The Short Forever sb-8

by Stuart Woods

  Stone was suddenly struck with an odd feeling. “Excuse me a minute, will you?” He went upstairs and retrieved his copy of the Swiss bank documents. There was an account manager’s name at the top of the first page, and a telephone number. Stone dialed the number.

  An operator answered, repeating only the number.

  “May I speak with Dr. Peter von Enzberg?” Stone asked.

  “Who is calling, please?” the operator asked in stiff English.

  “My name is Stone Barrington.”

  “One moment.” There was a brief pause, followed by several clicks.

  “This is Peter von Enzberg,” a deep voice said, sounding very English. “Is that Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes, Doctor. I opened an account yesterday and transferred some funds from New York.”

  “Of course, Mr. Barrington; we received the funds in good order.”

  “Can you tell me the current balance in my account?”

  “May I have your code word, please?”

  Stone gave it to him.

  “One moment.” Stone could hear computer keys clicking. “Your current balance is one hundred dollars, Mr. Barrington.”

  Stone felt suddenly ill. “What was the amount you received from New York?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Then why isn’t it in the account?”

  “A request was made to transfer the funds shortly before closing yesterday. It was very late, but the request was urgent, so we accommodated Mr. Cabot.”

  “Mr. Cabot had access to my account?”

  “Why, yes, Mr. Barrington; his signature was on the account application, and he knew the code word.”

  Stone felt frozen. “Where were the funds transferred?”

  “To an account in Hong Kong,” the account manager replied.

  “Thank you, Dr. von Enzberg.” He hung up and trudged down the stairs.

  “What’s wrong?” Carpenter asked. “You look ill.”

  “I’ve been had,” Stone replied.

  Chapter 52

  STONE SANK HEAVILY INTO AN ARMCHAIR in the drawing room.

  “Explain,” Carpenter said.

  “Lance transferred all the money out of the account yesterday, to a bank in Hong Kong.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “Apparently, he had access to my account.”

  Carpenter stared at him. “Did you sign the account application, then give it back to Lance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he simply added his own signature to the document. Did he know your code?”

  “I wrote it on the form. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “An expensive oversight,” Carpenter said.

  “I could get the Hong Kong account number, and we could trace the funds,” Stone said.

  Carpenter shook her head. “Remember the time difference; Cabot has had plenty of opportunity to retransfer the funds half a dozen times; he was probably at it all night. We’d never find it.”

  “But your people will reimburse me?”

  “I can’t make any promises; my management are likely to take a dim view of all this.”

  “I worked very hard to earn that money,” Stone said, though he’d really made it in the market. “You can’t let them hang me out to dry.”

  “If it were our funds he’d stolen, that would be one thing, but your funds are quite another.” She looked at her watch. “We have to get going,” she said.

  “To where?”

  “To Wiltshire; obviously, the timetable has been accelerated. I hope we’re not too late.”

  Stone grabbed a tie and his suit jacket and they met downstairs.

  “We’ll take your Jaguar,” Carpenter said. “But you can’t go,” she said to Dino.

  “I go where he goes,” Dino replied.

  Carpenter looked at Stone, who nodded. “Oh, all right. Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  Carpenter drove, fast and expertly.

  Stone glanced at the speedometer, which was glued to a hundred and twenty miles an hour. “Aren’t you worried about being stopped by the police?”

  “The number plate is a special one; they’ll know to leave us alone,” she replied. She fished her cellphone out of her bag and dialed a number, driving with one hand, making Stone nervous. “It’s Carpenter,” she said. “Cabot has bolted with Barrington’s money, we don’t know where. We have to assume that his timetable has changed. I’m on the way, and I’ll be there in an hour.” She punched off.

  Stone called the Farm Street house again. Erica answered.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’ve had three double espressos, but I’m still a little fuzzy around the edges.”

  “Write down this number,” Stone said, and gave her his cellphone number. “If Lance should call, tell him I called and want to speak to him urgently. When he hangs up, you call me immediately.”

  “What’s going on, Stone?” Erica asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, “but don’t leave the house; stick by the phone.”

  “All right,” she replied.

  Stone hung up. “Should I call her back and have her check the office in the wine cellar?”

  “Don’t bother,” Carpenter said. “It isn’t Cabot’s office.”

  Stone looked at her. “Then whose is it?”

  “It belongs to the owner of the house,” she said. “He’s one of ours.”

  “Why would Lance rent a house from one of your people?”

  “He doesn’t know. We’ve been keeping track of Cabot ever since he arrived in London last year. He was followed to an estate agent’s, where he was looking for houses to rent, and we, in effect, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The rent and the location were irresistible.”

  “Who shot the two Israelis?”

  “Not our people; maybe Stan Hedger.”

  “Why?”

  “He may have read them as a threat to Cabot, and he didn’t want anything to happen to Cabot, at least not yet.”

  “This is way too complicated for me,” Stone said.

  “Then don’t try to figure it out.”

  “Makes perfect sense to me,” Dino chipped in from the backseat.

  “What does?”

  “The whole thing. Hedger hires you to look into Cabot because he’s afraid if he uses his own people Cabot will figure it out, because, having been one of them, he knows how they operate. Cabot researches you, figures you were telling the truth when you said you were no longer working for Hedger.”

  “I did tell the truth,” Stone said. “Eventually.”

  “Yeah. Once Cabot thinks you’re not working for Hedger, he figures you for a mark.”

  “God knows, that’s true.”

  “The Israelis obviously want whatever Cabot is buying, and so does Hedger.”

  “But the American government already has access to this technology, doesn’t it?” Stone asked Carpenter.

  Carpenter looked momentarily uncomfortable. “Not necessarily,” she said.

  Dino continued. “Makes even more sense,” he said. “The Brits build this . . . thing . . . and they don’t share their little secret with the Americans, so Hedger and his people are pissed off.”

  “But why me?” Stone asked.

  “You’re not some unknown person,” Dino said. “You get your name in the papers now and then. That’s probably how you came to Hedger’s attention—that, or your old professor buddy down at NYU dropped your name on somebody he used to know.”

  “And who would the professor be?” Carpenter asked.

  “Samuel Bernard,” Stone replied. “He was one of my professors in law school.”

  “That bloke is a bloody legend,” she said, wonder in her voice.

  “I knew he had a lot of connections, but I didn’t know he qualified as a legend.”

  “He was offered the directorship of central intelligence at one time; turned it down and went to NYU, but word is, he kept h
is hand in. Once you’ve been at that level in the agency, you don’t just get put out to pasture.” She whipped off the motorway, made a left, drove another half a mile, and turned onto a smaller road, keeping her speed at what Stone figured was about twenty miles an hour more than the car was capable of on that road.

  Stone hung onto the door handle and tried not to look at the winding black tarmac rushing at him. Dino, on the other hand, seemed perfectly awake.

  “Looks like everybody knows what’s going on here except you, Stone,” he said.

  “Oh, I think you’ve explained it to him very well, Dino,” Carpenter said, whipping around a hairpin turn. “You missed your calling; you’re wasted as a policeman.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Dino replied. “I wouldn’t get mixed up in your business for anything. You can never trust anybody.”

  “Not a bad policy,” she replied. “Is it any better on the NYPD?”

  “Marginally,” Dino said.

  “Where are we going?” Stone asked.

  “Right up there,” Carpenter replied. They had emerged from a stand of trees onto an open, rolling plain with few trees. Ahead of them a mile or so, at a crossroads, was a three-story stone building, which got larger fast. Carpenter skidded into the parking lot, which was nearly full, and got out of the car. “Come on,” she said.

  Stone saw two men on a ladder stringing a cable from a utility pole on the road to a corner of the building. He looked at the sign: THE BREWER’S ARMS, it read. He followed Carpenter inside.

  Chapter 53

  THEY WALKED UP TO THE THIRD FLOOR of the country inn, past a guard, and into a roomy, two-bedroom suite, which contained half a dozen men, most in their shirtsleeves, and several pieces of electronic equipment—radios, computers, and two large, flat-screen monitors. Thick wires ran from the equipment out a window, where Stone had seen the two men stringing wire, and he could see a small satellite dish mounted to the windowsill.

  “What’s happening?” Carpenter said to one of the men. “Oh, this is Barrington and Bacchetti; they’re with me. Gentlemen, this is Plumber.”

  “We’re just about set up,” Plumber said. “We’re expecting satellite contact any moment, and we’ve got great weather for it.”

  “What have you done with the two subjects’ homes?”

  “We couldn’t get anything decent with sonic equipment,” Plumber said. “They both live in official housing, and double glazing was installed a few months ago, so we can’t get anything off the glass. We’ve tapped both phones from the exchange, but since they’re both at work, we’re not getting anything.”

  “Eyeball surveillance?”

  “Nothing within five miles,” Plumber replied. “We figure that when Cabot arrives in the area he’ll canvass the neighborhood, looking for anything that might be surveillance, so we’re going to rely on satellite, until dark. After that, we’ll have taxis with local numbers painted on, but we’ll keep our distance. We’re going to place satellite tracker marks on both subjects’ cars, so we needn’t stay within sight.”

  “Where’s Mason?”

  “He’s running the on-ground operation; he’ll be in touch when something happens.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Bad news; Portsmouth let us down.”

  “What?”

  “Something about a suspect merchant ship in the harbor; they’ve put all their people and equipment on that.”

  “Do we have enough resources on the ground here to cover both subjects?”

  “Maybe; that’s the best I can tell you.”

  “Isn’t there anything else we can draw on?”

  “No. Another team is on its way to Scotland, looking for a suspected terrorist who is supposed to be arriving in the Clyde on a tanker.”

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  “Satellite’s up,” a young man at a computer station said.

  Everyone gathered around him. The image on the big monitor was of a building and a carpark. “Eastover internal security gave us the position of the two subjects’ cars.” He moved the cursor to a small car and clicked on it: an A appeared on the car’s roof. He moved the cursor to another, larger car and clicked again. A B appeared on the car. “A is Morgan, our male subject; B is Carroll, our female. The equipment will move the ID letter with the cars, so we won’t lose them in traffic.”

  “How about the houses?” Carpenter asked.

  The tech tapped some more keys, and the screen divided into thirds. “Now you can see both Eastover and the two houses,” he said. “Neato, huh?”

  “Stop speaking American,” Carpenter said.

  Plumber spoke up. “Internal security at Eastover is tracking both Morgan and Carroll inside the building. They’ll know if either tries to take something out.”

  “Tell them not to stop either one,” Carpenter said. “I want to bag Cabot and find out from him who his buyer is.”

  “Righto.”

  “Well,” Carpenter said, “we’ve nothing to do until the end of the workday, when our two subjects will leave the building. We might as well order some lunch.” She went to a desk and found a room-service menu.

  By half-past five, they were ready for some action. Stone was reading an elderly copy of Country Life, and Dino was in one of the bedrooms, glued to a cricket match. Carpenter merely paced.

  “We’ve got movement,” Plumber said. It was one minute past five-thirty, and people were streaming out of the Eastover building.

  “Typical civil servants,” Carpenter said. “Leaving on the stroke of quitting time.”

  “We can’t identify individuals by satellite, but look, A’s car is on the move. There—so is B’s.” The cars pulled out of the carpark and turned in opposite directions.

  A cellphone rang, and Plumber answered it. “Righto,” he said, then hung up. “We’ve got word from internal security that both subjects have left the building.”

  “Were they carrying anything?” Carpenter asked.

  “A wore a loose raincoat, and B had a bakery box, looked like a cake.”

  “Did they search them on the way out?”

  “I asked them not to, as per your instructions.”

  Carpenter watched the screen as it divided in two, each displaying a car with a letter on top.

  Five minutes passed. “They’re home,” Plumber said. “Both cars are garaged. The houses are virtually identical.”

  “Government-issue,” Carpenter said.

  “Right, but they’re on opposite sides of the village; both back up onto Salisbury Plain.”

  “What now?” Stone asked.

  “We wait,” Carpenter replied.

  They did not have long to wait. “We’ve got movement on A, Morgan,” Plumber said. “He’s backed his car out of the garage, now he’s loading something, can’t tell what.”

  Everybody gathered around the screen to see the man putting several items into the back of what seemed like a small station wagon.

  “What kind of car is that?” Stone asked.

  “Morris Minor Estate,” Plumber replied. “It’s from the fifties, and Morgan has carefully restored it himself; looks new.”

  Across the room a man wearing headphones shouted, “B’s getting a phone call!” He flipped a switch, and, over a speaker, they could all hear the phone ringing.

  There was a click, and a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

  From the other end of the connection came not a voice, but a whistle. The whistler performed a few bars of “Rule Brittania,” then hung up. The woman hung up, too.

  “That’s a signal,” Plumber said. “Everybody alert; she’s going to move now.”

  On the split screen they watched Morgan back his Morris Minor out of his driveway and head off down the street, his car still marked with an A.

  “Oh, shit,” Plumber said, pointing at the other side of the screen. B was coming out of the garage, too, but not in her car; she was pushing a bicycle. On the back, a large pair of saddlebags could be seen. “We ca
n’t put a tracker mark on her bicycle—not enough area showing to the satellite. This is going to be dicey.”

  “Don’t you lose that bicycle,” Carpenter warned.

  “I’ll do my best,” the tech said, “but with the marked car, the tracking would have been automatic. With the bike, I’m going to have to do it manually, and it’s the toughest computer game you ever saw.”

  “Cabot is very smart,” Carpenter said. “But we knew that; we should have suspected something like this. Where’s Morgan going?”

  “I’ll put him on the other screen,” the tech said. “It’ll be easier to track B if we devote a whole screen to her.” He tapped in a command, and the second screen came to life.

  “He’s leaving the village,” Plumber said. “We’ve got fewer houses, now. He’s headed west, toward the Plain. Wait a minute, he’s turning into some woods. Shit, we won’t be able to see him under trees.”

  Then the Morris Minor emerged from the trees and stopped. Morgan got out of the car, opened the rear doors, and began unloading.

  “What’s he doing?” Carpenter asked.

  “Equipment of some sort,” Plumber replied.

  “It’s an easel,” Stone said. “Look, he’s setting it up.”

  “He’s going to paint?” Plumber asked.

  “Looks like it,” Carpenter replied.

  Morgan set up a camp stool, opened what looked like a toolbox, and placed a canvas on the easel.

  “He’s going to paint the sunset,” Plumber said.

  “I’ve got trouble here,” the tech said suddenly, pointing to the screen before him. “Carroll is approaching a roundabout, and so are some other bikes.” They watched as B moved into the roundabout, merging with half a dozen other bicycles. Then they began exiting.

  “Which one is she?” Carpenter demanded.

  “You got me,” the tech replied. “There are two roads off the roundabout, and we’ve got two bikes on one and four on the other. We can’t track them all.”

  “It’s B, Carroll,” Carpenter said. “Use both views to track the cyclists, until we can identify her. Morgan’s going to be there awhile; we’ll let him be. It’s Carroll, I know it.”