Three Stone Barrington Adventures

by Stuart Woods

  “Hey, there,” Mike said. “Sorry to interrupt your weekend, but I need to run something by you.”

  “Would this be the new offer Lance Cabot has made you?”

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Lance is up here on a nearby island, and he insisted on an impromptu meeting.”

  “So he told you about his offer?”

  “He told me only that it was one you can’t refuse.”

  Mike chuckled. “Well, he’s right. Let me lay it out for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Lance has a real mission to offer us this time: he wants us to extract a person from a location somewhere in Europe and return him to the U.S.”

  “I’ll bet that’s not as simple as it sounds,” Stone said.

  “Maybe not, but almost. In our last conversation with Lance he mentioned the C-17 cargo airplane we own, if you recall.”

  “I remember; I hadn’t heard about that. What, exactly, is a C-17?”

  “It’s a four-engine, jet cargo airplane, very large. It’s very good for us in some situations: we can load half a dozen armored vehicles on it and fly them to a protection mission just about anywhere in the world. It makes us look very good to our clients. The problem with the thing is it’s very expensive to own and operate. Jim got an opportunity to buy it on the cheap from an African nation that had figured out they couldn’t afford it. He formed an air charter corporation, Strategic Air Services, to own and operate it. The idea was that we would defray our costs by chartering it to businesses or countries that had large cargo requirements. Trouble is, what with the world economy in a slump, we’ve had few charterers, and the airplane just eats away at our bottom line.”

  “I can understand that,” Stone said, “having owned a number of airplanes that ate away at my bottom line.”

  “Here’s what Lance has offered us: he will buy Strategic Air Services from us, then charter the airplane back to us when we have a need for it, at a rate that’s just about the operating costs of the aircraft.”

  “I can see how that offer might be hard to refuse,” Stone said.

  “By the way, you sold your airplane to Strategic Air Services, so he gets that, too.”

  “Okay by me,” Stone said. “But tell me more about this extraction he wants you to do.”

  “Here’s what we do: Lance hires Strategic Services to fly to Iraq and ferry a large cargo of matériel back from there—part of our armed services withdrawal from that country. On the way back, we stop at an airport in Europe, to be determined, and pick up the extractee, along with some of Lance’s people, so when we land in the States, it looks like an ordinary cargo flight for the military. We’re paid for the empty Atlantic crossing, the trip back with the cargo, and for the extraction. The profit is considerable. What do you think?”

  “I think we’ll want the Agency to indemnify us for any legal problems associated with any part of the mission and from any damage to the airplane while conducting it, since our insurance may not cover government contract use. If he’ll agree to that, then you’re right, it sounds straightforward.”

  “Then, as our counsel, you’re not opposed?”

  “No; but Mike, I don’t have to tell you how complicated something like this can get, so you want a description of the mission in writing, if Lance will sit still for that, which I doubt.”

  “I doubt it, too, but I’ll try.”

  “One other thing: if I know Lance, the successful completion of this mission will bring other requests for other missions for Lance, and they’re likely to get more complicated and dangerous as you go along. Don’t let yourself get sucked into something you don’t want to do.”

  “That’s a good point, Stone, and I’ll keep it in mind, and I’ll see that you get to read any contract Lance proposes.”

  “Mike, there’s something else you should know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “At our meeting today, Lance gave me a full account of how and why you happened to leave Britain.”

  Mike was silent.

  “You understand, he knows your whole backstory.”

  “That’s troubling,” Mike said. “How do you suppose he came by that knowledge?”

  “He’s the operations director for the largest intelligence organization in the world,” Stone said. “He has sources.”

  “Yes, Stone, I suppose he does.”

  “I think he told me all this in the knowledge that I would tell you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Down the road somewhere, Lance is fully capable of using this information to pressure you into accepting some mission you might not want. If you’re concerned about that, then you should refuse the offer you’re not supposed to refuse and decline any further business from him.”

  “If I did that, would it prevent him from using the information in some other way?”

  “You have a point, Mike. You’re the only person who can say how much damage the release of that story might do. I can foresee circumstances in which public knowledge of your past might make you a sympathetic character, but no one can guarantee that. You, alone, know what you had to do in order to effect your disappearance and your identity change and what risks the wide knowledge of that might entail. Whatever you decide, I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

  “Thank you, Stone. Let me sleep on it, and we’ll talk when you’re back in the city. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mike.” Stone hung up and went back to the living room and poured Adele and himself another drink.

  “Mary says dinner is at seven,” she said.

  “Sounds good,” Stone replied, but his mind was elsewhere, trying to figure out how the possible exposure of Mike Freeman might play out.

  SEVENTEEN

  Early on Monday morning they flew back to Teterboro, and Stone raised another subject that had been on his mind.

  “Adele, are you going to continue to keep your money with Jack Gunn?”

  “Yes, since all the hubbub seems to have been cleared up. I trust Jack.”

  “Herbie Fisher has suggested that I move some of my money there. I have an unusual amount of cash at the moment.”

  “I think that’s fine, if Jack will take you as a client.”

  “Herbie says Stephanie can arrange it. I’m sure I would be one of his smaller clients.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. I’ve had returns of between eight and twelve percent annually, which is good. It’s not the sort of thing that Bernie Madoff paid, but then his company was a Ponzi scheme, and Jack’s is not.”

  “I was a little confused about the story that some of their funds—apparently a billion dollars or so—were somehow inadvertently . . . transferred to some of their foreign accounts. They called it a computer glitch.”

  “I don’t understand that stuff,” Adele said. “I only understand that I had a letter from Jack saying that my funds were secure and that I can withdraw any part of my capital anytime I wish.”

  “Do you know if many people have taken him up on that offer?”

  “I’ve heard there are some, but since nobody lost any money, most of his clients are standing pat.”

  “Thanks for your advice,” Stone said.

  They landed at Teterboro and drove back into New York. Stone dropped Adele at her apartment building, then drove home. In addition to the morning mail there was a fax of several pages from Mike Freeman, which was the agreement with Lance Cabot. To his surprise, it included all the items Stone had suggested. He called Mike.

  “Good morning, Stone,” Freeman said. “Are you back?”

  “I’m at my desk, and I’ve read the agreement with Lance that you faxed me.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it looks good,” Stone said. “Lock it in your safe.”

  “We’re going to close on the sale of Strategic Air Services in a few days, but our in-house legal department can handle that. Tell me, how would you like to fly to Iraq and back on the C-17?
”

  “That’s quite an invitation. How long would we be gone?”

  “It will be a quick turnaround, so probably a couple of days. It will be an experience that not a lot of civilians have, and the airplane is more comfortable than you might imagine.”

  “When would this happen?”

  “Perhaps as early as this weekend, perhaps a few days later.”

  “Let me think about it,” Stone said. “Ask me again when you know your departure date.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “Mike, what are you doing about your funds that are with Jack Gunn?”

  “We’re leaving them with him, and we’re also investing the proceeds of the sale of the aircraft charter business.”

  “So you feel comfortable with Gunn’s accountants’ statement about the audit?”

  “Our CFO was comfortable with it, so that’s okay with me. Finance is not my strongest suit.”

  “I’m thinking of putting the proceeds of the sale of my airplane with Gunn.”

  “Why not?” Freeman said. “I’ll call you when we have a launch date for Iraq.”

  “Okay,” Stone said, and hung up. He thought for a little while, and then he picked up the phone to call Herbie Fisher. Then he hung up. Herbie was knocking at his door, as he often did, unannounced.

  “I hear you had a pleasant weekend,” Herbie said, managing not to leer.

  “Yes, I did,” Stone replied. “Herbie, I’ve thought about it, and if Stephanie can arrange for me to invest with Jack Gunn, I’ll give him a million dollars to manage.”

  “Is that the million dollars I paid you?” Herbie asked.

  “No, that’s been used to pay down my debt, but I sold my airplane, so I have some extra cash for a change.”

  “I’ll speak to Stephanie about it and get back to you,” Herbie said.

  “Good. Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”

  “Yes,” Herbie said. “I was thinking of going into business for myself.”

  Stone had a sudden vision of what a disaster that might be. “What sort of business?”

  “I was thinking of opening a sports and horse-racing book.”

  “Herbie, sit down,” Stone said.

  Herbie sat down.

  “I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Stone said.

  “I’m listening, Stone.”

  “You are aware, aren’t you, that taking bets is against the law?”

  “Yeah, but everybody does it. Gambles, I mean.”

  “Yes, but people who gamble with bookies have only their own bets to lose. A bookie, if he figures the odds wrong on a sports event, could lose everything. For instance, when New Orleans surprised everybody by winning the Super Bowl by two touchdowns over the Colts, a lot of bookies were very unpleasantly surprised. I expect they took a big, big hit on that one.”

  “Well, yeah, you’ve got to expect that, but bookies lay their bets off with people who can afford to take the losses.”

  “Yes, Herbie, and the people they lay them off with are called the Mafia. You’ve had some experiences with them.”

  “I remember.”

  “Do you remember that you’re lucky to be alive after those experiences?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Herbie, there are all sorts of downsides to running a book; taking big losses and dealing with the Mafia are only two of them. For instance, remember how you were worried about your reputation when Jack Gunn seemed to be in a lot of trouble?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I think Jack Gunn would be very worried about his reputation if it became known that he had a son-in-law who was a bookie.”

  Herbie thought about that for a moment.

  “That might make things very uncomfortable for you with your new wife and her family.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Stephanie about that,” Herbie said.

  “If I were you, I would forget the whole thing and not even mention it to Stephanie. If she starts hearing things like that from you, she’s going to start wondering if she married the right guy.”

  “You think?”

  “I think,” Stone replied.

  Herbie thanked him and left.

  Another disaster, hopefully, averted, Stone thought.

  EIGHTEEN

  Stone was having a sandwich at his desk when Adele Lansdown called.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m very well, thanks; haven’t changed since this morning.”

  “I know it’s short notice, but I wonder if you could come to dinner at my house this evening?”

  “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “Some old friends from out of town are here, and I’ve invited my nephew David and his girlfriend, too.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven-thirty, and don’t dress up; no necktie required.”

  “All right.”

  “There’s something you should know that might affect you. I’ll tell you about it when we’re alone.”

  “Sounds mysterious. I’ll see you then,” Stone replied, and hung up.

  Stone, who was, by habit, compulsively on time, forced himself not to leave his house until seven-thirty, so that he could be fashionably late. He hailed a taxi on Third Avenue, and what with traffic, he got out of the cab and crossed Park Avenue, then presented himself at the downstairs desk at seven forty-five, entering the building just ahead of a handsome couple who had gotten out of a cab. As it turned out, they were also expected at Adele’s.

  Stone gave his name to the doorman, who called upstairs, then turned and introduced himself to the couple.

  “We’re Ben and Ann Wharton,” the man said, and they all shook hands.

  The man in charge of the desk hung up the telephone, then dialed the number again. “I’m not getting a reply from Mrs. Lansdown,” he said. “You say she was expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Stone replied, and the Whartons said so, as well.

  The man hung up the phone again, and it rang immediately. “There she is,” he said, picking up the phone. “Front desk.” His face drained of color. “Right away,” he said. He hung up and dialed four digits. “Emergency at seventy-one East Seventy-first Street,” he said. “We need an ambulance and the police immediately. A woman is dead and another injured. Please hurry.” He answered a couple of questions and then hung up and faced Stone and the Whartons.

  “What’s wrong?” Stone asked.

  “Mrs. Lansdown’s cook called down and said . . .”

  “Come on, man,” Stone said, “spit it out.”

  “. . . said that Mrs. Lansdown has been killed.”

  Stone took out his phone and speed-dialed Dino’s cell number.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone. I’m at seven-forty Park, and a woman named Adele Lansdown is dead. The doorman at the building called it in. I think you ought to come, too.”

  “Be right there,” Dino said, and hung up.

  The Whartons were staring at him.

  “I’m a retired police officer,” Stone said. “I called the lieutenant in charge of the precinct detective squad and asked him to come.”

  “What should we do?” Ben asked.

  “We should all stay right here and wait for the police to arrive.”

  “This is terrible,” Ann Wharton said. “Can’t we just go back to our hotel?”

  “No, you must stay and give the police a statement,” Stone said.

  “Do you mean we’re suspects?”

  “No, certainly not. I saw you get out of a taxi as I was crossing Park Avenue, and we entered the building at the same time, so we can vouch for each other.”

  A tall, willowy young woman walked into the building and up to the desk. “Mrs. Lansdown, please,” she said to the doorman. “My name is Mia Meadow.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Meadow,” the man said, “you’ll have to wait here with these people.”

  Stone introduced himself and the Whartons to the woman. “I’m a
fraid something is wrong upstairs. We’re waiting for the police.”

  “Wrong?” she asked.

  Stone was about to explain when a tall, handsome young man arrived and kissed the woman on the cheek. He looked like a young Jack Gunn, so Stone assumed he was the son. “David Gunn?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Stone Barrington, a friend of Adele’s, and this is Ben and Ann Wharton. Apparently, something is wrong in Adele’s apartment, and we’re waiting for the police.” As if on cue, the noise of an ambulance and a police cruiser could be heard approaching the building.

  “Wrong? What do you mean?”

  Stone explained what had happened, and as he finished the lobby became suddenly crowded with uniformed and plainclothes police officers and a pair of EMTs with a gurney. Dino was right behind them.

  Stone introduced Dino to the dinner guests. “I’m glad to meet you all, and I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Dino said.

  “Can you tell us what’s happened?” David Gunn asked.

  “I will shortly,” he said. “You folks please have a seat over there,” he said, pointing at a seating area. “Don’t leave until a detective has taken your statements. Stone, you come with me.”

  Stone excused himself from the group and followed Dino to an elevator, right behind the EMTs and two detectives. As the elevator went up, Dino introduced the two detectives as Salero and Bartkowski.

  Dino led the way out of the elevator, with Stone hot behind. A woman in a white chef’s outfit was standing at an open doorway, holding a towel to the back of her head. “This way,” she called out, stepping back to let them in. “Mrs. Lansdown is in the dining room, to your right.”

  An EMT stayed with her, checking her injuries, and Dino, Stone, and the detectives walked into the dining room. Adele Lansdown was lying on the floor beside an overturned chair and some scattered tableware. The detective Salero knelt beside her and held three fingers to her neck.

  “No pulse,” he said. He lifted her head and looked under it. “At least one to the side of the head.”

  “All right,” Dino said, “everybody in the living room, except you,” he said, pointing to the EMT. “Pronounce her and note the time. Salero, you go downstairs and get separate statements from the other dinner guests. But before you do that, call the ME.”