Three Stone Barrington Adventures

by Stuart Woods

  “Wow,” Willa said. “It accelerates!”

  Stone rotated, got the gear and flaps up, and at seven hundred feet engaged the autopilot and removed his hands from the yoke. “Yes, it does,” he said.

  “November one, two, three Tango Foxtrot, contact departure,” the tower said.

  Stone switched to the departure frequency and checked in, then was given direct Carmel and eleven thousand feet. Ten minutes later he was given direct destination and his final altitude, flight level 250.

  “It’s so smooth,” Willa said.

  “Welcome to jet travel.”

  “Airliners aren’t this smooth.”

  “They are when they have smooth conditions, as we do today.”

  “What a great way to travel,” she said. “Where the hell are we going?”

  “East by northeast. Air traffic control is being very nice to us today. Either there isn’t much traffic or they think we’re Air Force One.”

  Twenty minutes from destination they were given a descent to eleven thousand feet, and, once there, were handed off to Bangor approach and given five thousand. Stone canceled his IFR plan and aimed for just south of the short runway at Islesboro.

  “Bangor is in Maine, isn’t it?” Willa asked.

  “Yes, and so is Penobscot Bay, below us, as is that long, skinny island right there, which is known as Islesboro.”

  “I’ve never been to Maine. This is exciting.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Stone turned final for runway one, lined up his approach, dropped the landing gear, and put in full flaps. The airplane quickly slowed to its approach speed of 88 knots, and Stone set down and braked sharply. “That’s for us,” he said, nodding at the old Ford station wagon as they rolled past it.

  Half an hour later they had unpacked and were enjoying a hot toddy before a cheerful fire in the study.

  “Well,” Willa said, “you certainly know how to make a second date interesting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How is it you chose this place?”

  Stone told her the story of Dick Stone’s death and his inheritance.

  “That’s sad,” she said, “but in the end, fortunate for you.”

  “I can’t deny that,” he said.

  “So, what’s this I hear about this big conference at your house Monday morning?”

  Stone looked at her, dumbfounded. “Please tell me exactly what you’ve heard,” he said.

  “That you’re somehow involved with the CIA—they’re your clients, or something, except you’re representing somebody else on this occasion.”

  “And please tell me who told you that.”

  “The DA himself,” she said, “when your name came up.”

  “And what is the DA’s interest in me and my meeting?”

  “He didn’t say, exactly, just that he hoped to get some prosecutions as a result of the meeting.”

  Stone was baffled. This had to have come from Lance, but why would Lance have told a local, non-federal prosecutor, albeit the most important DA in the country, to expect prosecutions?

  “Well?” Willa asked. “Is this true?”

  Stone thought about the agreement he had drawn and that Lance had signed. He had neglected to insert provisions of secrecy, believing that Lance had no reason to mention it to anyone outside the Agency and that he would, routinely, keep it a secret.

  “Well, since information about this thing is abroad in the land, I may as well tell you, on the condition of absolute confidentiality.”

  “But why, when I already know about it?”

  “Okay, let’s forget it and change the subject.”

  “Oh, all right, absolute confidentiality.”

  Stone gave her the background to the story.

  “And that’s the Mercedes that ended up in that swimming pool in Westchester?”

  “One and the same.”

  “And your client was driving . . . flying it?”

  “For a short time, yes.”

  “That is the wildest story I’ve ever heard!”

  “Tell me, is the DA expecting to call my client as a witness in these prosecutions he’s so looking forward to?”

  “That was my impression,” Willa replied.

  Well, Stone thought, we’ll see about that.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Stone excused himself, let himself into Dick Stone’s secure office, and called Lance Cabot’s cell number.

  “Yes, Stone? And why are you in Maine again on such a cold weekend?”

  Stone ignored the question. “Why does the Manhattan district attorney believe that Pablo’s questioning is going to result in numerous prosecutions for him and that Pablo will be testifying?”

  Lance sighed. “I happened to have dinner with him at Peter Luger’s in Brooklyn the evening before last. I’m afraid he may have overestimated his potential involvement in the results of Pablo’s testimony.”

  “Were you drunk?” Stone asked.

  “Now, Stone, don’t make too much of this, please.”

  “Too much of it? Apparently, details of my client’s cooperation are abroad in the land. Surely you’re aware that that sort of information could endanger his life and those of his family?”

  “Nonsense. Pablo has nothing to fear.”

  “Well, let’s take a hypothetical example: Pablo tells you, on tape, that he sold X arms to X person on X date, and someone in the DA’s office lets that slip to an acquaintance of X. What do you think X’s reaction will be?”

  “You have a hypothetical point, Stone, but don’t stretch it. It won’t happen that way.”

  “Lance, I give you notice now: if you ask Pablo a question the answer to which might put his life in jeopardy, I will instruct him not to answer.”

  “Stone, I’m sure our four days together will go very smoothly, and I’ll do everything I can to protect Pablo’s health and happiness during the proceedings.”

  “Thanks, Lance. I’m going to hold you to that, and afterwards, too.” Stone hung up and returned to Willa.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  “Not anymore,” he replied, hoping it was true.

  They had a good dinner and retired early. Willa came to bed wearing only a short, filmy nightgown, and Stone received her wearing only boxer shorts. Shortly, neither was wearing anything.

  “You have a reputation to live up to,” Willa said, throwing a leg over and snuggling close, her breasts firmly against his chest.

  “Oh, God,” Stone breathed, but he did his best to live up to it.

  When they had finished and lay on their backs, letting the ceiling fan cool their sweating bodies, Willa said, “I hope what I said about the DA hasn’t disrupted anything for you.”

  “What you said hasn’t,” Stone said, “but what the DA said may, before this is over.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to know about your meeting?”

  “He was told by a participant who was indiscreet,” Stone said. “I’ll take steps to see that it doesn’t matter.”

  “I hope that works out for you,” she said.

  “So do I.”

  The following morning they took a walk along the snowy shore.

  “This place is more fun when we can take out a boat,” Stone said.

  “Last night made up for the absence of boats,” Willa replied.

  “That’s your fault,” Stone said. “You were irresistible.”

  “A girl likes to be irresistible,” she replied.

  “Tell me, what brought Herbie Fisher to the attention of someone as lofty as you in the DA’s office?”

  “As part of my ADA’s supervision, I read a memo describing her—how shall I put it?—negotiation with you.”

  “And?”

  “It read more like a capitulation,” Willa replied. “I had a few words with her about that, and next time she encounters a defense lawyer she’ll be a lot tougher.”

  “The young woman saved your office the expense of a prosecution that you’d have lost and the r
esulting embarrassment,” Stone said. “Speaking as an ex-cop who enjoyed putting criminals away, I think she made the right call. So does Dino, you’ll remember.”

  “I can’t judge my people by what the cops think of them,” Willa said.

  “I should have thought that the cops’ opinion of a prosecution would be a very important factor in judging new ADAs,” Stone said. “It doesn’t take any guts to bring a case to prosecution, if there’s any kind of case at all, but it takes some guts and smarts to look at the evidence and see that it’s not enough for a conviction.”

  “Maybe, but a different, more experienced prosecutor might have come to a different conclusion about the evidence.”

  “No,” Stone said, “if I had been talking to you instead, you would have come to the same conclusion.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “Because in a case like Herbie’s, I’m a better defense attorney than I was a lover last night.”

  “You think you’re that good, huh?”

  “As an attorney, yes.”

  “And if I’d tried the case, you think you could have got an acquittal?”

  “I’m sure of it, but the greater skill lies in seeing that a case never comes to trial. Look at it this way: I did your office a favor.”

  “You have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”

  “I’m a good, pragmatic judge of what I can and can’t do,” Stone said. “If you’d had evidence that was conclusive, I’d have been looking to make a plea deal. As it was, I wouldn’t have allowed Herbie to accept any offer you made short of a withdrawal of charges.”

  “I’ve probably been involved in a lot more such cases than you have,” she said, “during fifteen years of prosecution, and I’m a good, pragmatic judge of what’s possible in a courtroom.”

  “What’s your conviction rate in the cases you’ve brought to trial?” Stone asked.

  “Personally?”

  “No, of the cases you’ve approved for trial, both yours and your subordinates’?”

  “About eighty-five percent,” she replied.

  “That’s very good,” Stone said, “but in those of my cases that were tried and I felt should never have gone to trial, my acquittal rate is one hundred percent. Overall, it’s about the same as your conviction rate.”

  “Then we’re evenly matched,” she said.

  “We are, as long as you don’t bring cases I know you can’t win,” Stone replied. “And I’ll make it my business to see that you never lay a glove on Herbie Fisher.”

  “What’s so special about Herbie Fisher?” she asked.

  “If you knew him, you’d know how harmless he is.”

  “He wasn’t harmless to Dattila the Hun,” she pointed out.

  “Like a lot of people,” Stone said, “Herbie will fight like a cornered rat when his back is to the wall. Dattila put him in that position by repeatedly trying to kill him, to Dattila’s cost.”

  They turned back toward the house.

  “I think I’m going to have to go back to New York this afternoon,” Stone said. “A couple of days ago I was comfortable about my upcoming meeting, but now I’m not, so I need to be there. Can we have dinner in the city tonight?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Anyway, I’m not so sure how much more snowy landscape I could have stood.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Before leaving the house that afternoon, Stone called Bob Cantor, an ex-cop who was very good with technical matters.

  “Hey, Stone.”

  “Bob, I’ve got something urgent on my plate. Can you meet me at my house at six p.m., prepared to go to work?”

  “With what kind of tools?”

  “Bring the van,” Stone said. Cantor had a van with several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of equipment installed and tools for everything.

  “Will do,” Cantor said, then hung up.

  The flight back was uneventful. Stone dropped Willa at her building, and they agreed to meet at Elaine’s later. As Stone pulled into his garage he saw Bob Cantor’s van parked outside.

  The two men shook hands, and Stone let them into the house and turned off the alarm that Cantor had installed, then he led Cantor to the dining room.

  “Hey!” Cantor said, looking around at the cameras and cable. “Looks like you’re doing Good Morning America from here.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Stone said, pulling Cantor into the powder room and closing the door, then turning on the water. “A client of mine is being questioned here for four days, starting Monday morning. Their techs have installed all this stuff and God knows what else.”

  “You mean you think they might have overdone it a bit?”

  “That’s what I mean. I want you to sweep the whole house for bugs. If you find something, don’t disable it, but put yours alongside it. You can do that without wires, now, right?”

  “Right. It will all be recorded in the van.”

  “My deal with the questioners is that they will make two copies of the video and audio of the meetings and give me one.”

  Cantor thought for a moment. “I only saw one recorder.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Stone said, “so I want my own recordings of the sessions.”

  “I can do that,” Cantor said.

  “Go to it.” They departed the powder room and went their separate ways.

  Cantor and a helper were hard at work when Stone left for Elaine’s.

  Dino and Doris Trent were already at their table when Stone arrived, and Willa arrived a moment later.

  “You know, I’ve heard about this place, but I’ve never been here,” Willa said. “It’s too far uptown for my crowd.”

  Stone introduced the women to Elaine, who sat down for a minute. “So?” she said.

  “Life is interesting,” Stone said.

  “As bad as that, huh?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Gotta go,” Elaine said, rising to greet another table of regulars who had just sat down.

  “So that’s the famous Elaine,” Willa said.

  “The one and only,” Stone replied.

  “How’s the food?” she asked, fingering a menu.

  “Better than you’ve heard,” Stone said. “The food critics get pissed off because they can’t get the good tables that are reserved for the regulars.”

  A waiter appeared and took their drink order.

  “Ah,” Stone said, looking toward the front door, where Herbie and his new wife were entering. “And now you get to meet the dangerous and deceptive Herbert Fisher.”

  “You’re kidding,” Willa said.

  The couple stopped at the table, and Stone made the introductions.

  “I’m glad you can afford to eat out, Stone,” Stephanie said, “in your reduced circumstances.”

  “I’m investment-reduced,” Stone replied amiably, “not dinner-reduced.”

  The couple continued to their table.

  “That was Herbie Fisher?” Willa asked.

  “You expected a wild-eyed monster, huh?”

  “Not exactly, but I didn’t expect a nebbish, either.”

  “And a nebbish who married well,” Stone replied. “Stephanie is the daughter of Jack Gunn.”

  “So he can afford the very best representation in criminal matters,” Willa said.

  “I’m glad you understand that,” Stone replied.

  Stone took Willa home and got back to his house to find that two more men had been added to Cantor’s workforce.

  “Stone,” Cantor said, taking a small black box from his pocket and pressing a button. “This will keep us from being overheard. There’s a bug on every phone in the house, including your office and Joan’s. You want me to duplicate them all?”

  “Every one of them.”

  “How much time have I got? The video installation takes longer, if you don’t want them to notice.”

  “Six o’clock Monday morning,” Stone said.

  “I can do that, probably by midnight tomorrow.”
>
  “Good man.”

  Cantor pressed the button again and gave Stone a thumbs-up.

  Stone woke the following morning and, when he went downstairs to retrieve the Times, found Cantor and his crew in the kitchen, drinking coffee and eating breakfast.

  “We raided the icebox,” Cantor said.

  “That’s okay.”

  “And we’ll be done by lunchtime.”

  “Great news,” Stone said, pouring himself some coffee.

  “The stuff these people have installed in your house leads me to believe that these people are not exactly your garden-variety industrial spies,” Cantor said. “This looks more like government work, and of a high order.”

  “I’m glad to know my tax dollars are being spent on the best,” Stone said.

  “But my stuff is more than good enough to pick up what you want.”

  “Good. When we’re all done, make two copies of everything. I want my client to have a copy.”

  “Easily done,” Cantor said. “Keep this in your pocket; it will work from there. If you come to a point in your meetings where you don’t want your image or voice recorded, just press the button. All they’ll get is static and snow. When you want to let them record again, press the button once more.”

  Stone put the device in his pocket. “Right,” he said, then he went back upstairs with his coffee, a muffin, and the Times and settled in for a morning of reading, watching the Sunday morning political shows, and doing the crossword puzzle.

  He thought about alerting Pablo to his suspicions about Lance, but decided not to. He would be on hand to protect his client.

  FORTY

  At eight o’clock sharp on Monday morning Stone’s doorbell rang, and he admitted Pablo. Holding a finger to his lips, he walked his client through the kitchen and out to the back garden.