“Yes.”
“Well, of course you can stay there; when do you want to go?”
“Immediately.”
“All right; why don’t I cook us all some dinner over there? James has a decent kitchen, and I can pick up some things on the way.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“See you in an hour?”
“That’s good. Bye.” He hung up and turned to Mason. “We can go to James Cutler’s house in Chester Street.”
“Ah yes, good,” Mason said. “Who is Dino?”
“Dino Bacchetti, my old partner at the NYPD. He got into town yesterday.”
“All right, then; you go and get packed up, and I’ll send someone for your luggage. I believe your bill is going to Stan Hedger?”
“Yes.”
“Good, that solves that. We’ll be taking you out of the hotel by a rear exit.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, by the way, Sam asked me to ask you if Hedger ever gave you any sort of electronic device—a radio, a pager, a clock—to carry around with you?”
“Yes, he gave me a satellite telephone.”
“You’ll want to give that to me; he’s been using it to track your whereabouts.”
Stone felt like a complete ass. “All right.”
“I’ll come and get you in, say, three-quarters of an hour.”
“Good.” Stone left the suite and went back to his own.
Dino was still watching cricket. “You know, I think I’m beginning to get the hang of this game.”
“It’s an illusion; no American will ever understand it.”
“You ready for some dinner?”
“Yes, but Sarah is cooking it for us; get packed, we’re moving out of the hotel.”
“But I like it here,” Dino said. “It’s nice—you push a button and somebody comes to take care of you.”
“I’ve just had a meeting with some British intelligence people, and they want us out of here; they say it’s the only way we’ll ever lose the tail that Hedger put on us.”
“We’re going right now?”
“Very shortly; just get your luggage ready to go.”
Dino switched off the cricket match with reluctance.
At the appointed time, the porter rapped on their door. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. I’m to take your bags down to the kitchen.”
“There they are,” Stone said, pointing to the pile. “Mr. Bacchetti’s, too.”