The Short Forever (Stone Barrington 8)

“Let me tell you a bit more,” Throckmorton said. “The passports found on the men were counterfeits. Does that help jog your memory?”

“I know nothing of false passports,” Stone said.

“Let me see yours.”

Stone went to his briefcase, got his passport, and handed it over.

Throckmorton examined it closely, then he took two passports from his pocket and compared them. “It says here that this passport was issued only a few days ago at the American Embassy in London.”

“That’s correct; when I arrived in this country, an immigration officer told me that my passport was expiring the following day.”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No. I hadn’t used the passport for several months; it didn’t occur to me to look at the expiration date. I went to the embassy, as the officer suggested, and got a new one.”

“And where is your old one?”

“The passport office kept it.”

“And I’m keeping yours,” Throckmorton said, tucking all three passports into his pocket.

“Suppose I have to leave the country?”

“You will not leave the country until I say so,” Throckmorton said, rising. “One last time, Stone; is there anything you wish to tell me?”

“No.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Throckmorton said. He walked out of the room, taking both raincoats with him.

Stone sat down heavily and loosened his necktie. “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud, “how could I have made such a stupid mistake?” He laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself.

What seemed only a moment later, Stone jerked awake. Had he dozed off? Then he remembered that Arrington was downstairs in the restaurant. He ran to the elevator, buttoning his shirt and fixing his necktie; when he reached the ground floor, he tried not to run to the restaurant. From the door he could see that the table was empty.

“Mr. Barrington?” Mister Chevalier said.

“Yes? Where is Mrs. Calder?”

“I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago; she went to the lounge to look for you but could not find you, so she got her coat and left.” Chevalier looked at his watch. “You were gone for nearly an hour,” he said, with barely noticeable reproach.

“Oh, God,” Stone moaned.

“We have kept your dinner warm,” Chevalier said. “Would you still like to have it, or would you prefer to order something else?”

Stone stared at the paneling ahead of him, wondering how he was ever going to fix this.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Oh. Will you send it to my suite, please?”

“Of course; and Mrs. Calder’s dinner?”

“Give it to the cat,” Stone said. He turned and trudged disconsolately to the elevator.

Upstairs, he got out the London telephone directory and looked for the ambassador’s residence; he found it under U.S. Government and dialed the number.

“Good evening,” a young male voice said, “this is the residence of the United States Ambassador.” Probably a marine.

“My name is Barrington,” Stone said. “May I speak with Mrs. Arrington Calder? She’s a guest of the ambassador.”