Naked Greed (Stone Barrington)

by Woods, Stuart

  —

  Dino arrived first, twenty minutes later. “Any news?”

  “He’s alive and being worked on,” Stone said.

  Dino sat down beside him. “I thought your car was bulletproof.”

  “Ian opened a window.”

  “Shit.”

  “Felicity will be here shortly. I’ll handle her.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Dino said.

  A nurse hurried toward them. “There’s a woman in the waiting room looking for Barrington?”

  “That’s me, please let her in.”

  Felicity bustled down the hall, looking smashing in a black cocktail dress.

  Stone sat her down and briefed her. The doctor emerged from the treatment room. “Jesus,” he said, seeing the crowd. “Who do I talk to?”

  “To me,” Dino said, flashing a badge.

  “It’s the commissioner, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Talk to me.”

  “He’s alive and stable. The round cut across the back of his neck, he’s lost some blood, but he’ll make a complete recovery. Right now we’re taking him up to surgery to do a more permanent repair.”

  A bed pushed by two nurses came out the door and rolled down the hallway, followed by Stone and the crowd. Ian was sitting up, a roll of gauze behind his neck. He gave a little wave. Somebody came and showed the group to a more comfortable waiting room.

  “Well,” Felicity said, “there goes the UN opportunity. I’ll have to think of somewhere else to hide him.”

  “I’m sorry, Felicity,” Stone said. “I thought he would be safe in my car.”

  “I’ll station a couple of uniforms outside his room, as soon as he gets out of recovery,” Dino said. He came and sat by Stone. “Why do you think Major Rattle was the intended victim?” he asked quietly.

  Stone opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

  “Yeah, me too,” Dino said. “You’re not through watching your ass.”

  When Ian was out of surgery and recovering, Stone drove Felicity back to the British UN embassy. Fred had cleaned up the rear seat, except for the bullet holes, and the police had made a mess of that while extracting the slugs.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do now,” Felicity said.

  “I think you should do nothing.”

  “That’s the one thing I can’t do.”

  “I don’t think the shooter was after Ian, I think he was after me. Dino thinks so, too.”

  “The Dahaians know nothing about you. You’re not involved.”

  “It’s not that. I’ve been involved in something else—a business brouhaha concerning a client. His opponent was a mob type, and he put people on me. Dino and I managed to reverse that process, and the pair killed their boss, then got out of town, so we thought I was safe. But apparently not.”

  “Are you quite sure about this?”

  “These Dahai people couldn’t have known Ian was staying in my house. That was very closely held information, wasn’t it?”

  “In my service, only I knew about it. On this side of the water, only Holly knew.”

  “That’s pretty closely held, and I don’t think either of you has loose lips.”

  Felicity thought about it for a moment. “I’m inclined to think you are right,” she said.

  “Have you made any progress finding the leak at your end?”

  “We have our suspicions.”

  “Ian said he thought it would be service personnel—a driver or a cleaning lady.”

  “We’re covering that avenue very closely. These people are vetted in much the same way that our officers are. The problem is, the vetting doesn’t cover their susceptibility to large sums of money. How does one assess a weakness?”

  “I should think it would be easier to assess after the fact: bank balances, large cash expenditures, that sort of thing.”

  “Of course we’re looking into that, but if they don’t put a bribe into their bank account, pay off the mortgage, or buy a new Jaguar, we’re stymied.”

  “There’s always interrogation,” Stone said.

  “As we speak, practically everyone in the building is being polygraphed and pressurized, in one way or another. This really is a major effort.”

  “Of course it is, but I don’t think Ian’s safety has been compromised. I’m perfectly happy to continue having him as a guest.”

  “He’ll be several days in hospital,” Felicity said. “I’ll reassess when he’s better.”

  “Then you’ll be staying on for a few days?”

  She smiled. “It would appear so.”

  “Then perhaps you’d be more comfortable with me than at the embassy.”

  “I’m sure I would be. First, though, I have to smooth the ambassador’s ruffled feathers and convince him that you are the quarry, not Ian. He has an aversion to the intelligence services, thinks we’re all cowboys.”

  “In that case, perhaps he’d be happy to be rid of his houseguest.”

  “Perhaps he might, I’ll find out.” They stopped in front of the embassy. She kissed him affectionately. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, then got out of the car.

  When she was safely inside, Fred got back into the car. “I’m very sorry about all this, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about, Fred.”

  “I should not have left the garage with that window open.”

  “It was not an unreasonable thing to do. Don’t worry about it.” Stone thought about that. “On the other hand, go on worrying about it. Dino and I think the shooter was after me, not Major Rattle.”

  “Then I shall go on worrying about it,” Fred said.

  “Call the Bentley dealer and order a repair or a new seat. Worry about that first.”

  —

  Frank met Jimmy James at a restaurant by the water. Jimmy stood out in the group, because he was wearing a pin-striped suit and necktie, whereas most of the other male customers seemed to believe themselves to be in Honolulu.

  They ordered drinks and lunch; Frank declined the drink.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Jimmy said. “Are the police in New York looking for Frank Riggs?”

  “No,” Frank said honestly. “They’re looking for Frank Russo, and they’re not going to find him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I took precautions some time ago,” Frank said. “I have a genuine Florida driver’s license, carry license, and U.S. passport in the name of Franklin George Riggs, and I bought my apartment three years ago under that name. I also have a Miami bank account, credit cards, and a credit history here.” He indicated the stubble on his upper lip. “And I’ve always thought I’d look great with a mustache, and I’ve given up my contacts for these.” He pointed at his glasses.

  “How are you fixed for cash?”

  “I’m comfortable.”

  “Does anybody—anybody at all—know where you are?”

  “Just Susie. My former partner thinks I’m in L.A., and he doesn’t know what I’m driving or what name I’m using.”

  “Do you have a wife?”

  “I had a woman I called my wife. She’s sitting on a stash that will keep her comfortable for a while. She owns a house that I paid for, and she has a good job. And not even she knows where I am. We won’t be speaking again.”

  “You’re a fellow who knows how to burn his bridges.”

  “I am.”

  “I admire that, and I think you and I may be able to do business.”

  “I’m very impressed with you, Jim, but that depends on what you’ve got in mind. I’m not up for any business that requires a gun to close a deal.”

  “Frank, I’m an attorney, and I never carry a gun. How would you like to be an attorney?”

  “It’s a little late in life for me to
be going to law school.”

  “Of course it is, but you’d be surprised how rarely the law comes up in my business. A law license is very good cover, though, and I can supply you with one, along with a very nice diploma and a transcript from your alma mater. It’s instant respectability, and as I said, very good cover.”

  “That’s an attractive idea,” Frank said. “What’s it a cover for?”

  “Loan sharking, planning and financing robberies—but never participating in them. I’m the money behind a couple of bookies, too. My cash flow is excellent.”

  “I’m interested in excellent cash flow,” Frank said.

  Stone called Dino the following morning.

  “Hey,” Dino said. “I guess you want to know if we’ve caught your shooter yet.”

  “A positive answer would be an excellent start to this conversation.”

  “Then let’s begin at the beginning: Who wants you dead?”

  “Only one guy that I know of, and he got dead first.”

  “The Russians again, maybe?”

  “I think Lance Cabot negotiated me out of that mess. They might like to see me dead, but I don’t think they want to unnecessarily piss off the CIA.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “We talked about Ryan and Parisi the younger.”

  “Like I said, from what we hear on our recordings, young Parisi is rich now, and Ryan has been given a payoff and told to go away.”

  “Well, it’s all just so perfect, isn’t it? Except for the part about somebody firing three rounds into my car yesterday.”

  “We could just wait and see what happens.”

  “Gee, that’s a swell idea. If I get dead, then maybe you’ll find a clue.”

  “You’re sure it’s not the guys who are after Major Rattle?”

  “Felicity and I talked at length about that yesterday: only she, Holly, and I knew that Ian was staying here.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy into that.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “Maybe Ryan hates your guts enough to do you for free.”

  “That would be weird, since we hardly know each other.”

  “Not everybody thinks you make a good first impression.”

  “It would be interesting to find out if Ryan owns a motorcycle, a .45, and has a shoulder wound. Think some of those flatfoots who work for you could look into that?”

  “I guess that’s not the worst use of their time I can think of.”

  “Well, send somebody down to the nearest donut shop and roust ’em out, okay?”

  “Okay, I’ll get back to you.”

  “I’ll wait with bated breath.”

  “You do that.”

  —

  Stone hung up and thought about Ryan. The man did seem to have a short fuse, but after one brief encounter, would he hold a grudge? It seemed far-fetched to him.

  Joan came into his office. “Fred and I have talked with the Bentley service department. They’re all agog—they’ve never had a customer with three bullet holes in the backseat.”

  “I guess not. What did they suggest?”

  “A new backseat. It would take at least a month, what with shipping and all.”

  “Tell them to air-freight it.” Joan nodded and left.

  Felicity called. “I had breakfast with the ambassador.”

  “Did you smooth his feathers?”

  “Yes, and even better, I just blamed it all on you. When Ian gets out of the hospital he can move into the embassy residence.”

  “That sort of frees you up, doesn’t it?”

  “I believe it does. I have some tidying up to do here. Will six o’clock be all right?”

  “At the stroke of the cocktail hour—that will be extremely satisfactory. Shall I send the car for you?”

  “Thank you, you’re a sweetheart.”

  “Until then.” He hung up, buzzed Fred, and arranged it.

  Joan buzzed him. “There’s a secretary on the line who says her boss is the ambassador to the UN from Dahai, and he wants to speak with you.”

  Bad joke, Felicity, he thought. “Put him on.”

  “Line two.”

  Stone pressed the button. “This is Stone Barrington.”

  “Mr. Barrington,” a woman with a slightly accented voice said, “Ambassador Abdul-Aziz wishes to speak to you.”

  “Certainly,” Stone said, “put him on.”

  “Mr. Barrington,” a man’s voice said, in a very British accent.

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Do you understand who I am?”

  “I’m given to believe that you are Dahai’s ambassador to the UN.”

  “That is correct.”

  “How may I help you?”

  “I wish to speak with you on a confidential matter.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I think it would be better if we meet.”

  “I’m in my office for the rest of the day.”

  “It would be better if you could come to my residence. I’m in the UN Plaza apartment building.”

  This was turning into a very elaborate joke; Stone thought he might as well see where it led.

  “All right.”

  The man gave him an apartment number. “Would six o’clock be acceptable?”

  “I’m afraid I have an engagement at six. Four would be better.”

  “That will be satisfactory,” he said. “I will see you at that time.” He hung up.

  Joan came in. “Was that a practical joke?”

  “It could very well be. I’m going to play it out and see.”

  —

  Stone presented himself at the reception desk at UN Plaza, a handsome building across the street from the UN building that had been built in the 1960s. He remembered a character in a movie saying, “If there is a God, he probably lives in this building.” He gave his name to the desk clerk and was told to go right up, he was expected.

  The door was answered by a butler in tails, who led him into a large living room furnished in white sofas and chairs, with a spectacular view of UN Headquarters and the East River.

  “May I get you some refreshment?” the butler asked.

  At that moment the ambassador appeared. He was a smallish man of about five feet seven inches, dressed in a sharply tailored Savile Row suit. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barrington,” he said, extending a hand.

  Stone shook it. “Good afternoon, Ambassador.”

  “May I offer you a drink? Alcohol is not prohibited in my residence.”

  “Thank you, just some fizzy water.”

  The ambassador instructed the butler to bring it, and a martini for himself. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, is that not the adage?”

  “It is.”

  They sat down and waited for their drinks.

  “Before we begin, Mr. Barrington, may I ask, are you acquainted with a Major Ian Rattle?”

  “Rattle? Is that a real name?”

  “It is, I assure you.”

  “No, I am not acquainted with him,” he lied.

  “Good, because I wish to bring a lawsuit against him,” the ambassador said.

  Gene Ryan was frightened of coming here but more frightened of not coming. He rang the bell in the late afternoon and waited. He was greeted by a chorus of barks, large and small, from somewhere toward the rear of the house. After a count of about twenty-five, a man came to the door, dressed in green hospital scrubs and about three days of stubble. “Yeah?”

  “I’m the guy Eddie sent.”

  “Right, come on in.”

  The walls of the reception area were plastered with photographs of kittens and puppies and the occasional potbellied pig.

  “It’s a shoulder wound, right?” the veterinarian asked.

  “Ri
ght.”

  “Take off your jacket and your shirt.”

  Gene struggled out of the clothing; his shirt was bloodstained in spite of the makeshift dressing he had applied and the change of clothes. He was directed to sit on the examination table.

  The vet ripped off the bandage. “Flesh wound, in and out,” he said. “Missed the shoulder joint.”

  “You should see the other guy.”

  The vet laughed. “It’s a thousand, cash,” he said, “including drugs.” Gene had the money already counted out and paid him. The vet pocketed the money. “This was what, a few hours ago?”

  “Last night. It took some time to locate you.”

  “Okay, lie down on your right side, so I can get at this thing.”

  Gene stretched out on the table, which was Great Dane–sized.

  The vet came at him with a large syringe and a curved, steel pan to catch the overflow. He irrigated the wound from both the front and the back, causing Gene to writhe in pain.

  “You got some infection there,” he said.

  “You got any novocaine?” Gene asked testily.

  “Lidocaine, sure.” He went to a cabinet and came back with a filled syringe, then injected both the entry and exit. “Give it a minute,” he said.

  Gene gave it a minute, and he began to feel the pain fade a little. “Okay, it’s working.”

  “Good, because I’m going to run a swab all the way through.” He did so.

  “Jesus!” Gene cried. “Give the novocaine a little more time, okay?”

  “I’m done torturing you,” the vet said. “All I have to do now is stitch, and you won’t feel that.” He swabbed the area with a brown fluid, then attacked both ends with a curved needle and catgut. “There, all patched up.”

  Gene started to rise.

  “Not yet, you’ll need an antibiotic. Are you allergic to penicillin?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” The vet stabbed him in the upper arm with a syringe and emptied it into him, then he applied a dressing. “You’re done. You can get dressed.”

  Gene got into his shirt and jacket and was handed a plastic bottle of pills.

  “More penicillin,” the vet said. “Take one every four hours. That’s the Irish wolfhound dosage,” he snickered.

  “This is for dogs?”