Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(22)
“I certainly hope so,” she said.
* * *
—
IN DUE COURSE, they repaired to the bedroom.
“I wasn’t sure we’d ever get here,” Kelly said, snuggling close.
“It was always a certainty,” Stone replied. He reflected for a moment on the fact that he had been dumped twice in as many days, then he dismissed those thoughts and turned his attention to the matter at hand.
17
AFTER BREAKFAST IN BED with Kelly, Stone showered, dressed—flannel slacks, a Sea Island cotton shirt, and a cashmere cardigan—then went down to his new library, where a crackling fire was burning, and chose a book at random. It turned out to be a new biography, Arturo Toscanini, and he was a hundred pages into it when he heard a chime. It took him a moment to realize that it was the doorbell.
He put a finger into the book to hold his place, tucked it under his arm and walked through the living room to the foyer and opened the door. Somewhat to his surprise, it was raining steadily outside and Lance Cabot stood there in a splotched trench coat, with no umbrella, water running from his hairline down into his face.
“I think you’d better come in before you drown,” Stone said. He took Lance’s trench coat and hung it in the hall closet, taking care that it didn’t brush against other garments hanging there, then led him into the library and gave him the chair closest to the fire. “I expect it’s not too early for some brown whiskey,” he said.
“You are quite correct,” Lance said as he was handed a glass of such, no ice, and took a grateful gulp.
“Why are you out in this weather without a car?” Stone asked.
“I came here in a car,” Lance replied. “I got this wet between the rear seat and your front door. It’s pissing down out there. Did you have a decent flight over?”
“It could hardly have been more perfect,” Stone replied.
“That’s quite an airplane, the G-600, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed. To what do I owe the pleasure, Lance?”
“I just stopped by to deliver a gift, and it occurs to me I left it in my coat pocket. Excuse me.” He left the room and returned a moment later with a leather-bound book and handed it to Stone.
Stone looked at the gilt title: Arms and the Man. “Shaw’s play?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Lance replied.
Stone opened the book and found that it was not a book at all but a box, and inside was a small pistol in a soft leather holster, one that hooked over a belt.
“I believe you’re partial to the Colt Government .380,” Lance said. “Such a nicely concealable weapon, even if it lacks the punch of a nine millimeter. Unless you’re going for a head shot, of course, in which case punch hardly matters.”
“Is this a harbinger of doom?” Stone asked. “Am I meant to take it to dinner at La Bonne Nuit?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Lance replied.
“I hope you’re not anticipating a shoot-out in what is arguably the finest and most elegant restaurant in London.”
“As Fats Waller used to say, ‘One never knows, do one?’”
“You heard that quote from me,” Stone said. “It could serve as my personal motto.”
“And a very apt one, too,” Lance said. “My personal motto is, ‘Si non nunc, quando?’”
“‘If not now, when?’” Stone translated from the Latin. “I never took you for an impatient man, Lance.”
“I conceal it well, most of the time,” Lance replied.
“Are you getting impatient to have Selwyn Owaki in a box?”
“A cage,” Lance replied.
“And why are you meddling in a federal court case?”
“It is in the interests—the vital interests—of my country to keep Mr. Owaki out of circulation.”
“For how long?”
“Forever would be nice.”
“You’re planning to murder him?”
“I’m thinking more of a very long vacation in sunny Guantanamo Bay.”
“Well,” Stone said, surprised, “is this a legal action you’re involving me in, or just a straightforward kidnapping?”
“I suppose one could say it’s a bit of both.”
“Do you have a federal judge in your pocket?”
“Oh, it’s more complicated than that, Stone. It involves NATO, the Germans, and the former owner of this house, all of whom have a deep interest in seeing that Owaki never again sells so much as a water pistol.”
The doorbell rang again. Stone started to rise, but Lance held out a palm and motioned for him to sit down. “Let me get that,” he said, then he got up and left the room.
Stone looked at the pistol again, then closed the box and set it on the table beside him.
Lance returned with Dame Felicity Devonshire, head of the British foreign intelligence service, MI-6, and the former owner of his new house. He rose to greet her, and she presented each cheek in turn. “Christ, it’s pouring out there,” Felicity said. “You’d think we were in England.” She looked around the room. “Oh, Stone, you’ve done up the house so beautifully!”