by Stuart Woods
“I’m delighted to hear it. Paul, I’d like to invite you and your tribe, and their wives or girlfriends, to dinner one night soon. Would Friday evening be convenient for all of you?”
“I’ll take a vote and call you back.”
“Good.” They hung up. Twenty minutes later Paul called back. “This Friday is good for all of us. The boys will bring their wives.”
“Will you bring a lady?” Stone asked.
“Well, one of Marisa’s security guards is very attractive. Shall I ask her?”
“Please do. Seven o’clock for drinks?”
“Perfect.” They hung up and Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Good news—the Carlssons are majority owners of their clinic again.”
“Great news.”
“They’re all coming for dinner on Friday evening. Will you and Viv join us?”
“Sure we will. She’ll actually be in town.”
“Drinks at seven.” They hung up. Stone called Ed Rawls.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Stone. Will you, by any chance, be in New York the day after tomorrow?”
“Give me an excuse.”
“The Carlssons are owners of their clinic again, and we’re celebrating. Dinner Friday evening?”
“That’s a good excuse.”
“How’s the widow hunting in Islesboro?”
“They’re thick on the ground.”
“Would you like to bring one? I’ll put you both up, together or separately.”
“Yes, I would. If we fly from our little airport directly to Teterboro, we could arrive late afternoon.”
“Excellent. See you then.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.
“Yes, sir?”
“Will you let Helene and Fred know that we’ll be twelve for dinner at eight, on Friday? Drinks at seven.”
“Certainly.”
“Ask her to get back to me with a menu.”
“Certainly.”
—
ON THURSDAY MORNING, Erik Macher picked up his Wall Street Journal. There it was, on page one again: MACHER AT ST. CLAIR LOSES BID FOR THE CARLSSON CLINIC.
He wanted to throw up on his desk. He started to ring for Fox, but he wasn’t the go-to guy for where Macher wanted to go. He picked up the phone and dialed an extension in a basement office. The man was standing before him in less than a minute.
Jake Herman was ex-FBI, having been asked to leave in the wake of an unnecessarily violent incident some years before. He was smart, in a feral sort of way, and entirely without scruples of any kind—a classic sociopath. He was also inordinately fond of money.
Macher explained what had just happened. “Jake, I want retribution,” he said.
“I suppose you want them all dead?” Jake asked with a look of distaste.
“Not necessarily. In fact, it would be better to avoid killing. The police work too hard at solving murders.”
“How about if I do something to the clinic?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Maybe some Legionnaires’ disease in their air-conditioning system?” Jake suggested.
Macher thought about it. “Too likely to kill a patient or two.”
“Then how about a rumor of Legionnaires’ disease in their air-conditioning system?”
“Where could you plant such a rumor?”
“It would make it more credible if it were in two or three publications on the same day.”
“Can you do that?”
“I know a guy who knows a guy—a failed publicist who writes a gossip blog. If he got it out late this afternoon, it could hit the papers tomorrow morning—they read all the blogs. It’ll have to be a little on the subtle side—the guy isn’t interested in lawsuits.”
“Do it,” Macher said, “for tomorrow’s papers.”
“I’m on it,” Jake replied. He left the room.
—
ON FRIDAY MORNING, Paul Carlsson’s son Sven came into his office with a newspaper. “Look at this,” he said, placing the paper on his father’s desk.
A circle had been drawn around a headline: AT SWANK CLINIC: LEGIONNAIRES’ DISEASE?
Paul read on: “‘An anonymous report has come in that two, possibly three, patients at a swanky Upper East Side private hospital with Scandinavian connections have presented with symptoms of an often-fatal respiratory illness. Their air-conditioning system is suspected, and the New York City Department of Health is descending on the clinic with swarms of inspectors.’”
“Do we have patients with any such symptoms, Sven?”
“No, sir. I checked, and our air-conditioning system was checked and disinfected the day before yesterday, as it is monthly.”
Paul buzzed his secretary. “Get me the head of the New York City Department of Health.”
A moment later, she came back. “Mr. Swanson on line one.”
Paul picked up the phone. “Mr. Swanson, are you aware of a report in a morning newspaper that a clinic on the Upper East Side may have patients with Legionnaires’ disease?”
“That has just come to my attention, Dr. Carlsson.”
“I believe this to be a malicious rumor aimed at our facility, and I want you to know that we have checked, and we have no patients exhibiting symptoms of anything they didn’t arrive with, especially not Legionnaires’ disease. Also, our air-conditioning system was checked and disinfected two days ago, as part of our monthly inspection routine. If you wish to send inspectors here to confirm this, we will welcome their attention.”
“Dr. Carlsson, I think it would be to the benefit of both of us if I send a team over there this morning.”
“We will give them full cooperation. Tell them to ask for me, personally.” He hung up. “Sven, thank you for bringing this to my attention. The health department will deal with this immediately, and I want to issue a press release when they are done.” Sven returned to his office.
Paul called Stone Barrington.
“Yes, Paul?”
“Stone, I believe we have now heard from Mr. Macher.”
17
Stone’s fax machine cranked out a sheet of paper early in the afternoon; it was printed on the letterhead of the Carlsson Clinic and he read it with interest.
THE CARLSSON CLINIC DENIES LIBELOUS NEWS REPORT
This morning’s papers printed a report implying that the Carlsson Clinic, one of America’s foremost medical institutions, had patients exhibiting signs of an infectious lung disorder that was being spread by its air-conditioning system.
This report is false and malicious. After a thorough check of each resident patient, it has been determined that not one harbors these symptoms. The clinic summoned the New York City Department of Health inspectors and asked them to inspect the air-conditioning system, and they reported that no trace of a microbe or virus was detected.
The Carlsson Clinic demands that an abject retraction by these publications appear in Saturday’s and Monday’s editions in the same front-page space occupied by the false report. The clinic has instructed its attorneys to immediately bring a libel action against any publication that does not meet this demand.
It was signed by Paul Carlsson.
—
STONE CALLED Dr. Carlsson.
“Yes, Stone?”
“I want to compliment you on your deft handling of this Legionnaires’ nonsense. I’m confident you will get your retractions.”
“Thank you, Stone. The part about having instructed our attorneys was a little inaccurate, so I will instruct you now. If these retractions are not satisfactory or are printed anywhere else in the papers than the front page, file an immediate action for libel, slander, and anything else you can think of.”
“I acknowledge your instructions,” Stone replied.
“Thank you. We’ll all see you at dinner.”
—
STONE FOUND THE evening’s menu on his desk: seared foie gras, crown roast of lamb, risotto, haricots verts, and a dessert of cr
ème brûlée with fresh Maine blueberries. He approved it, then went to his cellar with Fred and chose the wines.
—
SHORTLY AFTER FIVE, Ed Rawls arrived with a handsome woman of about fifty in tow, whom Ed introduced as Emma Harrison, and Stone showed them to the same bedroom, at Ed’s request.
—
AT THE STROKE of seven o’clock the front doorbell rang, and Fred escorted a gaggle of Carlssons into the living room. The boys’ wives, Greta and Inge, were introduced, and Paul introduced his date for the evening, Cara Neilsen. While Stone was welcoming them, the Bacchettis arrived and Ed and Emma emerged from the elevator.
Marisa whispered to Stone, “What do you think of Papa’s new girlfriend?”
“Very nice.”
“She is the first armed woman he has ever taken out. Can you guess where her gun is?”
“No.”
“Good.”
—
FRED SERVED COCKTAILS in the living room, as the study would have been cramped with so many people, and piano music wafted over the invisible sound system.
“I like the music,” Marisa said after a few minutes. “Who is the pianist?”
“I fear it is I,” Stone replied.
“Have no fear, it’s lovely. A secret talent?”
“Fairly secret.” He warmed to the praise.
—
FRED CAME TO him after a few minutes: “There is a phone call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“He won’t say, but he says it’s very urgent.”
Stone went into the study and picked up a phone. “This is Stone Barrington. Get it off your chest.”
“Mr. Barrington,” a man’s gruff voice said, “there is a bomb planted in your house that will detonate in exactly three minutes.” There was a click, and Stone could hear the ticking of a stopwatch.
Stone thought about it for about ten seconds and decided it was impossible that anyone could have planted a bomb in his house. “Please give Mr. Macher a message from me,” he said. “Tell him that if anything like that occurs, I will shoot or have him shot before tomorrow passes.” He hung up and returned to his guests.
“Anything wrong?” Marisa asked when he returned.
“Not a thing,” Stone said, looking at his watch. When a little more time had passed, he clinked his signet ring on his glass to get attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to know that I have received an anonymous phone call saying that a bomb would explode in this house in three minutes. That was five minutes ago, so you need not stop drinking.”
There was a deep silence for about five seconds, then everyone put down his drink and applauded.
“Thank you for your confidence,” he said, and they continued drinking.
—
THEY DINED CONVIVIALLY, and after dessert, a port, Quinta do Noval 1960, was served with Stilton and biscuits. When they were back in the living room on coffee and cognac, Dino came and sat down next to Stone.
“I could have had the bomb squad here, you know.”
“In three minutes? Just in time to pick up the pieces?”
“How did you respond to the call?”
“I told the man to tell Macher that if it went off, I’d shoot or have him shot before tomorrow is out.”
“That was an extremely stupid thing to do,” Dino said.
“If I had taken any other step it would have ruined my dinner party,” Stone said. “Nobody would have been able to relax.”
“I had a thought,” Dino said.
“Did you, now?”
“How about if I call a full-scale bomb alert at the St. Clair mansion in the middle of the night? You know, break down the door, flood the house with men in bomb suits and sniffer dogs, turn Macher out in his skivvies—like that.”
“Dino, my friend, that is a charming notion and one you should hold in reserve, in case this thing escalates.”
“It could very well escalate, you know.”
“I know, and I expect it to, until Macher really tries to hurt somebody. But we’ve taken all the proper precautions. And if we should decide to execute your excellent plan, I’d like for everybody here to be out of town when it happens.”
“Just let me know when,” Dino replied.
18
Erik Macher had just boarded what was now, effectively, his yacht when his cell phone rang.
“Macher,” he said into it. “This better be good.”
“It’s Jake,” the caller said, “and it’s not good.”
Macher listened as Jake played the recording of his telephone conversation with Stone Barrington the evening before. “Shit!” he screamed, alarming the two crew who were bringing his luggage aboard.
“This is what happens when we make empty threats,” Jake said.
“Are you saying that we’re going to have to up our offer by seventy-five percent?”
“It’s too late for that,” Jake said. “I’m informed that as of this morning, the Carlssons have accumulated about sixty-five percent of the stock in the clinic, and they’ll probably get more. And your secretary said to tell you that the board of directors has requested a meeting Monday morning at nine AM.”
Macher sat down and began taking deep breaths, trying to get his pulse and his blood pressure down.
“Erik, are you all right?”
“Not exactly,” Macher said.
“Tell me what you want to do.”
“Take out one of the Carlssons,” he said.
“Which one?”
“I don’t care, just make it look accidental.”
“Erik, they’ve got Strategic Services protection, every one of them, and I don’t have to tell you how good that outfit is. Now, I can probably get a shot at one of them, but the police will be all over us—make that all over you.”
“All right, what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we lie low for a few days, wait for them to pull their guards off, then reassess. Or maybe, a more serious shot across their bows.”
“That’s good advice, Jake. Do the second one. Have my secretary call the board members and tell them I’m out of town, and I’ll meet with them Wednesday morning at ten.”
“Got it,” Jake replied, then hung up.
One of the crewmen was standing by, looking concerned.
“Bring me a drink,” Macher said.
“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”
“A great big single malt scotch.”
“Right away, sir.” The man was back in a flash with a double old-fashioned glass filled with scotch on a silver tray and an ice bucket. “Would you like ice, sir?”
“No.”
The man extended the tray. “There you are, sir. Would you like me to tell the captain he can get under way?”
Macher grabbed the glass and took a big swig. “Do it.”
“Yes, sir, and the chef would like to know what time you’d like lunch served.”
“One o’clock sharp. We’ll be four—the chopper has gone for the others.”
“Yes, sir.” The man dematerialized.
Macher took one more gulp of the scotch; he tossed the rest overboard and set down the glass. He couldn’t be drunk when his guests arrived; for one thing, he wanted to get laid this afternoon, and he couldn’t manage that with a load on.
—
JAKE WAS HAVING a sandwich for lunch when his phone rang. “Please, God,” he said, “not Macher.” It was not, it was one of his platoon of ex-FBI men. “Yeah?”
“Jake, I’m with Barrington and the Carlsson woman. You’ll never guess where they are.”
“Tell me.”
“They’ve just finished lunch at the Central Park Boathouse, and they’re getting into a rowboat.”
Jake brightened. “What’s the opposition like?”
“As far as I can tell, there isn’t any, but I think Barrington is packing.”
“Where are you, exactly?”
“At a table in the Boathouse. Zelda is with me.”
>
“I’ll be there shortly. Don’t lose sight of the boat.” He hung up, rang for a car, got a briefcase from his coat closet, and beat it out of the house.
—
STONE ROWED SLOWLY and reluctantly. “I feel like an idiot,” he said to Marisa. “I haven’t done this since I was in college.”
“Actually, I would never have known that—you seem quite good at it.”
“It’s like roller skating—I haven’t forgotten how, but I’d like to.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “Have you ever made love in a rowboat?”
“Maybe, but not in one in Central Park on a Saturday afternoon.”
“There are some bushes over there,” she said playfully, pointing.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said, steering away from the bushes.
“Oh, come on.”
“I am unaccustomed to self-induced discomfort,” Stone said. “That’s why I gave up camping.”
“What do you have against camping?” she asked.
“I don’t like sleeping on the hard ground in a tent, and mosquitoes carry disease.”
“You don’t like the outdoors?”
“Not for some things. Think of me as a great indoorsman.”
—
JAKE ARRIVED AT the Boathouse and found his two operatives there, lingering over coffee. “Where’s the boat?” he asked.
“Two o’clock and a hundred meters,” the man said.
Jake surveyed the scene. “See that clump of bushes, about thirty yards from the stern of the boat?”
“Got it.”
“Pick up the briefcase and get over there. Assemble the rifle and silencer inside and put a round into the boat.”
“Where into the boat?”
“Below the waterline,” Jake said, “and near the stern. Don’t hit anybody.”
The man picked up the briefcase and hurried from the restaurant.
“You want to sink them?” Zelda asked.
“Humiliation is almost as good as a gunshot wound,” Jake said.
Five minutes passed, and Jake saw the bushes move. Another two minutes, and he saw a splash near the stern of the boat.
—
“STONE,” MARISA SAID.
“What?”
“My shoes are getting wet.”
“Look around—do you see any waves breaking over the boat?”
“I’m not kidding.”
