The Short Forever sb-8

by Stuart Woods

  “Stan got put across what was then the East German border, dressed as a colonel—Stan looked a lot older than he was. He wrought havoc on the other side; he’d walk into a military command when the senior officer was out, flash some bogus orders signed by the Soviet commander, issue a lot of ridiculous orders, and it would take them days, sometimes weeks before they’d get everything straightened out again. He was one step ahead of them for three or four months, then, as they were closing in on him, he hit a West German worker on the head, stole his clothes, and rode back into West Berlin on the S-Bahn, the elevated railway that took several thousand essential workers back and forth to the East from the West every day. It was a bravura performance, almost entirely solo, and it brought him to the attention of the higher-ups—got him decorated, it did.”

  “Not a bad start for a bright young man.”

  “It was a lot better than not bad, and it helped that Stan came out of a background that the agency loved and trusted—Choate, Yale, and half a dozen of the very best clubs. His father worked for Wild Bill Donovan in the OSS during World War Two, and by that time he was the head of an important New York brokerage house. If you’d tossed the two dozen top men at the Company in a room together and told them to design the perfect agent, they would have come up with Stan.”

  “What came next for him?”

  “Vietnam. By ’sixty-five, he was on the ground there, in Laos, Thailand, wherever he could do the most good. He was one of two or three guys who invented Air America, the CIA-fronted airline that flew people, equipment, drugs, and all sorts of contraband all over Southeast Asia. He made some money out of that, legend has it.”

  “Was he motivated by money?”

  “Not at first, probably, but agents in that sort of situation suddenly start seeing it lying around on the ground in neatly tied bundles, and it’s hard not to pick up some of it. Stan spent it as fast as he made or stole it, though; he had an establishment in Saigon that included a townhouse that had formerly belonged to a French governor, a chauffeured Rolls-Royce of a certain vintage, and a mistress who was said to be the most beautiful and the most sexually adventurous female for a thousand miles in any direction. He entertained on a scale not often seen outside the loftier regions of French society—a superb cellar had come with the house—and his guests included everybody of importance who came through the city: journalists, presidential advisiors, senior military figures. It was said that the only reason Hanoi never tried to blow the house to smithereens was that all the servants were Viet Cong, and they reported everything that happened there. Stan, of course, maintained he was running them as double agents.”

  Stone had to laugh.

  “When the whole thing finally came crashing down, Stan got out on the last helicopter leaving the embassy. You remember a photograph of an American slugging somebody who was clinging to the chopper as it rose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look closely, allow for age, and you’ll see that it was Stan. It made him more famous than ever, in certain circles.”

  “What happened to the mistress?”

  “Funny you should ask. Stan abandoned her at the end, but it’s said that, within a week of the fall of Saigon, she was living with the commandant of what had suddenly become Ho Chi Min City. She had the house all ready and waiting for him. Eventually, she got out of the country and ended up in LA, where she is now running the most exotic bordello the town has ever seen. I’ll give you the number, if you’re going to be out there anytime soon.”

  “You never know. What did he do after Vietnam?”

  “He had a number of dull postings after that, kept his head down until nobody remembered whose fault Vietnam had been. I met him in the early eighties, when I arrived at the Farm.”

  “What farm was that?”

  “The Farm is the training school for the covert side of the agency, and by that time, Stan was running it. It’s the intelligence equivalent of an army officer becoming the commandant at West Point.”

  “I see.”

  “I think Stan saw something of himself in me—though, of course, a slightly dimmer bulb—so he did a lot of mentoring with me and got me into the Monterey school.”

  “What language?”

  “Arabic; I initially learned it in bed from a Lebanese girlfriend at Yale, and after the Monterey school, I was very good with it. Stan saw that I got a Middle Eastern assignment, a good one. I still can’t tell you much about that, but it involved slinking around various deserts, in mufti, listening a lot. I was limited by my Western appearance, but I did all right. I became something of a specialist, too, at listening in on interrogations and interpreting not just language, but all of the subject’s words and actions. The downside was, I had to watch the interrogations through a two-way mirror, and they were never pretty.”

  Stone didn’t want to think about that.

  “The friction with Stan started when I began to develop my own sources and collaborators. He was working out of the Cairo embassy by then, his cover being something like agricultural attaché, and he ran a tight ship. When I wouldn’t share my contacts with him or anybody else, he began to ride me. I was mingling a lot in the upper reaches of Middle Eastern society, too, so some of my sources were very well placed. I’d write reports giving a lot of good information, which Stan would always say was worthless because I wouldn’t ascribe it to a verifiable source. Then I began getting reports past him, directly to Langley, which is against Company policy, and that drove him nuts. The Company has a chain of command, just like the military, and if you violate it, you have to be very, very careful. Stan’s problem was that my information in these reports nearly always turned out to be accurate, and it made Stan look bad that he hadn’t passed them on to Langley himself.”

  “I can see how that might annoy him.”

  “Then the explosion of the safe house happened, and after he recovered from that, I’ve been hearing from old friends, he became diminished in the eyes of his superiors and something of a has-been in the eyes of his inferiors. That’s when he really started going for the main chance.”

  “And he hasn’t been caught at it?”

  “Stan’s too smart to get caught in the usual ways. Somebody would have to turn on him, and that’s why he worries about me. Sometimes I think that if I could sit down at dinner with him, I could put his mind at rest, but he regards me as as much of a business competitor now as a threat to his personal security.”

  “I can see that it’s a difficult situation,” Stone said.

  Lance looked sad. “One of us is not going to survive this situation,” he said. Then he looked grim. “And it isn’t going to be me.”

  Then the ladies came looking for them.

  “I think you’re going queer for Lance,” Sarah said. She was lying on top of Stone, having just drained him of most of his precious bodily fluids.

  “What?” Stone managed to say, still panting.

  “The two of you went into this huddle after dinner, and I think you’d still be there, if I hadn’t come in and dragged you away.” She began toying with his penis.

  “You’re not going to find any joy there,” Stone said. “Not after what you’ve just put me through. I may take weeks to recover.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, squeezing. “You’re recovering already.”

  Stone groaned.

  “I’m going to make you forget about Lance,” she said, traveling down his torso with her tongue, until she had him in her mouth.

  She was absolutely right, Stone thought. Lance was right out of his mind.

  Chapter 27

  STONE HAD FINISHED BREAKFAST AND was reading the London papers in the morning room when Sarah came in.

  “And how are we this morning?” she asked, in the manner of a visiting nurse. She pecked him on the forehead.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said in a low voice, “but I can hardly walk.”

  “You’re out of shape,” she laughed. “We’ll have to get you fit again. Come
on, we’re going to the market.” She tugged him out of the chair, grabbed a basket by the front door, and led him outside, where an ancient Morris Minor estate car, nicely kept, awaited them.

  “Where’s everybody else?” Stone asked, as Sarah started the car.

  “Erica’s sleeping in; Lance wanted a drive, so I loaned him the Mini Cooper.”

  “Where’d Lance go?”

  “I dunno; just for a drive.” They passed through the gates of the estate, and Sarah turned toward the village. Shortly, they had stopped in front of a small grocery.

  Down the block, Stone spotted the bright orange Mini Cooper. “You go ahead and shop,” he said to Sarah; “I want to have a look at the village.”

  “All right; meet me at the car in half an hour; I’ll be done by then.” She went into the grocery.

  Stone started down the street toward the Mini Cooper. It was empty, and he looked around, wondering where Lance might have gone. Then he saw him enter a pub across the street. Stone glanced at his watch; it was just opening time. He dawdled down the street, wondering why Lance would be in a pub before lunch. Wasn’t there enough booze back at the house? He considered going inside himself, but Lance’s behavior was unusual enough that he preferred not to be seen following him. He ducked into a news agent’s across from the pub, bought a Herald Tribune, and pretended to read it. No more than a minute had passed when he saw two people get out of a parked saloon car and head for the pub.

  Stone had never seen them before, but their appearance struck a chord. They were Mediterranean in appearance, and the woman was quite beautiful. That matched the description of the people Sarah had seen with Lance in a restaurant, and he remembered Hedger’s saying that two of Lance’s contacts in Cairo had been a young couple. Stone tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed the street.

  The pub had stained-glass windows, and Stone peered through one. He saw the three of them seated at a corner table, and he moved around to the side of the building for a better view. He found another window, one with clear glass, partly protected by curtains. He could stand and look inside through a small opening in the drapes without being seen by Lance and his friends.

  There was a very earnest conversation going on, which stopped abruptly when a barmaid brought drinks to the table, then resumed as soon as she had gone. Lance was making a point, tapping a forefinger hard on the table, leaning forward for emphasis. The couple seemed uncomfortable, and the woman placed her hand on Lance’s arm, in a calming motion. He jerked away from her and brought his palm down hard on the table, apparently very close to losing his temper. The couple sat back and listened, not arguing. Then Lance threw some money on the table, got up, and walked out.

  Stone flattened himself against the wall until he was sure Lance had left the pub, then started toward the front of the building. From around the corner, he heard the distinctive sound of the Mini Cooper revving, then driving away in a hurry. Stone went into the pub.

  The couple were still there, ignoring their drinks, looking worried, talking animatedly. Stone stood at the end of the bar nearest them and ordered a lemonade.

  “I don’t care,” the man was saying. “This is getting dangerous.”

  “We have to do this,” she said. “What choice do we have? How else are we going to make this kind of money?”

  “Why do we have to take all the risks?” he asked.

  “We’re not taking all the risks; Lance is doing his part.”

  “Let’s get back to London,” the man said, standing up.

  Stone turned his back to them, pretending to examine a photograph of the pub on the wall next to him. He didn’t want them to register his face; he might run into them again.

  When they had been gone long enough to get to their car and drive away, Stone left the pub and walked back to the Morris Minor. Sarah was just coming out of the grocery with a cart filled with bags, and he helped her stow them in the rear of the estate car.

  They were back in plenty of time for lunch, and found Erica had joined the living. After they had eaten, Lance took Stone into the morning room and sat him down.

  “I’ve done some looking into your background,” he said, “and I like what I’ve learned.”

  “What have you learned?” Stone asked.

  “I’ve learned what sort of policeman you were and what sort of lawyer you are now. I’m impressed with the variety and depth of your experience.”

  “Thank you,” Stone said, not sure what to make of this.

  “I think you and I might do some business together. Interested?”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Profitable.”

  “How profitable?”

  “Very.”

  “How illegal?”

  “Entirely aboveboard,” Lance said. “And the money will be made quickly.”

  “In my experience,” Stone replied, “fast money is usually made at the expense of the law and at the risk of prison. I’m not interested in either of those possibilities.”

  “I assure you, this would be a straightforward business transaction.”

  “Why do you need me to accomplish this transaction?”

  “First, there’s some legal work in New York; I need to create a corporation and open banking and brokerage accounts in the corporation’s name.”

  “Any attorney could do that,” Stone said. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re here, and I’m not in New York,” Lance replied. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Stone had a feeling it was not at all simple. “I’d have to know all of what you intend to do and how you intend to do it.”

  “Not just yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I won’t be involved unless I know what I’m getting into.”

  “I promise, you’ll only be doing what any New York attorney would be doing.”

  “You mean, what I don’t know won’t hurt me?”

  “That’s quite true.”

  “I’ve always found that truism to be a lie,” Stone said. “It’s what you don’t know that can destroy you.”

  “I can’t tell you everything just yet,” Lance said.

  “Let me know when you can, and then we can talk about it,” Stone replied. “Whatever you tell me will be bound by attorney-client privilege as long as it’s legal, and if we should agree to disagree, you’d have nothing to fear from my talking about your deal.”

  Lance stared at him for a moment. “You’re not a very trusting person,” he said.

  “Let’s see,” Stone said. “What I know about you so far is that you’re ex-CIA and that you’re involved in, shall we say, unconventional business dealings. And you have a serious enemy who is still inside the Company and who wishes to see you in jail or, perhaps, worse. Does that about sum it up so far?”

  “You’re taking Stan far too seriously,” Lance said.

  “I’m not sure you’re taking him seriously enough,” Stone said.

  “I assure you, I’m giving him the attention he deserves.”

  Stone shook his head. “I’m not willing to talk about this, until you’re ready to talk to me a lot more.”

  Lance considered this. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.” He got up and left the room.

  Stone wondered if he wasn’t getting near the time when he should be calling Detective Inspector Throckmorton. Not just yet, he decided finally.

  Chapter 28

  STONE ARRIVED BACK AT THE CONNAUGHT and checked his mail and messages, among which was one from Doug Hayward to come back for a fitting. Quick, he thought.

  He changed clothes, then left the Connaught and walked up Mount Street toward Hayward’s shop. In the middle of the block he stood, waiting for traffic to subside enough for him to cross, but before he could move, a large black car pulled up in front of him and stopped. He could not see through the darkened windows, and as he tried, a rear door opened and a large man reached out, took him by the lapels, and jerked him forward into th
e commodious rear compartment of the car. Before he could say anything, he was on the floor, with large feet holding him down, one on the nape of his neck.

  “What is this about?” Stone managed to croak, even though his neck was held at an odd angle.

  “Shut up,” a man’s deep voice said.

  Stone shut up.

  The car drove for, maybe, twenty minutes. Stone tried to keep track of the time and the turns, but he couldn’t see his watch, and, not knowing the street plan well enough, he couldn’t figure out where they were going. They seemed to drive around three or four traffic circles, and shortly after the last one, they made a right turn and stopped. The two men in the rear seat hustled Stone through an open door in a narrow back street and into a darkened hallway. They marched Stone along, making a couple of turns, then he was propelled forward into a small room, bouncing off the rear wall, and the door was slammed behind him.

  “You have one minute to strip off all your clothes, or we’ll do it for you,” the deep voice said.

  Stone thought about this for half a minute, then he got out of his clothes and laid them neatly on a bench along one wall. His eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and he could see that he was in a windowless room with a steel door. There was a bucket in a corner and the bench, no other furniture. A moment later, a small door in the larger one opened, then closed, then the two men came into the cell, took away his clothes, and slammed the door behind them.

  Stone thought about it. These people did not seem like the police. Surely the London police had procedures about arrest and detention, just as the New York department did, and what he was experiencing did not seem to conform to any set of procedures in any civilized country. This was more like something out of a World War II film about the Gestapo, or a spy novel.

  Perhaps three minutes passed, then the cell door opened again, and someone threw his clothes at him.