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“Eleven a.m., British Airways. You’ll arrive in New York around two, what with the time change. What else will you need? Weapons?”
M-T shook her head. “I couldn’t carry them onto an airplane these days.”
“It can be done,” Abdul said, “but we prefer to save that for special occasions.”
“I have sufficient resources in New York, but I could use a couple of passports.”
“All right, but we’ll have to send them via diplomatic pouch to our UN embassy. I’ll give you a contact there.”
“Good.”
“How many people did you kill in New York?” Abdul asked.
“Three,” she said. “Two of them were British intelligence. The other was merely for convenience.”
Marie-Thérèse was back downstairs in half an hour to have her hair done by the woman of the house, then she was photographed for the new passports, two of them in wigs.
“It’s good,” she said when she saw the Polaroids.
Abdul went to work on the passport, deftly removing the old photograph and replacing it with that of M-T. When he was happy with his work he gave her the passport and a few sheets of paper. “This is the woman’s background,” he said. “It’s completely legitimate. She was born in Cairo, studied economics in Paris and London. She’s never been suspected of any involvement with us.”
“What am I going to owe you for this, Abdul?” M-T asked.
Abdul smiled. “We have a man in our UN embassy in New York who has been talking to the CIA, taking their money. We’d like him eliminated in an obvious sort of way, then we’ll blame the CIA for his murder. We’ll furnish you with the sort of weapon the agency would use.”
“Very good,” M-T said.
“I’ll have the other passports done before you leave. That should square us,” Abdul said.
Stone arrived back at hi
s house and entered through his outside office door. Joan was working at her desk.
“Welcome back, boss,” she said. “What did you think of Harborview?”
“It was wonderful, what little I saw of it. I never slept in my bed, as it happened. The only sleep I got was on a small boat, and it wasn’t comfortable.”
“Did you get Herbie back?”
“I did. Herbie’s off the hook, and so am I. Send Tony Levy another thousand dollars today, and send Bill Eggers a bill for my services and for the twenty-five thousand I paid to Irving Newman for Herbie’s bail.”
“Will do. By the way, your friend Felicity is upstairs, sacked out in your bed. She got here a couple of hours ago, with company: There’s a man in your study and another in the garden, pretending to read a book.”
“Swell. I need some sack time, myself, so hang on to my phone messages.” He took the elevator upstairs, and as he stepped out of it he felt cold steel on the back of his neck. “I’m Barrington,” he said.
“ID?”
Stone showed the man his driver’s license. “I’ll take over your duty up here. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in the library, downstairs?”
“All right,” the man replied, then headed for the stairs.
Stone went into the bedroom as quietly as possible. Carpenter lay on her belly, breathing softly. Stone undressed, got into bed, and lay down beside her.
“Welcome home, sailor,” Carpenter said sleepily. “I suppose you want a sailor’s welcome?”
Stone lay on his side and cupped a buttock in his hand. “Nothing too strenuous,” he said. “I am, after all, home from the sea.” He moved his fingers up and down between her cheeks, and she made an appreciative noise. He explored a little further and found her already wet.
She rolled over on her side and pressed her buttocks into his crotch, reaching between her legs for him.
