by Stuart Woods
Their food was served, and Arthur tried his Dover sole. “Meg has not filed a claim, has she?”
“No, but it would take her less than a business day to do so.”
“I can’t go to the board and tell them that one of its members has filed a huge claim. It would be huge, I expect.”
“She places a value of half a billion dollars on the stolen property, which means given your liability limit, you’d save four hundred million. Can you afford to save that much?”
Arthur suffered a brief fit of coughing. “God, it’s difficult to be in the insurance business these days,” he said. “What should we offer this Bellini, Stone?”
“Offer twenty million and settle for twenty-five million.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“You might remember, Arthur, that your group owns a very large chunk of Harmony Software. If the designs were sold, you would suffer a great deal more than what it costs to buy off Bellini. Harmony’s stock would plummet, and you know what you paid for your share.”
Arthur gulped down the rest of his martini and chased it with another gulp of his wine, then he set down his glass and applied his napkin to his forehead. “Oh, Christ, go ahead,” he whimpered.
31
Stone drove back to the offices of the Steele Group with Arthur, then they went up to his office.
“All right,” Arthur said, “how do you want to do this?”
“I want you to cut me checks for ten, fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five million dollars, made out to ‘bearer.’”
“And if you should get mugged on the way to see Bellini, or should you yield to temptation and take a South American vacation, it will cost me, let’s see, seventy million dollars?”
“Should either of those things occur, Arthur, you can always stop payment,” Stone replied. “Do you have a check format that is very official-looking?”
“The checks on our claim account satisfy that requirement.”
“Good. Let’s not keep Mr. Bellini waiting.”
Arthur picked up a phone and pressed a button. “Mr. Harvey, this is Arthur Steele. Please cut four checks on our claims account in the amounts of ten, fifteen, twenty, and twenty-five million dollars, and hand-carry them to me for my signature.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, those are the correct amounts, and please hurry.” He hung up and looked at Stone. “I expect that Mr. Harvey has suffered a coronary and that someone is calling nine-one-one, as we speak. If he does show up, be prepared to wait while he argues with me.”
“I’ll summon all my patience,” Stone said. He picked up a Wall Street Journal from Arthur’s desk and began perusing it. Arthur sat, drumming his fingers on his desk.
After ten minutes of this, a man walked in carrying a file folder. He was wearing an ordinary business suit, but Stone imagined him in a green eye shade and sleeve garters, with ink-stained hands.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Steele,” the man said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harvey.” He nodded toward Stone. “This is Mr. Barrington.”
Harvey turned and stared at him.
“I’m the delivery boy,” Stone said.
Harvey handed the file folder to Steele, but didn’t immediately release it from his grip. “I’ll need a signed claim payment memo for each of these checks,” he said.
“Mr. Harvey,” Arthur replied, “let go of the fucking file.” He gave it a yank, and it slipped from Harvey’s grip.
“Mr. Steele—”
“That will be all, Harvey. Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.”
Harvey backed his way to the door, let himself out, and closed it softly behind him.
“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Harvey,” Arthur said, opening the file. “He lets go of money reluctantly.”
“I noticed,” Stone replied.
Arthur spread out the checks, took an expensive pen from his pocket, uncapped it, and let it hover over the desk as he carefully read the amounts on each.
“Arthur . . .”
“All right, all right,” Arthur spat, then signed each check. He took an envelope from his desk, tucked the checks into it, and handed it to Stone. “They are arranged in ascending amounts,” he said to Stone. “Don’t, for God’s sake, hand him the wrong one, or even worse, all of them.”
Stone tucked the envelope into an inside pocket, stood up, and shook Steele’s hand. “At the next board meeting, Arthur, I’ll tell them how reluctant you were to let go of these checks.”
“I want three of them back by the close of business today,” Arthur said.
Stone went downstairs and got into the rear seat of the Bentley, then he got out his cell phone, found the card Lance had given him, and gave the address to Fred. Ten minutes later Fred pulled up to a tall, skinny building; Stone got out, went inside, then dialed Bellini’s number.
“Hello?” a male voice said hesitantly.
“Mr. Bellini, this is Stone Barrington. I think you are acquainted with the name.”
“How did you get this number?” Bellini asked incredulously.
“It was posted on the public bulletin board at the Apple Store,” Stone replied, “with a thumbtack.”
Bellini made a gargling sound.
“I’m downstairs in your building, and I have a great deal of money for you. Please buzz your front desk and instruct them to admit me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If the desk clerk doesn’t pick up his phone in ten seconds, I’m leaving and taking the money with me.” He hung up.
Five seconds later, a phone on the front desk rang, and the attendant picked it up. “Yes, Mr. Bellini? Of course, sir.” He hung up. “Are you Mr. Barrington?” he asked Stone.
“I am.”
“Will you please take the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor?”
“Thank you.” Stone walked to the elevator and pressed the button. The car rose, creating a g-force that pressed Stone into his shoes, then glided to a stop. The door opened directly into a vestibule, and a thickly built man about six feet tall, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, no tie, and clutching a semiautomatic handgun, addressed him. “What do you want?”
Stone brushed past him, ignoring the gun, walked into a large living room with spectacular views, selected a chair next to another, and seated himself. “I’m Stone Barrington. Shall we get down to business?” he asked, indicating the other chair.
Bellini walked over and sat down, placing the pistol on the coffee table, within easy reach.
“Let me begin,” Stone said, “by stating some irrefutable facts. You have taken, without authorization, the designs and specifications of a self-driving automobile from Harmony Software, and attempted to sell it to the Chinese.”
“No, I—”
“Shut up,” Stone said. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to talk.”
Bellini shut up.
Stone took the envelope from his pocket, extracted the first check, and handed it to Bellini. “Read this,” he said.
Bellini read it.
“That is an official check on the account of the Steele Group of insurers in the amount of ten million dollars. It is in payment for the return of all the files you stole from Harmony. You may hand them over to me now and keep the check. I assure you, it will not bounce.”
“I’m afraid—” Bellini began.
“That is the carrot,” Stone said. “Now the stick. If you are unwise enough to reject this offer and produce the files forthwith, you will be arrested and charged with hiring one Joe Cross and a companion to murder your former employer, Ms. Harmon.”
“But—”
“I should tell you that, before Mr. Cross expired, he told two police officers and an emergency medical technician that you had hired him to commit murder. Those two police officers are waiting downstairs i
n a car to arrest you.”
“But I don’t—”
“However,” Stone said, “if you accept this arrangement and produce the files, I am authorized to tell you that the testimony of the witnesses will be withheld, and you will not be prosecuted for murder by hire. Time to decide, Mr. Bellini. Do you accept?”
“But,” Bellini said—and this time he was not interrupted—“I’ve already sold everything.”
32
Stone’s first impulse was to grab the weapon on the coffee table and strike Bellini on the head with it, but he restrained himself. “All right, Mr. Bellini,” he said, “let’s see if we can extricate you from your fatal error. Did I mention that Maine still has the death penalty?” Stone had no idea whether this was true, but he was becoming desperate.
“No,” Bellini replied, “you did not.”
“Once you are in custody, which action will take about three minutes, all will be lost. Do you understand?”
“But what can I do?” Bellini whined. “The designs are gone.”
“To whom did you sell them?” Stone asked.
“To a man named Owaki.”
Stone tried not to let his jaw drop. “Selwyn Owaki?” Stone had read about this man; he was reputed to be the largest seller of illegal arms in the world.
“That is correct.”
“How long ago?”
Bellini looked at his wristwatch. “About twenty minutes before you arrived.”
“For how much?”
“Twenty million dollars.”
“And how did you receive these funds?”
“They were wired to an offshore bank account.”
“Did you deal with Owaki personally?”
“No.”
“With whom did you deal?”
“A man named Beria, a Russian.”
“Mr. Bellini, Lavrentiy Beria is dead. He was shot by the NKVD many years ago.”
“Not Stalin’s Beria, this one is Stanislav, a distant cousin, I believe.”
“In what form did you give him the files?”
“I transferred them to a laptop computer he brought with him.”
“But the original files are still on your computer?”
“No, he insisted I erase them while he watched.”
“Mr. Bellini, you must be very careful to tell me the truth now. Your freedom and, eventually, your life are at stake. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You still have all the files in your possession, do you not?”
“Well . . .”
“What medium are they on? Disks? Thumb drives?”
“A one-hundred-gigabyte thumb drive.”
“Where is it?”
Bellini reached into a trouser pocket, produced a fat black thumb drive, and set it on the coffee table.
“Where is your computer?” Stone asked, pocketing it.
“In my study,” Bellini replied, getting up. “This way.”
Stone followed him into an adjoining room, where a laptop computer sat on a desk. Stone sat down and inserted the thumb drive into a slot and displayed its contents. He opened several files at random and found drawings and schematics of electronics. He removed the drive, put it back into his pocket, then did a search of the computer for the files, without success.
“I told you,” Bellini said, “he made me erase all the files from my computer.”
“Here is what you are going to do,” Stone said. “You are going to call Stanislav Beria and get him back here with his computer. Give him a plausible technical reason. Last chance to save yourself, Mr. Bellini.”
Bellini produced an iPhone and did a search for a number.
“Wait,” Stone said. “Send me the contact before you call him.” He produced his own phone and gave Bellini the number.
Bellini texted him the contact.
“Now, call him, and get him back here.”
Bellini called a number. “Stanislav? This is Gino Bellini. Have you opened the files yet? Thank God. Do not open them on any account or they will be automatically destroyed, and you have the only copy. Bring your computer back here and I will remove the danger and make the files accessible without destroying them. I know, and I’m sorry about that. It was a simple oversight that I can fix in ten minutes. Thank you.” He hung up. “Beria is on his way back here. We will be lucky if he doesn’t kill us both.”
Stone went back into the living room, took the pistol from the coffee table, checked the magazine and the breach, and tucked it into his waistband, then he had a good look around the room and decided that behind the curtains was the best spot to hide.
“He said he was five minutes away,” Bellini said.
“Can you cause the files to be destroyed if he opens them?”
“Yes,” Bellini said. “I can even make it possible for him to open them once, but not a second time without destroying them.”
“Then that is what you will do. Ask him to open the files to be sure they are safe.”
“All right.”
Stone picked up the check on the coffee table and tucked it back into the envelope in his pocket.
“Am I not to be paid?” Bellini asked.
“You have already been paid by Beria,” Stone said.
“He will kill me,” Bellini replied.
“I’ll be behind the curtain with your gun. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen.”
The phone rang, and Bellini picked it up. “Please send him up,” he said, then hung up. “He’s on the way up,” he said to Stone.
“Is he alone?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t ask.”
“Is there a service elevator in this apartment?”
“Yes, in the kitchen. It opens onto a small lobby downstairs that opens onto the side street.”
Stone nodded. “Play this straight,” he said, “or you are finished.”
“I will follow your instructions to the letter,” Bellini said. The doorbell rang, and Stone went and stood behind the curtain.
He heard the door open, and more footsteps on the marble floor than he had expected. What sounded like Bellini and another man came into the living room.
“You were very foolish to do this, Gino,” a man said.
“It was entirely unintentional, Stan, believe me. Give me your computer and I’ll fix everything.”
“In your study,” Beria said. “I want to see your computer first.”
Stone hadn’t counted on this. He realized that he could see the study door from his position, and that meant that they would be able to see him from the study.
Bellini, Beria, and another, much larger man walked across the living room and entered the study. Beria sat down at Bellini’s computer and began typing. “The files are not here,” he said.
“I told you that,” Bellini replied.
“Now, you fix my computer so that I can open the files safely,” Beria said.
Stone could see Bellini as he sat down, opened Beria’s laptop, and began typing. After a couple of minutes of this, Bellini said, “There, it’s fixed. You can open the files now. Try it, if you like.”
Beria sat down and opened some files. “It works,” he said. Now you sit down at your computer.”
Bellini did so.
“Now we will transfer the twenty million I sent you back into my account. Don’t worry, when I have had this checked out, I will rewire it.”
At this moment, Stone heard the front door open and the click of high heels on marble. “Gino?” a woman’s voice called.
“I’m in the study,” Gino called back. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The woman walked across the living room and into the study. Stone realized that, when they finished doing what they were doing, everyone would come back into the living room, an
d they would see him. Everyone in the study was standing behind Gino, watching what he did on his computer. “Now is the time,” Stone said to himself. He slipped out of his shoes, held them in one hand, and the pistol in the other, then started walking quickly and soundlessly across the living room.
“There, it’s done,” he heard Gino say.
“Done is correct,” Beria replied, then a single gunshot rang out, and the woman screamed.
Stone ran flat-out for the kitchen, and as he did, there was a second gunshot. He found the service elevator and pressed the button. The lights on the panel told him the car was on the ground floor. It began to rise, too slowly to suit Stone. He pressed the button again, hoping to hurry it, then he heard the footsteps of two men walking from the study back into the living room. He saw them go to the coffee table, and that meant that if they turned, they could see him, and there was nowhere to hide.
The elevator still had fifteen floors to go.
33
Stone stared at the floor numbers of the elevator as they slowly changed.
* * *
—
“LET’S GET OUT of here,” Beria said to his companion.
“Better see if there’s a back way,” the man replied.
* * *
—
THE ELEVATOR DOOR opened; Stone stepped into the car and began looking for the correct number. Finally, he found G and pressed it, then slipped on his shoes and tucked the gun into his waistband. The door slid silently shut, but the car did not move.
Stone was about to reach for the button again, but the door slid open and two men stood there. Beria was maybe six feet and 190 pounds; the other man was taller and a gorilla by any measure, maybe three hundred pounds. They stared at Stone.
“Good morning,” Stone said, backing up until he was leaning against the rear wall. “Going down?”
“Thank you, yes,” Beria said, stepping onto the elevator, followed by the gorilla. The door slid shut again, and after another pause the car started down.
