The Short Forever by Stuart Woods Page A

Square, walked to the farthest point from the embassy, and took a seat on another bench to wait for lunchtime.

    Bartholomew looked from his window down into Grosvenor Square. “He’s gone,” he said to his companion. “But I’m sure he was tailing me.”
    “You’re getting paranoid in your old age, Stan,” the man said. “Who would want to follow you anymore? The Cold War is over.”
    “Maybe for you,” Bartholomew replied.

    At twelve o’clock sharp a handsome blonde woman in a black silk raincoat approached Bobby’s park bench. “Mr. Jones?” she asked.

    Bobby stood. “Yes, indeed,” he replied.
    “I’m Moira Bailey, Ted Cricket’s friend.”
    “Glad to meet you,” Bobby said, shaking her hand. “Let’s take a stroll around the park, shall we?”
    “Love to.” She took his arm.
    They walked up and down the little park, always keeping the front door of the embassy in sight. “I’ll point him out when he leaves,” Bobby said, “then he’s all yours.”
    “Right,” Moira replied.
    They had to wait for three-quarters of an hour before Bartholomew appeared, walking with another man, no doubt the American that Ted Cricket had spotted him with the day before.
    “He’s the taller of the two,” Bobby said. He handed her a card. “Here’s my cellphone number; let me know when you’re done.”
    “Right,” Moira replied, then set off down the square, keeping Bartholomew in sight.

    Bartholomew and his friend walked down into Berkeley Square, then down an adjoining mews and into a restaurant. Moira waited two minutes, then followed them in.
    The two men were standing near the end of a crowded bar, each with a pint of bitter. Bartholomew was leaning on the bar, pulling his suit tight against his body. Nothing in the hip pocket, she thought. Then he fished his wallet from an inside coat pocket and took out a five-pound note to pay. Oh, thanks, she thought, taking it all in. She saw the ladies’ room door past them, up a couple of steps, and she walked toward it, catching Bartholomew’s eye and interest along the way, offering him a little smile. She went into the ladies’, freshened her makeup, and went out again. Bartholomew had stationed himself where he could watch her come out. She smiled at him again, then put a foot out, missed the first step, and began to fall forward.
    Bartholomew took a step forward, his pint in his left hand, stuck out an arm, and, grazing a breast, caught her in his right arm.
    She deliberately did not regain her feet right away, leaning into him, staggering him a couple of steps away from the bar.
    “There,” he said, lifting and setting her on her feet again.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said breathlessly. “My heel caught on the step.”
    “It’s quite all right,” Bartholomew said. He still had his arm around her. “I think you should have a drink with us and regain your composure.”
    “Oh, I wish I could,” she said. “You seem very nice, but I’m on my way to a rather important appointment. I just came in here to use the ladies’.”
    “Oh, come on,” Bartholomew said. “What’ll it be? Harry?” he called to the bartender.
    “No, really, I can’t,” Moira said. “I’d love to another time, though.” She didn’t want to be there when he discovered his wallet was missing.
    “Give me your number, then.”
    She fished in her handbag and came up with a card, identifying her as Ruth Hedger. “You’ll most likely catch me in the early evenings,” she said. “Do you have a card?”
    “Name’s Bill,” he said. “You can remember that, can’t you?”
    “Surely,” she said. “Thank you for saving me from a nasty fall.” She turned her large eyes on his like headlights, making him smile. “Bye-bye.” She continued down the bar, knowing his eyes were on her ass, and out into the mews.
    Once outside, she walked back to the square and turned a corner, making sure Bartholomew had not followed her, then she took a tiny cellphone from her