Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

“That’s way too healthy for my kitchen,” he called back. “You’ll take fresh croissants and like it.”

“If I have to,” she said, closing the shower door.

“What do you have to do for the next few days?” Stone asked, munching a croissant.

“I’ve been given time off,” she said.

“Oh? Why?”

She told him about the events of the day before.

“So she’s in London now?”

“Apparently,” Carpenter replied. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’m still in hiding.”

“I think I have a better place to hide you than here,” Stone said.

“And where would that be?”

“I have a cottage in Connecticut, in a lovely colonial village called Washington, and if you’re willing to ditch your bodyguards, I’ll take you up there.”

“To the country? Now, that sounds wonderful.”

“I have some catching up to do in my office,” he said, “but I’ll be ready to go by mid-afternoon. Put some things in a bag.”

“Will do.”

It was closer to four before Stone got free of work. The two bodyguards worked both sides of the street before calling Carpenter on her cell phone to report the coast clear. By that time, she and Stone were sitting in his car, waiting for the word to move. When it came, Stone opened the garage door with the remote and drove away from the house, closing the door behind them. They turned up Third Avenue, and as they made a left on Fifty-seventh Street, they nearly ran down a young woman, a well-dressed blonde.

The black Mercedes E55 with the darkened windows meant nothing to Marie-Thérèse, except that it had nearly killed her. The young woman meant nothing to Stone and Carpenter either.

Stone drove to the West Side Highway and turned north, toward Connecticut.

“How long a drive?” Carpenter asked.

“An hour and forty minutes from this spot,” Stone said.

“Can I cook you dinner tonight?”

“I was going to ta

ke you out, but if you really know how to cook, well . . .”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” she said.

27

Marie-Thérèse showed one of her passports at the front door of the embassy on the Upper East Side and was let in. She approached a window in a thick glass wall.

“May I help you?” the woman at the window asked in Arabic.

“Yes,” Marie-Thérèse replied. “I would like to speak to the vice-consul in charge of tourism.”

The woman blinked and paused for a moment. “We do not have a vice-consul for tourism,” she replied.

“Please tell him that Abdul suggested I speak with him.”

Again, the woman said, “We do not have a vice-consul for tourism.”