“I had hoped you could tell me. The man they work for is bald, with a bullet-shaped head.”
“Does that sound familiar?” Lance asked Ali and Sheila.
Both shook their heads.
They had driven around the block and were now on the opposite side of the antiques market building. As they drove toward the King’s Road, a section of the building exploded outward, followed a split second later by a huge roar. The cabbie, without a word, executed a speedy U-turn.
“I believe that was your shop,” Stone said to Ali and Sheila.
Lance was suddenly on a cellphone, punching in a number and waiting impatiently for an answer. “Erica,” he said, “I want you to leave the house right this minute; go to Monica’s gallery; take nothing with you. Do you understand? I’ll explain later; just get out of there immediately!” He ended the call and turned to Stone. “Thank you,” he said.
“Not at all,” Stone replied. “But now perhaps you’ll tell me what the hell is going on.”
31
LANCE STARED OUT THE CAB WINDOW at the rainy streets. He had not answered Stone’s request. “Tell me about your encounter with these people,” he said.
Stone related his tale of being abducted and interrogated. When he had finished, Lance still said nothing for a long moment. “Sounds like the Mossad to me.”
“We’ve got to get out of the country,” Ali said. “They just proved that to us.”
“No, not yet,” Lance replied, still looking out the window. Once Erica is out of the house, they won’t know where to find us.”
“Where are we going?” Sheila asked.
Lance opened the partition and gave the driver an address. “To Monica’s gallery; we’ll figure it out there.”
The gallery was in Dover Street, off New Bond Street; it was a wide building with a limestone front and had a single word, BURROUGHS, painted on the front window. Stone was impressed; he’d imagined something smaller.
“Can you wait for us?” Lance asked the cabbie.
“As long as you like, mate,” the cabbie replied. He lowered his voice. “The other bloke knows you’re having his wife off, you know; I can’t wait to see what happens.”
Stone heard this and laughed.
“What is he talking about?” Lance asked as they turned toward the gallery.
“I had to tell him something,” Stone said. They went inside.
Monica Burroughs was sitting at a desk in the large gallery, talking to Sarah Buckminster, who was seated next to her, looking at some slides. “Oh, hello,” she said, as Stone and Lance approached.
“Is Erica here?” Lance asked.
“No, is she supposed to be?”
Lance went to the window and looked out into the street.
Sarah came around the desk and pecked Stone on the cheek. “What’s up? Lance looks worried.”
“There’s been a little trouble,” Stone said. “Lance asked Erica to meet him here.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Lance was pacing up and down, checking outside often. He came to where Stone and Sarah stood. “I’m going to go and get her,” he said.
“Wait a few minutes,” Stone replied. “She’s probably on her way; she wouldn’t be there when you got there.”