“Some client of Woodman and Weld has a niece who’s about to get herself in trouble in London, and I’m supposed to bring her back.”
“Who’s the client?”
“A man named John Bartholomew.” Stone dug in the file for Bartholomew’s card. It bore only a phone number and a cellphone number. “Sorry, I thought I had a business card, but it’s only a number.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Yes, you can see if a man named Lance Cabot has a sheet.”
“Just a minute,” Dino said.
Stone could hear computer keys clicking.
“Nope, nothing on him, either in our computer or the federal database.”
“Too bad, I was hoping for some ammunition. You know anybody at Scotland Yard?”
“Yeah, I think so; let me check the Rolodex.” Another pause. “Here we go: Evelyn, with a long E, Throckmorton.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I swear to God, that’s his name, and don’t forget the long E, otherwise it’s a girl’s name. He’s in that Special Branch thing, with a rank of detective inspector. He was over here last year, looking for an Irish terrorist, and he needed an Italian cop for some help, since the Irish cops wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Is that what he does? Chase terrorists?”
“Beats me; I didn’t get to know him that well, but he owes me a favor, so I’ll call him for you.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
“How you feeling about Callie this morning?”
“Okay, though you and Elaine were no help at all.”
“I seem to recall there’s a lady in London called Sarah Buckminster.”
“That crossed my mind.”
“She might be just the thing to help you get over Callie.”
“I’m already over Callie, but what the hell?”
“Okay, pal, have a good trip. Call me if you get in over your head.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’m always having to pull you out of the shit, you know. What makes you think this trip will be any different?”
“I’ll try to get through it without needing rescuing.”
“Oh, it’s never any bother; you always get into such interesting shit. Makes my humdrum life just a little more exciting. See ya.” Dino hung up.
Stone drove himself to Kennedy Airport while Joan sat in the passenger seat, taking notes on what to do while he was gone. She dropped him at the first-class entrance at British Airways, gave him a peck on the cheek, and drove off in his car. A porter took his luggage into the terminal and left him at the check-in counter.
A young woman looked at his ticket. “I’m sorry, sir, this is the wrong counter.”
Stone was annoyed. After Bartholomew’s seeming generosity, he’d expected to be in first class.
“You’re just down there,” she said, pointing to the Concorde check-in.