• • •

An hour later, the four of them made their way out of the large flat, preceded by two men in suits. Alistair nodded at their backs. “Majorov,” he mouthed. They all stopped at the elevator.

“I’ll walk down,” Stone said, wishing to avoid the Russian. He started down the stairs. Unfortunately, he reached the ground floor at the same time as the elevator, and as its doors opened he found himself fixed in the gaze of Yevgeny Majorov. Neither man averted his gaze.

“May we drop you?” Emma said to the Brookes.

“We’re in Ennismore Gardens,” Alistair said. “If it’s not out of your way.”

Majorov and his companion got into a new-looking Rolls and tooled away. Stone held the cab door open for the Brookes and Emma, then took a jump seat.

“This is quite a taxi,” Alistair said.

“Belongs to a friend,” Stone said.

“Must be an interesting friend.”

Stone couldn’t argue with that.

34

Emma woke Stone the following morning by the simple device of biting him on a nipple. Nature took its course, a couple of times.

Stone lay, gazing sleepily at the ceiling, while Emma showered. For no particular reason, he checked his iPhone on the bedside table. He had had a phone call, and there was a voice mail.

“Stone,” Hank’s voice said. “If you can do something, please do it.” The connection was broken. She had sounded desperate. Stone looked at the bedside clock; it would be the wee hours in New York, so there was no point in calling Dino again. He called his American Express travel agent and asked to change his return ticket to the next flight out of Heathrow. There was one at noon that reached New York at three. He booked it, then called his office number and left a message for Joan to meet him at JFK at three-thirty.

Stone hung up, got to his feet, and started for the bathroom. Last night’s drinks were hanging on, if not over. Emma came out of the shower as he entered.

“I’ve got to go back to New York,” he said. “Client emergency.”

Emma reached for a towel. “When?”

“Noon plane from Heathrow.”

“But I’ve got theater tickets for tonight,” she said. “The big new hit play.”

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said, kissing her, “but this one is life or death. It can’t be avoided.”

“Oh, well,” she said, obviously exasperated. “Shall I send you to the airport in my car?”

“Throckmorton’s taxi is outside, remember?”

“Oh, yes.”

Stone showered and shaved and packed, while Emma dressed for work. “Can you come to New York soon?” he asked.

“I can’t predict just now,” she said. “I’ll call you, though.”

“I’m sorry I was here for such a short time,” he said, hugging her. “Believe me, I’d rather stay than have to deal with this situation.”

“I believe you,” she said, kissing him. “Have a good flight.” And she was gone.

Stone made himself some breakfast and read the papers, then at nine-thirty, he grabbed his luggage and went outside to where Derek, having gone home to sleep, then returned, sat at the wheel of the cab. “Heathrow,” he said.

“Righto,” Derek replied, and made a quick U-turn past a black BMW parked down the street a few yards. He checked his rearview mirror. “I think we’ve picked up company,” he said.

“Swell. I hope this tank is sufficiently armored to repel small-arms fire.”

“The doors have Kevlar inserts, but the glass we ordered hasn’t arrived yet. Anything happens, hit the deck.”

They made it to Heathrow without an exchange of gunfire, and as they stopped, the BMW drove slowly past them. The driver was the man who had accompanied Yevgeny Majorov to the party the night before.

Stone thanked Derek, grabbed his luggage, waved off a porter, and ran for check-in. Half an hour later he was through security with his pass and in the VIP lounge. He checked his iPhone address book for John Fratelli’s throwaway cell phone number and called it. The call went straight to voice mail. “Mr. Fratelli,” he said, “a friend of mine has been kidnapped by an acquaintance of yours, a Mr. Onofrio Buono. He wants your money in exchange for her. Call me, and let’s see if you have any ideas.”

That done, he called Joan at home; she would be up by now.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stone. I left a message at the office for you to pick me up at JFK at three-thirty.”

“Can do.”

“There’s something else: call my broker and tell him I may have to free up five million dollars in cash.”

“Are you being held hostage by al-Qaeda?”

“Tell him not to do anything yet, just to figure out how to raise the cash with as little tax damage as possible. If I need it, it’ll be on short notice.”

“Okay,” Joan said. “I’ll look forward to hearing all about this when I meet you.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Stone said. “See you at three-thirty.” He hung up and called Dino at home.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. Any news of Hank?”

“Not a word, not a peep—our efforts to track down Buono have not succeeded. He probably had a hidey-hole prepared, just in case.”

“I may have to give him some money,” Stone said.

“Whose money?”

“Mine. All right, Arrington’s.” She had willed him a considerable fortune.

“I think it’s time for me to call the FBI,” Dino said.

“Not yet,” Stone said. “I’m at Heathrow now. When I get in, I’ll call you. I don’t want to turn this into a whole big thing with a lot of feds screwing it up.”

“I sympathize with your view, but are you really going to try to handle this by yourself?”

“With your help, yes. I don’t see how the feds can improve the odds.”

“Frankly, neither do I,” Dino admitted.

“Talk to you later.”

They hung up.

• • •

Stone’s flight was boarding when his cell phone vibrated. He stepped out of line and took the call.

“It’s John Fratelli,” the voice said. “I got your message. How did this happen?”

“Buono came to see me,” Stone said. “I pretty much told him to go fuck himself, but then I think he—or one of his—saw a woman he knew at my house. They’ve taken her, and he’s demanding your money—as if I had access to it.”

“If I were handling this,” Fratelli said, “I’d just kill him.”

“I have every sympathy with that plan,” Stone replied, “but I don’t know where to find the man. The cops raided a chop shop that he owns, and they’re looking for him everywhere as we speak, but so far, no joy.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Fratelli said. “I’ll get back to you.”

“I’m in London, boarding a plane for New York right now. I should be within cell phone range by four o’clock, Eastern time.”

“Right.” Fratelli hung up, and Stone got on the airplane with a sense of deep foreboding.

35

John Fratelli sat on the edge of his bed, feeling sick. Everything had been going so well; now this. His first impulse was to fly to New York, find Bats Buono, and beat him to death. Instead, he ordered breakfast from room service, then showered, shaved, and dressed for golf. Breakfast arrived as he cleared the bathroom.

He ate slowly, thinking hard. Who could he call about this? Who did he know anymore? Everybody was dead, almost. Almost. He knew exactly the right person to call, but not if he was alive. He called information and asked for Gino Buono, Eddie’s brother, Onofrio’s father. There was a number in Queens, and he called it.

“Hello?” He sounded old and sleepy.

“Gino?”

“Yeah, who’s this?”

“This is . . .” He stopped himself, about to say Jack Coulter. “It’s Johnny Fratelli.”

There was a brief silence as Gino computed the name. “Jesus, Johnny. I heard you were out.”