4
Stone showed Barton to a guest room. “I’ll get you some pajamas and a change of clothes for tomorrow,” Stone said, “as soon as I turn off the lights downstairs and set the alarm.”
“Okay,” Barton said, sitting on the bed.
Stone went downstairs, switched everything off and tapped in the alarm code, then he went back upstairs to his bedroom to get the clothes for Barton. When he walked into the master suite, Barton was there, staring at four paintings grouped on a wall.
“Can I help you, Barton?”
“You’ve got some nice things in this house,” Barton replied. “I’ll give you eight hundred thousand dollars for these four pictures.”
“They’re not for sale,” Stone said.
“Do you have any more Matilda Stones?”
“No, just those. She was my mother.”
“Oh. She’s a wonderful painter,” Barton said. “You don’t often see her work on the market.”
“Barton, why do you think you have eight hundred thousand dollars?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I buy, I sell.”
“Pictures?”
Barton looked puzzled. “I guess.”
Stone went to his dressing room and got Barton the things he needed, then put them in his arms and turned him toward the stairs. “Do you remember where your room is?”
“Down the stairs, first door on the left,” Barton replied. “I remember things I just learned.”
“And I’m sure you’ll remember even more tomorrow morning,” Stone said, gently propelling him toward the stairs. He waited at the top until he heard the guest room door close, then he undressed and went to bed.
Stone walked into the kitchen the following morning to find Barton Cabot having breakfast, deep in conversation with Stone’s housekeeper, Helene. What surprised him was that the conversation was being conducted in Greek, Helene’s native language.
“Good morning, Stone,” Barton said.
“Good morning, Barton. I didn’t know you spoke Greek.”
“Neither did I.”
“He speaks my language beautifully,” Helene said, “and with an elegant accent.”
“Thank you, Helene,” Barton said.
Helene put scrambled eggs and bacon before Stone and went about her work.
“Stone,” Barton said, “what sort of work does Lance do?”
“Your younger brother is the deputy director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. He was only recently appointed.”