Throckmorton mentioned an hourly rate, and Stone agreed.
“Anything illegal about this?” Throckmorton asked.
“Not unless surveillance is illegal in Britain.”
“Certainly not.” Throckmorton chuckled.
“I don’t want anyone hit over the head or anything like that. I just want to find out what’s going on and report back to my client.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He polished off his shrimp and whipped out an address book. “Let me go make a phone call,” he said. “I’ll be back before the sole arrives.”
Stone sat back and sipped his wine. As Throckmorton left, Sir Antony Shields entered the Grill with another man, and they were seated across the room. The man certainly eats well, Stone thought to himself.
Throckmorton returned as the waiter was boning the soles. “There’ll be two men here in an hour,” he said. “They’ll be waiting in the lounge when we’re done here. Their names are Ted Cricket and Bobby Jones, like the golfer. They both worked for me at one time or another; they’re smart, persistent, and discreet. You’ll get what you want from them.”
“Thank, you,” Stone said. The sole was excellent. “I believe that’s your Home Secretary over there.” He nodded at the table across the room.
“Yes, saw him when I came back to the table. I’ve shaken his hand, but I don’t really know the bugger, he’s too new. Came in with the Labour lot, the second man to hold the office. I’m told he’s reasonably bright; he made a name for himself as a barrister, prosecuting as often as defending. That’s how we do it over here, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Likes to see his name in the papers, always has, I’m told, as long as it’s favorable. He’s gotten a good press so far.”
They had dessert and coffee, and Stone signed the bill. They left the Grill and walked out into the main hall of the hotel.
Throckmorton stopped and shook Stone’s hand. “Splendid lunch,” he said, “many thanks. The two chaps you want are around the corner, there,” he said, nodding toward the sitting room. “I don’t want to be seen introducing you.” He walked through the revolving doors and left the hotel.
Stone walked into the sitting room, and it was immediately obvious whom he was meeting. Cops were cops. They were dressed in anonymous suits, and both wore thick-soled, black shoes. Stone went over and introduced himself.
Ted Cricket was the taller, more muscular man, and Bobby Jones was short, thin, and wiry. They were both near sixty, Stone reckoned, but they looked fit.
“How can we help you, Mr. Barrington?”
“There are two men I want surveilled,” Stone said. “The first is named Lance Cabot, and he lives at a house called Merryvale, in Farm Street. He’s American, in his mid-thirties, tall, well built, longish light brown hair, well dressed. He lives with a young woman named Erica Burroughs, and she is not to be followed, unless she’s with Cabot.”
Both men were taking notes.
“The second,” Stone continued, “is more problematical, because I don’t know his name. He’s American, too, somewhere in his mid-fifties, six-two or -three, heavy, maybe two-ten, looks like a former athlete. He has a hawkish nose, thick, salt-and-pepper hair, and bushy eyebrows.”
“And where does he live?” Cricket asked.
“That’s one of the things I want to know,” Stone said. “He’s in and out of the American Embassy, through the front door, and that’s where you’re going to have to pick him up. I want to know where he’s staying, who he sees, and where he goes. I don’t know if he lives in London or New York, but my guess is, he’s in a hotel not far from the embassy.”
“Right,” Cricket said. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know whether the weekend would be productive; why don’t you start first thing Monday morning?”
The two men nodded. “And we can reach you here, Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes, and I have a cellphone.” He gave them the number.
“We’ll report to you daily,” Cricket said.
“By the way,” he said, “I didn’t mention this to Throckmorton, but is it possible to tap Cabot’s phone and record all his conversations?”
“Not legally,” Cricket said.
“I understand that. Can you do it, or have it done?”