obtained the proper permissions, of course. But …” He leaned forward for effect. “… if the fingerprints fit, you must remit. Agreed?”

“Spare me the Johnny Cochranisms, please,” she said.

“Spare me a hundred thousand quid,” he replied.

“Give me your bill,” she said, “made out to the Foreign Office. If the prints are Whitestone’s, I’ll countersign it and submit it. You should have your check in a few weeks.”

“Weeks?”
Stone asked. “I have incurred considerable out-of-pocket expenses, mainly surveillance, both electronic and manned.”

“I’ll need the tapes for our files,” she said.

“You may have them tomorrow,” he replied, “and I would be grateful if you would see that payment is expedited.” He took his checkbook from his pocket, tore out a check, voided it and handed it to Felicity. “You may wire-transfer the funds, in dollars, to this account, using the current exchange rate.”

She added his check to her briefcase. “I’m starved,” she said, and they ordered dinner.

“Hackett knew I was working for you,” Stone said, when the waiter had left.

She looked at him askance. “You told him?”

“No, Lord Wight told him of meeting us together, and he figured it out. When he asked me, I did not confirm it.”

“I don’t like someone like James Hackett knowing about this.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have taken me to that dinner party,” Stone replied. “By the way, did you ever figure out who the VIP was who deserved to be served the Krug?”

“I expect it must have been Wight,” she said. “No one else there was of much importance.”

“Bill Eggers tells me that Wight’s reputation is better here than at home.”

“At home, his past is no more than a smudge on his copybook,” she said. “He’s been back in business for a while, now.”

“Well, now we know that he was in touch with Whitestone right up until his death.”

“Yes. He lied about that, didn’t he? Said he thought Whitestone was in Cairo, when he had actually recommended him for a job with Hackett, and under an assumed name, too.”

“Is there a crime in there somewhere?” Stone asked.

“No, it’s not criminal to conceal the identity of a former member of the service, and we can’t prove that he did anything criminal in conjunction with Whitestone.”

“Hackett was curious about why the Foreign Office is still interested in Whitestone. I’m curious, too. Did the inquiry originate with them or with you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Stone smiled a little. “Well, Hackett offered to hire me to find out.”

She looked at him, shocked.

“I declined, of course,” he said quickly.

“I should certainly hope so,” she said. Then, looking thoughtful, she added, “I wonder why Hackett wonders why the F.O. is still interested in Whitestone.”

“Maybe Whitestone isn’t dead,” Stone said. “Maybe the photos were faked. Hackett said he wanted to hire Whitestone—though he said he didn’t know who he was at the time—to represent his company in the Middle East. Maybe Whitestone is, at this moment, representing his company in the Middle East.”

“I want to know more,” Felicity said.

“Look, Hackett is a very smart man. If he’s protecting Whitestone by faking his death, you may be sure that all the people you want talked to in Maine have been bought.”

“Or,” Felicity said, “perhaps, Hackett and/or Whitestone found a look-alike, murdered him, battered the body and buried him, first taking photographs and Whitestone’s fingerprints. In that case, he wouldn’t need to buy anybody, would he?”

“There are all sorts of possibilities.”

Felicity nodded. “And I don’t like it when there are all sorts of possibilities.”

31

W
hen Stone awoke the following morning, Felicity’s side of the bed was empty. Before he could order breakfast, she returned.

“I’ve used your scanner,” she said. “The fingerprints are Whitestone’s.”

“You’ll have my bill before noon,” Stone said. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Two fried eggs, wheat toast and blood sausage, please. And English breakfast tea.”

“I don’t believe we stock blood sausage,” Stone replied. “God, but that’s a disgustingly British thing to eat at breakfast.”

“All right, any sort of sausage.”

Stone got Helene on the intercom and ordered for both of them.

“I’ll expedite your check,” Felicity said, “but there’s one more thing I want you to do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to obtain James Hackett’s fingerprints.”

“He’s a naturalized citizen; they’ll be in the FBI database.”

“No. I want you to obtain them directly from the source.”

“Oh, I see. You want me to go over to his office, hold him down and print him?”

“I would be grateful if you could be more subtle than that.”

Stone thought about it. “All right, let’s invite him to dinner.”

“Here?”

“Why not? I have a dining room, a kitchen and a cook. At a restaurant I might have trouble confiscating his wineglass.”

“All right,” she said.

“And you must be here.”

“Why on earth should I be here?”

“Because it will guarantee his acceptance. If he’s Whitestone, it will be an opportunity to demonstrate his invulnerability to your identifying him.”

“Oh, all right. Who else will you ask?”

“I think Bill Eggers. It would be an opportunity for them to get to know each other better.”

“You need one more couple.”

“How about Dino?”

“Why Dino?”

“Why not? Hackett, being in the business he’s in, would love to get to know an NYPD lieutenant.”

“We need someone who’s not a drinking buddy of yours.”

“Do you have a request?”

“You know the former police commissioner, don’t you?”

“Yes, we have a cordial acquaintanceship. It might be a little uncomfortable, though.”

“Why?”

“He’s married to a woman I, ah, knew … rather well.”

“Ask him, and get over it.”

“I
am
over it.”

“Not if you’re uncomfortable inviting her to dinner with her husband.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll get Joan on it; we have to find an evening when everyone’s available.” He picked up the phone, buzzed Joan and asked her to arrange the dinner.

Their breakfast arrived on the dumbwaiter, and they sat up in bed with trays on their laps. Felicity stole his orange juice.

“You didn’t order orange juice,” Stone pointed out.

“I just did,” she said. “Oh, all right, we can share.”

Stone refilled the glass from the pitcher, and they shared.

“I was just thinking,” Felicity said, stabbing a sausage link and making it disappear.

“Uh, oh,” Stone said. “What now?”

“You said that Hackett had offered you employment.”

“On three occasions,” Stone said.

“Why don’t you accept?”

“Well, first of all, I’m very happy with my current employment status.”

“Take a leave of absence. Hackett would probably pay better, anyway.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Stone said. “The problem is, you want me to work for him so that I can prove he’s Whitestone and you can destroy him. That would leave me out of work, and I’d have to go crawling back to Bill Eggers, not to mention my own clients.”

“Why do you think I want to destroy Hackett?” she asked.

“You clearly would like for something bad to happen to Whitestone, and if he’s Whitestone …”

Stone’s phone buzzed. “Yes?”

“Your dinner is arranged for tomorrow evening,” Joan said. “You may expect your guests at seven.”

“Wow,” Stone said, “that was fast work.”

“Yes,” she said, “it was, wasn’t it?” She hung up.

Stone turned to Felicity. “We’re on for tomorrow evening. Drinks at seven.” Stone cleared away their trays and sent them down to the kitchen on the dumbwaiter.