“Righto. Down in half an hour.”

He went into the study, found the ice machine, and poured himself a Knob Creek, which Emma had thoughtfully provided. He had just eased into a soft chair when his cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino.”

“Hey, pal, how are you?”

“I’m okay. How’s Hank?”

“She’s in New York, remember? I’m in London.”

“Then where is she? My people showed up at eight yesterday morning to drive her to work, but she wasn’t there.”

“That’s because I put her into the car at seven-thirty. Then I was on the way to the airport with Joan.”

“That would explain why there was nobody home when my guys arrived at eight.”

“You keep saying eight, but they were there early, and I put Hank into their car.”

“What kind of car?”

“The usual, a dark Crown Vic.”

“Stone, the department got rid of the last Crown Vic a couple of years ago. Everything is new since then.”

Stone froze. “Then who . . . ?”

“Exactly. Who? Have you heard from Hank?”

“Not a word, but I didn’t expect to.”

“Call her,” Dino said. “Right now.”

Stone broke the connection and dialed Hank.

“Miss Henrietta’s line.” A man’s voice.

“Let me speak to her.”

“I’m afraid she’s indisposed at the moment, Mr. Barrington. What took you so long to call?”

“I’m in London. Let me speak to her.”

“London in Canada?”

“London in England. Let me speak to her.”

“Hang on. Hank? Say a few words to your friend Stone.”

Her voice seemed to come from across the room. “Go fuck yourself, Onofrio!” This was followed by a smack and a groan.

“Listen to me,” Stone said.

“No, Mr. Barrington, you listen to me,” Onofrio replied. “You and I are going to do a little swap.”

“What?”

“You’re going to give me my uncle’s money, and I’m going to give you Hank. All that’s in question here is how much of her you get back, and in what condition. Call me when you’ve got the money ready to move. Since you’re in London, I’ll give you forty-eight hours.” He hung up.

Stone called Dino back.

“Yeah?”

“Dino, we’ve got a big, big problem,” he said.

33

Emma was on her cell phone all the way to the dinner party, at a house in Eaton Square, so Stone didn’t have to talk, which was just as well, as he was dumbstruck.

The dinner party was not small and intimate; there were a good two dozen people there, including a couple Members of Parliament, a government minister, half a dozen tall, impossibly thin young women in very expensive dresses, and some sort of rock star in a spangled dinner jacket. Stone fixed a smile on his face and managed to keep up a line of automated chat as Emma propelled him around the room, introducing him. Fifteen minutes passed before he snagged a waiter and got them drinks.

He was insanely hungry—probably something to do with his rattled internal clock—and the waiters always seemed to run out of canapés before they got to him. The ex-cop Derek stood by the drawing room door with a glass of ginger ale in his hand, casting a beady eye over whoever entered his line of sight, as if daring them to make a move on Stone or Emma. Supported by an underlayer of recorded pop music, the noise level was off the charts. Stone wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner, if such existed, and think. A picture of Hank, bound and gagged in a small room somewhere, kept crowding everything else out of his mind.

“Are you all right?” Emma shouted into his ear.

“What?”

“You seem preoccupied.”

“What?”

She gave up and entered into a conversation with another woman, conducted mostly in some sort of sign language. Stone spied an ajar door that seemed to lead to a study and made for it. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing deeply. The door was thick enough to bring the noise on the other side down to a tamed roar.

“You couldn’t stand it either, eh?” a man’s voice said. Deep, with an upper-class drawl.

Stone jumped, then saw a man in a chair before the fireplace, lit only by a flicker of flame. All the lights in the room were out.

“Would you like a brandy?” the man asked. “There’s a decanter over there, between the bookcases.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Stone said. He set down his empty glass, found the decanter, and poured himself a snifter.

“Join me?” the man asked, indicating the chair opposite where he sat.

“Thank you,” Stone said, sinking into the leather.

“Noisy in there, eh?”

“My ears are still ringing,” Stone said.

“I’m Alistair Brooke,” the man said. “With an ‘e.’”

“Stone Barrington.”

“A Yank, eh?”

“New York.”

“What brings you over the water?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“Emma?”

“Yes.”

“I saw you come in together. I’ve a wife somewhere in the drawing room. Are you in business?”

“The law.”

“I, as well—barrister.”

“Ah.”

“Well said. Have you visited our courts over here?”

“No. What knowledge I have of them comes from films like Witness for the Prosecution and a number of BBC dramas. They seem to be more elegant than most of our courtrooms in New York.”

“Perhaps. We’ve been using the same ones for a long time. Do you try cases?”

“I’ve spent most of my career avoiding the courtroom, whenever possible,” Stone said. “Are you hiding from the noise, too?”

“The noise and a rather noisy Russian gentleman. Did you notice him?”

“I’m not sure,” Stone said, but he found the thought of a Russian in the next room disturbing. “Which one was he?”

“Six foot, closely clipped hair, thick of body and mind.”

“I’ll try and avoid him,” Stone said.

“His solicitor has been pestering me to represent him in a criminal case, and I’ve no wish to be involved with him, considering what I’ve heard.”

“What have you heard?”

Brooke shrugged. “Thuggery, brutish behavior, foul business practices, the odd murder—that sort of thing.”

“What’s he charged with?”

“Conspiracy, financial misdeeds, et cetera.”

“What’s his name?”

“Yevgeny Majorov. Said to be the son of a Soviet-era KGB general.”

Stone sat up. “How old is he?”

“Perhaps late forties.”

“Does he have a brother?”

“Did have. It was all over the papers a short while ago. The man landed on a private jet in Moscow, having died en route from somewhere-or-other.”

“Yes, that news made its way to New York, too.”

“Did you know the brother?”

“Not really. He attempted to do some business with me in the States. I resisted the notion.”

“Oh? How did he take it?”

“Not well.”

“I hope the threats weren’t carried out.”

“Fortunately not.” Stone’s cell phone vibrated on his belt; he ignored it, and it stopped.

The door opened and Stone looked over his shoulder to see Emma, bearing two plates, enter the room, followed by another woman, also bearing two plates. “I saw you come in here, Stone, and I can’t blame you. Rita and I have brought you two dinner. Hello, Alistair.”

“Hello, Emma.” Air kisses were exchanged.

The two women bore the plates to a table across the room and pulled up chairs to it, and the men joined them. Brooke introduced his wife to Stone.

“Wine is on its way,” Rita said, then the door opened and a waiter entered with a bottle of champagne and four glasses. He set them on the table and left.

Stone opened the champagne and poured them all a glass.

“So you two have become acquainted?” Emma asked.

“We toil in the same vineyard,” Alistair replied. “More or less.”

Then civilized conversation ensued, the combination of brandy, champagne, and food worked its wonders, and Stone was able to forget about New York and Hank and Yevgeny Majorov for a little while.