TIFF STARED AT STONE. “What the hell are you doing here, and who the hell are these guys?” She gestured at Lance and his two men.
Lance showed her his ID. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, looking appreciatively up and down her. “My name is Lance Cabot.”
“How do you do?” she said, then turned back to Stone. “You really are mixed up with the CIA?”
“ ‘Mixed up’ is a good way to put it,” Stone said.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Tiff replied. She turned back to Lance. “What are you doing here?”
Lance spoke up. “It would appear that we have a mutual interest in the gentleman who resides here. I should think we also have a mutual interest in not disturbing the contents of his apartment. If he knows either of us has been here, he’ll bolt.”
“I assume you’ve already turned over the place.”
“You assume correctly. The only items of any interest were four passports from as many English-speaking countries and some cash. They’re all in a safe, and we left it undisturbed. May I suggest that, if we have anything further to discuss, we do it outside? The man could come home at any moment.”
“All right,” Tiff said. She led the way out of the apartment. The elevator had to make two trips to get them all downstairs.
On the sidewalk, Lance spoke to her again. “I assume you’re after Mr. Stanford for financial crimes?”
“You could say that,” Tiff replied.
“We are here on a matter of national security,” he said, “and I’m afraid that trumps your investigation. I must ask you to stay away from the man. There’s a great deal more at stake here than you realize.”
“We’ll see about that,” Tiff said.
“Have your boss call my boss,” Lance said. “So good to meet you.” He herded Stone and his two men toward an anonymous-looking sedan.
Stone stopped and whispered in Tiff’s ear. “Dinner tonight?”
“You’re on,” she said.
“Elaine’s at nine o’clock. See you there.”
Lance held the door of the sedan, and Stone climbed in.
He phoned Barbara Stein. “May I bring over my people now?”
“Of course,” she said. “I have an appointment at my hairdresser’s, but I’ll instruct the butler to let you in and give you the run of the place. I won’t be back before five this afternoon. I’m leaving a note with the doorman for Whitney.”
“Thank you, Barbara; we’ll leave the place as neat as possible.” He hung up and turned to Lance. “We’re on.” The car drove away.
“I’m impressed with your resourcefulness, Stone, not to mention your acquaintanceship.” Lance said. “I was optimistic about your eventual value to us, but you’ve surpassed my expectations.”
“I’ll bill you,” Stone said.
“How ever did you learn about the wife and the apartment?”
“I have my methods.”
“We must discuss those sometime. You know, I think it might be valuable for you to take a little trip down to rural Virginia for a few weeks sometime, to undergo some useful training.”
“Useful to whom?”
“To us and to you. I think you might find the experience entertaining.”
“Is this the famous ‘Farm’ you’re talking about?”
“Camp Peary, to be precise.”
“Lance, I would not find it entertaining to run around in the woods, being barked at by drill sergeants. I’m a little . . . mature for that sort of thing.”
“Oh, it’s not like that at all. You’d enjoy learning some of the dark arts.”
“You make it sound like Hogwart’s Academy.”
“Well, I suppose it is, in its way.”
They pulled to a halt in front of Barbara Stein’s building and got out of the car.
“You know,” Lance said reverentially, “someone once said that, if there is a God, he probably lives at Eleven Eleven Fifth Avenue.”
Stone spoke to the doorman, and they were sent upstairs, where the butler greeted them.
“Gentlemen,” the man said in a tony British accent, “my name is Smithson. Mrs. Stein has told me that you are to have access to the entire apartment, and that I am to assist you in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Smithson,” Stone said, “but I don’t think we’ll need anything.”
“There are bells scattered around the three floors, for butler, maid and cook. Should you require my help, please press the ‘butler’ button.”
“Thank you.” Stone turned to Lance. “Let’s start with our man’s dressing room; there’s a safe in there.”
Stone led them downstairs to the master bedroom and thence to Stanford’s dressing room.
“The man does live well, doesn’t he?” Lance said, looking around at the racks and cubicles full of expensive clothing.
Stone pushed back some suits, revealing the safe.
“Get started on that,” Lance said to one of the men. “The rest of us are going to go through the pockets of every jacket and pair of trousers in this room, collecting every stray piece of paper we find.”
Stone took a suit off a rack, hung it on a hook, and started to go through it.
DOWNSTAIRS THE DOORMAN watched as a red Hummer trundled to a stop at the end of the building’s awning, and Mr. Whitney Stanford got out.
The doorman stepped directly into the man’s path. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stanford,” he said, removing an envelope from his pocket and handing it to him.
Stanford accepted the envelope. “I’ll read it upstairs,” he said, starting to move around the man.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman said. “But Mrs. Stein has asked me to tell you that you may not enter the building.”
“What?”
“I believe the letter in the envelope will explain.”
Stanford ripped open the envelope and read the letter, which was short. He tucked it into an inside pocket. “Please tell Mrs. Stanford that I’ll be at my apartment, and ask her to phone me.”
“I’ll give Mrs. Stein the message, sir. Good day.” He opened the rear door of the Hummer. Stanford got in, and the truck drove away.
“ALL RIGHT, what have we got?” Lance asked.
“The contents of the safe are much like those of the one in his own apartment,” one of the men said. “Three passports—Irish, South African and British—and about a hundred and twenty thousand in dollars and Euros. And a stack of two-dollar bills.”
Stone pointed to a paper on the dresser top. “We’ve got credit card receipts, one from a tailor and several phone numbers jotted on scrap paper,” he said.
“Write everything down and put it all back,” Lance said.
“Mrs. Stein is moving all this stuff into a storage facility tomorrow,” Stone said.
“In that case, we’ll take the paper with us—the passports and cash, too.” He turned to Stone. “How do you suppose he’s generating all this cash?”
“Various scams, I guess, but he’s working with eight million dollars that he claims to be investing for his wife.”
“That should keep him going for a while,” Lance said. “Does Stanford have a study here?”
“His wife says not.”
“Then we’re done; let’s get out of here.”
The went back downstairs, and as they left the building, the doorman spoke.
“Excuse me, Mr. Barrington?”
“Yes?”
“You might like to know that Mr. Stanford was here less than an hour ago.”
Lance took an immediate interest. “Do you know where he went?”
“He said that he was going to his apartment, and Mrs. Stein could phone him there.”
“Let’s go,” Lance said, heading for the car.
“Oh, and he was riding in a red Hummer,” the doorman called after them.