48
AT TWELVE O’CLOCK, THE DOORBELL rang again. A man Stone had never seen before held out a set of car keys. “It’s the Jaguar S-type, parked along there, British Racing Green,” he said. “Here’s a car rental receipt from a firm in Knightsbridge; sign it here and here, and fill in your American driver’s license number. Ring Mason when you’re finished with the car and someone will collect it.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. The man left. Stone filled out the form, then turned to Dino. “You want a lift to Harrod’s? I’m going right past it.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Let’s go, then.” Stone put on his jacket, checked to be sure the pen was still in place, and led the way out the door, locking it behind him. Sarah had given them each a key.
“Here we are,” Stone said, climbing into the Jaguar and adjusting the seat.
Dino got into the passenger seat, and Stone pulled out of the parking place, went to the corner, and turned left.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a steering wheel over here?” Dino asked.
“Nope, it’s over here.”
“It’s very weird sitting here with no controls,” Dino said. “I keep wanting to put on the brakes.”
“Relax,” Stone said, negotiating Hyde Park Corner. “That’s the Duke of Wellington’s house over there,” he said, pointing, “and that’s Hyde Park behind it.”
“Got it,” Dino said.
They drove a couple of blocks through heavy traffic, and Stone pulled over in front of the department store. “Here’s Harrod’s,” he said.
Dino looked out at the line of store windows. “Which one?”
“The whole block,” Stone replied. “It’s the largest store in the world.”
“Jesus,” Dino said, “I’ll need a map.”
“Just wander, and ask somebody if you get lost.”
“Okay, pal; when will I see you?”
“I’ll come back to the house after lunch; if anybody calls and asks for me, except Sarah, you don’t know me.”
“I might be better off,” Dino said.
“Maybe, but you wouldn’t have nearly as much fun.”
Dino closed the door and walked into Harrod’s.
Stone drove on out Knightsbridge, which became the Cromwell Road, and soon he was on a four-lane highway, and soon after that, on the M4 motorway. Traffic was heavy, but he made good time. He got off the motorway at the prescribed exit and took the opportunity to check the traffic behind him. No one exited after him that he could see, and he felt tail-free, except for Mason’s van, which was nowhere to be seen.
He followed the signs to the village and the restaurant and parked the car. The Thames was before him, broad and slow-moving, with pretty houses on the other side. He went into the restaurant; it was precisely one o’clock. Lance was not there yet, and the maître d’ seated him outside on the terrace, under an elm tree. He ordered a kir royale and sipped it. Lance, he figured, was driving around the village to see if either he or Stone had a tail. Another fifteen minutes passed before he entered the restaurant.
Stone shook his hand. “A very elegant place,” he said.
“Wait until you taste the food.”
They had only desultory conversation until the food arrived, then Lance took a look around to be sure they were not being overheard. “I’m going to have to pat you down,” he said to Stone.
Stone laughed. “Don’t worry, I haven’t worn a wire in years, not since I was a cop.”
Lance got up, walked behind Stone and, on the pretense of pointing at something on the river, ran his hands expertly over Stone’s body, down to the crotch.
“Don’t have too much fun there,” Stone said.