Eggers shrugged. “His reputation in this country is better than in his own, and I happen to know that he has acquired two building sites in midtown. He also owns a building on East Fifty-seventh Street that houses Strategic Services.”
Stone knew that Strategic Services was one of the two or three largest private security companies in the United States. “Have you had any dealings with them?” he asked.
“I’ve played tennis with Jim Hackett a couple of times at the Racquet Club,” Eggers replied, referring to the owner of the company. “We had a drink afterward last week, and I think he might be a good source of referrals.”
“He sounds worth cultivating,” Stone said. “I don’t know much about his background.”
“He’s ex-Paratroop Regiment.”
“He’s British?”
“Scottish, but you wouldn’t know it to talk to him,” Eggers said. “He came to this country twenty-five years ago, and he’s very much assimilated.”
“He has a lot of ex-special ops people on staff, doesn’t he?”
“That’s the rumor,” Eggers said. “And from both sides of the Atlantic. His corporate protection people are mostly former U.S. Secret Service.”
“I don’t know a lot about his company,” Stone said, “but I have the impression that they have been mixed up in some unsavory things, for their clients.”
“I’ve never heard of any evidence to support that,” Eggers said, “but any outfit that’s as secretive as Strategic Services is bound to generate rumors. They never speak to the press, never comment on their work or so much as acknowledge the name of a client.”
“I can see how that might perk up some ears,” Stone said.
Eggers’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Yes? Please send him to my dining room.” He hung up. “Our possible future client has arrived,” he said.
22
Lunch was served in Eggers’s private dining room, off his office. The room was paneled in walnut, and the bookcases were filled with his collection of old law books, bound in leather. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, giving off the lovely scent of piñon wood that Eggers had shipped in from Santa Fe.
By the time the soup course plates we
re being taken away, Stone was bored rigid. The talk was of London clubs that Eggers and Wight belonged to. Stone noticed that the Royal Yacht Squadron, of which Eggers was a foreign member, was not mentioned, and he assumed that Wight had been blackballed by that club. By the time the main course of lamb chops was served, all the talk was of real estate. Stone was having trouble keeping awake and had no opportunity to raise the subject of Stanley Whitestone. Then his cell phone vibrated on his belt.
Stone stepped away from the table and answered it.
“It’s Joan,” she said. “Herbie Fisher just called, and he’s in some sort of trouble. He’s in the tank at the Nineteenth Precinct.”
“I’ll go right over,” Stone said, grateful for the interruption. “Excuse me, Bill, Lord Wight,” he said to the two men, “one of my clients has an emergency, so I’ll have to leave you.”
Wight stood up and shook his hand. “I’ll speak to Sarah later today, Barrington,” he said, “and I’ll give her your regards.”
“Please do,” Stone said.
“I’ll call you later,” Eggers said.
Stone got out of there. It was a beautiful day, and he decided to walk up to the Nineteenth, which was in the East Sixties. Herbie would appreciate his presence there more if he had to stew awhile.
Stone knew the desk sergeant from the old days, when they had both been patrolmen. “Hey, Mac,” he said.
“Hiya, Stone. How’s it going?”
“Not too bad,” Stone replied. “I believe you’re hosting a client of mine, one Herbert Fisher. What’s the beef?”
Mac consulted a large ledger. “Disorderly conduct,” he said.
“How disorderly?”
Mac hit a few computer keys and read aloud from the arrest report. “Subject was a passenger in a limousine stopped for a traffic violation. While I spoke with the driver, subject got out of the car and began to berate me for stopping his car. I told subject to quiet himself and return to the rear seat, but he refused and assaulted me. I placed subject in handcuffs and transported him to the Nineteenth Precinct.”