7
Stone drove out to the farthest reaches of Brooklyn, to Eduardo Bianchi’s elegant Palladian home on the beach. He was greeted at the door by the wiry and slightly sinister butler who had served Eduardo for as long as anyone could remember. Rumor had it that the man had once served as an assassin for Eduardo back in the days when he had been operating as a Mafia chief of such rank that his name was not known even at the capo level. No law enforcement agency had ever recorded him, followed him or, apparently, even known of his existence.
Now Eduardo Bianchi operated at a level where mayors, governors and even presidents sought his counsel, and he served on the boards of a number of New York’s most prestigious arts organizations and charities.
Stone joined Eduardo-now probably in his late eighties if not older-at a table shaded by a wide umbrella overlooking the Roman-style pool.
“Stone,” Eduardo said, rising and offering his hand, which was cool, dry and strong, “How very good to see you. Please sit down and have some lunch.”
Stone took a chair and, once again, marveled at the old man’s youthful appearance and elegant tailoring. “You’re looking very well, Eduardo.”
“Thank you, Stone,” Eduardo said, pouring him a glass of Pinot Grigio from a chilled bottle. “What are you working on these days? Your career is always so interesting to me.”
“At the moment, I’m trying to locate a gentleman who left a British intelligence agency some years ago with a great deal of knowledge that he put to work in the marketplace.”
“Fascinating,” Eduardo replied. “And for whom are you trying to locate him?”
“For his former employers.”
“You actually know people in British intelligence?”
“Only one person, really, but she is well placed in that community.”
“And what will they do with this gentleman when you have found him? Slit his throat in some quiet, English-gentlemanly way?”
“I have been assured that that will not occur, or I would not have accepted the job.”
Eduardo smiled. “Ah, you are such an ethical man, Stone. You know, it is often said that violence never solves anything, but I have found over the years that the correct degree of violence, discreetly applied, can solve a great many things.”
Stone was surprised; Eduardo rarely made reference to that part of his past.
Lunch was served: langoustine on a bed of saffron rice with much garlic butter. The Pinot Grigio was a perfect accompaniment.
Stone waited until the dishes had been taken away and coffee served before speaking of why he had come. “Eduardo, there appears to be a problem that I need your help in resolving.”
“Something requiring violence?” Eduardo asked, a small smile playing across his lips.
“Nothing like that,” Stone said. “It’s a family matter.”
“I was of the impression that all your family had passed on,” Eduardo said.
“I was referring to your family, Eduardo.”
A shadow seemed to pass over the old man’s face. “Most of my family have passed, too, except my sister and my daughters, Anna Maria and… Dolce.”
“It is of Dolce I speak,” Stone said.
“Ah,” Eduardo replied.
“She has been spending considerable amounts of time across the street from my house, accompanied by a large man.”
“Yes,” Eduardo said, “a reliable fellow.”
“I have begun to feel uncomfortable about her presence, and my secretary is very worried.”
Eduardo looked surprised. “Does Dolce have some problem with your secretary?”
“Oh, no,” Stone said quickly. “It’s just that her office window is at street level, and she sees Dolce standing there two or three days a week. This has been going on for about a month.”