Stone’s phone was ringing as he walked into his office. He answered and scrambled.
“So?” Lance said.
“Joan is transmitting our conversation right now. I asked them how they knew Peter Grant—they professed not to know about his death. Both looked genuinely shocked. That’s all on the tape, too.”
“I’ll call you back when I’ve listened to it.” Lance hung up.
Lance called back more than an hour later. “Couple of interesting things,” he said. “First, they didn’t mention their month in Leningrad on their original employment applications at State and Defense. Second, the Thelwells from the Vineyard don’t exist, just like Peter didn’t, not in New York, Boston, or London. And no one by that name has ever worked at a Wall Street firm that has a London branch. Also, no one by that name has owned or rented a house on the Vineyard since the 1920s. However, during the time we’re talking about, the McIntoshes were at an inn in Edgartown for two weeks, and Peter Grant was in the same hotel, along with an unidentified woman.”
“That certainly is interesting.”
“The failure to mention Leningrad could just have been an oversight, but when you put it together with the nonexistent Thelwells and Peter Grant, it makes more sense.”
“What’s your scenario?” Stone asked.
“A month in Leningrad studying Russian is a perfect opportunity for recruitment, if the process hadn’t already begun at Harvard, and the later visit to the Vineyard put them in touch with Peter, who may have activated them at that time.”
“You’re assuming that Peter was an agent.”
“I have always assumed that,” Lance said. “Now I’m assuming that the McIntoshes are as well. I believe Mac is our mole at State. God knows what Laura has been reporting from the Pentagon.”
“You heard me on the recording ask if they might be interested in joining the Agency.”
“That was an inspired question, Stone. They’ll report back to their handler on that. My guess is I’ll get a call from Mac before long.”
“They both appeared shaken by the news of Peter’s death.”
“They should be shaken,” Lance said. “They’re wondering if that could happen to them.”
“Have you made any progress on a next of kin for Peter?”
“No, we’re leaving that to Dino for the moment. It’s his jurisdiction, and it’s cheaper that way, too. Why don’t you give him a call and find out what he’s learned? I’d be very interested if the next of kin is also acquainted with the McIntoshes.”
“I’ll do that now,” Stone said, then hung up.
“Bacchetti.”
“It’s Stone. I just got off the phone with Lance, and he tells me you’re handling the search for Peter’s next of kin. Found anyone?”
“No, because there isn’t anyone. However, we went through that envelope we found in the apartment—the one with the closing documents—and it seems you discarded it a little too quickly.”
“How so?”
“Peter executed a will at that closing, and the witnesses were those present. His lawyer notarized it.”
“Who are his heirs?”
“There are four: Betty and Vanessa Baker get a quarter each, and the other half goes to a couple named Maclean and Laura McIntosh. Plus, his new apartment and its furnishings and the car go to Vanessa. He left a list of assets and account numbers and, essentially, the estate consists of his apartment and car and eighteen million dollars in cash and negotiable securities, after estate taxes.”
“That,” Stone said, “is more interesting than I can explain right now. I have to be somewhere.” He hung up and asked Joan to summon Fred and the car.
He arrived at 1010 Fifth Avenue a half hour later and was admitted by the doorman and front-desk clerk, who knew him by this time. Upstairs, the door was opened by Vanessa’s nurse who was, Stone thought, not very happy to see him.
He was led into the living room, where Vanessa, fully dressed and coiffed, was seated at the window in a wheelchair, with a notepad in her lap and a pencil in her hand. He kissed her and pulled up a chair, so she wouldn’t have to make an effort to speak too loudly.
“You look absolutely lovely,” Stone said.
“Thank you,” she said slowly. “This is my first day of feeling lovely.” She looked over her shoulder, where the nurse was standing. “Thank you, that will be all.”
“But I . . .” the woman stammered.
“Please go,” Vanessa said with emphasis, which appeared to cost her some strength. The woman went into the bedroom.
“Vanessa . . .” Stone began.
She held up a hand, then laboriously wrote something in block capitals on the steno pad in her lap, then showed it to Stone. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY, he read.
He nodded. “As you wish.”
She erased the words. “Now,” she said, “listen.” She took a couple of deep breaths and said, slowly and barely above a whisper, “I know about Peter and the will. His lawyer called.”
“Good,” Stone said. “Does your mother know?”
“No, and I won’t tell her.”
“Then neither will I,” he replied.
“Good.” She stopped talking and just breathed for a moment.
He took the pad from her and wrote: Is there anything I can do for you?
She took it back and wrote: Call Peter’s lawyer, Bryce Gelbman, at Pierce & Gelbman. And tell him I want possession of the apartment and half the cash as soon as possible. Find me a nurse I can trust. Keep Mother out of this.
Stone handed her his card. “Call me on my cell if you need me; I’ll come right away.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand. “Thank you for coming to see me, Stone,” she said. “Goodbye.”
He bent to kiss her on the cheek. “Do you feel safe here?”
“For the time being,” she said. “We’ll see.”
Stone left the apartment and went home.