Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(37)
“No. We need every detail about Kensington House that you and Kelly can commit to memory. We will furnish you with the tourist floor plan and a map of the estate that are sold to the general public when, two or three times a year, they are allowed to pretend to be aristocrats. There are many blanks that we need to fill in.”
Stone nodded.
“We would also like an inventory of the aircraft based there, which could run to half a dozen, and their registration numbers. Please don’t confuse Owaki’s fleet with those that some of the guests may arrive in.”
“Right.”
“Another thing: there will be a large number of extra staff imported for the weekend, but we would like to learn if the permanent staff’s uniforms distinguish them from the hires—and among the permanent staff, we would like an estimate of their numbers and how many are armed.”
“Shall I frisk them all?” Stone asked.
“Come now, Stone, you know a bulge when you see one. Look for ankle holsters, too.”
“Anything else, Lance?”
“Let’s see,” Lance said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “Oh, we’ll be providing you with a Range Rover to handle your luggage; you’ll never get a weekend’s clothes for two couples into the Bentley’s boot, no matter how capacious.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Lance.”
“We’ll also contrive to place weapons in your and Kelly’s luggage, inconspicuously, of course.”
“Do you expect Owaki to attend dinners or other events?”
“Absolutely. He loves mingling with his weekend guests, especially the high-end ones who are paying handsomely for his home and company, in this case the barristers are charging their members ten thousand pounds per couple, all in, of course.”
“All right.”
“Stone,” Lance said, “you will do well if you think of yourself as an American military officer who has penetrated the country house that the Nazis have confiscated for the use of their high command.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone replied.
29
STONE AND KELLY drove in the Bentley to the Connaught Hotel, where the Eggerses were staying, followed by a dark green Range Rover. Bill Eggers and his fourth wife, Charlotte, stood on the stoop beside a pile of luggage, and two men began loading it into the Range Rover with that of Stone and Kelly, while Bill distributed banknotes to the bellmen who had brought the bags from their suite.
Stone and Kelly got out of the car to greet the Eggerses, and introductions were made. Then Bill got into the Bentley’s front passenger seat, while Charlotte joined Kelly in the rear. Charlotte Eggers was a tall, willowy woman with an abundance of beautifully tended brunette hair, who had had the attendance of New York’s finest cosmetic medicos.
Stone entered the address he had been given into the car’s GPS unit and handed Eggers a printed map, for backup, then they drove away.
“How’s the Connaught these days, Bill?” Stone asked.
“Not bad, but not what it used to be, before the Americans bought it and remodeled. The staff is gone, too; my first visit after the takeover I recognized only the manager and a single room-service waiter. I used to know them all. The downstairs redecoration is all right, but they fired Mr. Chevalier, the ma?tre d’ of decades, and his brigades of highly trained waiters. The soul of the old restaurant has vanished, with all those wonderfully rich dishes, served by three waiters and a captain. I loved it when they changed the tablecloths between courses.”
“Well,” Stone said, “I agree with you entirely, but everything changes.”
“And not for the better,” Eggers replied.
* * *
—
THEY JOINED the M4 Motorway and drove as far as the Maidenhead exit, then turned onto increasingly smaller roadways across the countryside and into Oxfordshire. Following the GPS they arrived at an enormous pair of gateposts with the name of the house carved into them. A uniformed security guard checked their names off a list, and they were permitted to drive on.
The lane wound through a beautiful forest and began to descend when, a mile or so into the estate, they came to a clearing overlooking the flat plain below, and Stone pulled over. There below them stood a monumental house of Cotswold Stone, turned gold by the low sunlight of the late afternoon.
“Good God,” Eggers said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s vast,” Charlotte echoed from the rear seat. “How many rooms?”
“Something on the order of four hundred,” Stone said. The largest house he had ever stayed in was Cliveden, once the seat of the Astors and now a country hotel, and Kensington House dwarfed it.
“How much land?” Eggers said, consulting his map, then answered himself. “Twelve thousand acres! You’d think we were in Montana!”
Stone continued the drive down the hill and, eventually, they passed through another set of gates and pulled up in front of the great house, where several large cars were depositing people and luggage.
Stone and the others got out and stared up at the enormous bronze front doors, while a uniformed platoon of footmen retrieved and tagged their luggage from the Range Rover. Stone noted their room numbers, 101 and 102. That meant they would be on the first floor (in America, the second); not too many stairs to climb.