by Stuart Woods
“And what is the bonus?”
“I can’t tell you that, Bill; only Lance can, but don’t expect him to.”
“All right, Stone,” Eggers said, rising, “but I have to tell you that Lance is a valued source of business referral to us, and I don’t want you to do anything to queer that.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” Stone said, “but I have to say I’m surprised that Lance is sending you business.”
“Rain is made from all parts of the sky,” Eggers said, then left.
“This gets weirder and weirder,” Dino said.
“I can’t disagree with you.”
“Are you doing something to make Lance think you and your client are lying to him?”
Stone shook his head. “Not deliberately, but Lance’s people have wired my house for sound and pictures, and Bob Cantor has seen to it that I have some control over what he sees and hears.”
“I’m not sure I want to know what that means,” Dino said.
FORTY-THREE
Early the following morning Stone got a call from Bob Cantor.
“How’s my little scrambler working out for you?” Cantor asked.
“I’ll tell you how beautifully it’s working,” Stone said. “It’s driving the Agency people absolutely nuts. They want to know how I’m doing it. Do you want me to tell them?”
“Funny you should mention that,” Cantor replied. “My attorney is filing a patent this morning on two versions. You’ve got one; the other has two buttons: one for the frequency range of most bugs and one for the cell phone frequency range.”
“Sounds great.”
“It is, believe me. You tell the Agency people to get in touch with me, and I’ll sell them preproduction units for twenty-five thousand bucks a pop, minimum order of twelve.”
Stone whistled. “What will you sell the production models for?”
“We’re aiming at thirty-five hundred bucks and going after the professional market first. Later, we’ll market a consumer version for fifteen hundred. Tell the Agency people that the preproduction units I’m offering will allow them to adjust the frequency range on the bug scrambler. You can keep your copy, but don’t give it to them; they’ll just cannibalize it and clone it.”
“Right,” Stone said.
“How much longer are you meeting with these folks?”
“Today’s the last day.”
“Okay, I’ll put everything on DVDs and have two copies for you ready tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
Pablo was late arriving, only a couple of minutes ahead of Lance and his group. He was carrying a cardboard mailing tube under his arm.
“Here’s how I want to work this,” Stone said. “We’ll give them the morning to continue grilling you, then immediately after lunch, we’ll hand them their bonus. Once you’ve answered all their questions, excuse yourself to go to the john and get out the back way.”
“Sounds good,” Pablo said. “I’m going—”
Stone interrupted him. “I don’t want to know where you’re going or how,” he said. “Wait a day or two, or when it’s convenient, and give me a call. I’ll bring you up to date on anything that’s happened.”
“There’s something I should tell you,” Pablo said. “The name they called me on—Mohammed X—the one they couldn’t find in their files?”
“Yes?”
“He’s the one who gave me this map.” He held up the tube.
“Then please tell them that,” Stone said. Joan buzzed him and said that everybody was waiting for them in the dining room.
Stone and Pablo went in and sat down at the table.
Lance began. “Pablo, let’s revisit your mention of the nom de guerre Mohammed X.”
“I’ll tell you more about him after lunch,” Pablo said, “but not until then.”
“Why not until then?”
“You’ll understand after lunch.”
Lance sighed. “All right, but you’re not getting out of here until I know everything you know about him.”
“You will,” Pablo said.
Pablo was now up to date on his recitation of events, so the questions fired at him before lunch were all about his previous statement, mostly clarifications.
Lunch was served where they sat, sandwiches and soup, then, when the dishes had been taken away, Lance called the group to order again. “Now tell me about Mohammed X,” he said to Pablo.
“Mohammed X is an underground arms dealer who claims to have excellent contacts inside the upper ranks of Al Qaeda and the Taliban, among other groups,” Pablo replied.
“Have you sold him arms in the past?”
“No, I had met him on two occasions before . . . ah, accepting your invitation to come to the United States.”
“When was the first time?”
“About three weeks ago. We had a long and alcoholic dinner in Mijas, a village up the mountain from my home in Marbella, and he dropped many heavy hints about his contacts.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He told me that he had actually met Osama bin Laden, face-to-face, but he wouldn’t tell me when.”
“What else did he tell you on that occasion?”
“He told me that Al Qaeda and the Taliban were planning a large acquisition of small arms and antiaircraft missiles, which they intend to use against your unpiloted drones that are raining down Hellfire missiles on them. He asked if I would bid on their order. I told him I would need a detailed list of what they wanted, when and where they wanted it, and what they were prepared to pay.”
“Did he give you the list?”
“He gave me that on the second occasion we met.”
“When and where did that take place?”
“At my home, at lunch, on the day your people kidnapped me.”
Pablo reached inside the mailing tube at his side and extracted two sheets of paper. He separated them and handed the smaller one to Lance. “This was his order. I had planned to fax it to your station chief in Madrid.”
Lance looked at the list, then held it up to a camera for transmission to Langley. “And you expect me to believe that?” he asked.
“It’s immaterial whether you believe it or not,” Pablo said. He gave Lance a telephone number. “That is the fax line for your station chief.”
“Did you bid on the weapons?”
“No. I told him I would, in due course, but I never had any intention of selling him the weapons. I think he believed I needed further convincing, so he gave me a very interesting piece of information.”
“And what was that?”
“The longitude and latitude of the redoubt of Osama bin Laden.”
The room became absolutely silent.
“Would you like to write down the coordinates?” Pablo asked.
Lance grabbed a pad. “Yes, please go ahead.”
Pablo recited the numbers.
“My God,” Holly Barker said.
“What?” Lance asked.
“It’s Tora Bora, where he was almost caught before,” she replied.
FORTY-FOUR
Lance looked skeptical. “That’s just not possible,” he said. “He wouldn’t go back to the place where we nearly caught him.”
“Well,” Holly said, “certainly that’s the last place we would look for him.”
Pablo unrolled the map and weighted its corners. “Please look at the markings Mohammed X made on the map.”
Lance and his party stood up to look, and a camera moved in on the map for a close-up.
“Mohammed made those markings. They’re meant to outline roughly a series of caves in the mountains that have been joined over the past year. He says generators and heating equipment have been brought in, and they have made the place quite comfortable. He says bin Laden moved in several weeks ago.”
“That is nonsense,” Lance said. “Al Qaeda and the Taliban have no helicopters or aircraft capable of making big drops into those mountains. There are no roads, only footpaths;
and you could never get vehicles in there that could move that kind of weight.”
“That’s what the Johnson administration said about the Vietcong bringing supplies along the Ho Chi Minh Trail, using bicycles,” Holly said.
“They have something much better than bicycles,” Pablo said.
“Tell me,” Lance replied.
“They have mules.”
“Mules?” Lance asked. “Mules couldn’t carry loads like that for any distance.”
Todd Bacon spoke up for the first time. “I’m from West Virginia,” he said, “and I can tell you something about mules. One animal can carry three hundred pounds all day, and they’re more surefooted than any other animal.”
“Mr. Bacon is quite correct,” Pablo said.
“But we would have spotted them with satellites,” Lance pointed out. “We can see things a lot smaller than mules.”
“They cover each animal with camouflage material,” Pablo said, “designed to blend in with the rocky terrain. The women in the nearby villages dye the cloth.”
“And where would they get mules?” Lance asked.
“From us,” Todd replied. “Back when Congressman Charlie Wilson was funding the Agency to arm the Taliban against the Russians, we flew in hundreds of mules, and they have long working lives.”
“Mr. Bacon is correct again,” Pablo said. “What’s more, the Taliban have a breeding program to supply new animals.”
“This is preposterous,” Lance said, but he didn’t sound very sure of himself.
“No, Lance,” Holly said, “not only is it not preposterous, it’s perfectly feasible, and it’s just the sort of thing the Taliban would do.”
“Let me tell you a little more of what Mohammed X told me,” Pablo said. “There are half a dozen entrances to these caves, some of which he has marked, and dozens of air shafts for ventilation and escape. Fires are permitted only at night, when the smoke would not be detected. The caves are very deep, some leading more than a hundred feet below the mountains. They even have electric generators for powering lights and equipment.”
“And on what fuel do they run?” Lance asked.
“Propane gas, transported in canisters by the mules. They have a large stockpile of them, bought in Pakistan.”
“I want this Mohammed X found and brought in,” Lance said.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Pablo replied. “I learned after arriving here that Mohammed X was run down by a hit-and-run driver in Marbella and killed instantly, shortly after our lunch that day. By that time I was on the way to meet your airplane and didn’t know about it.”
“Are you saying he was murdered?” Lance asked.
“I don’t know, but it hardly matters, does it? Murder or accident, he’s still dead.”
“I want that checked out with the Marbella station of the national police,” Lance said to no one in particular.
Pablo, who was standing, put a hand on his abdomen. “Will you excuse me for a moment, please?” he asked.
“There’s a powder room off the kitchen, downstairs,” Stone said, and Pablo left the room.
Lance had a hand on one ear, apparently listening to someone through an earpiece. He sat down, looking a little dazed.
“Something wrong, Lance?” Holly asked.
“On the contrary,” Lance replied. “Our Afghan/Pakistan desk at Langley is saying that everything Pablo has told us is entirely feasible. The director has already ordered a satellite moved to the area.”
“If Pablo is right,” Holly said, “the satellite is not going to see very much. Apparently, they’ve been working on those caves for some time without being noticed.”
“We’ll see,” Lance replied. “Where is Pablo?” he asked. “I have some more questions for him.”
“I’ll see,” Stone said, then left the room. He went down to the kitchen and closed the door to the garden, then came back. “I’m afraid Pablo has left us,” he said to Lance.
“Left us? What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s no longer in the house. He has apparently decided to be somewhere else.”
Lance pointed a finger across the table. “You did this, Stone. You set this up.”
“I set up everything,” Stone said, “but Pablo, naturally, has a mind of his own and your actions during the past few days have hardly filled him with confidence in you.”
Lance turned to a technician. “Shut down video and audio,” he said, then waited while the man flipped switches and disconnected cables.
“What are you so upset about, Lance?” Stone asked. “Pablo has given you an extraordinary amount of information this week about underground arms sales, and if he’s right about Tora Bora, he’s given you the greatest intelligence coup since missiles were found in Cuba.”
“That remains to be seen,” Lance said, gathering papers and packing his briefcase. He turned to Holly. “I want a chopper at the East Side Heliport in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Full fuel. I’m not driving back to Langley, and I’m not taking the train, either. Holly, you come with me. Todd, you get yourself back to Newburgh and tend to your new charter business. I want a report soonest on the repairs to the C-17.”
“Oh, Lance,” Stone said, “I almost forgot. You asked about the jamming of your audio and video signals?”
“Yes?”
Stone held up the device. “This did the trick, and a patent application was filed this morning. The inventor tells me he is able to furnish preproduction models that will also block cell phones at a cost of twenty-five thousand each, minimum order of twelve. He expects to be in production in about a year.”
“Tell him I want two dozen,” Lance said, then walked out the dining room door.
“Have a nice flight home!” Stone called after him.
FORTY-FIVE
Stone went downstairs to his office and flopped onto the sofa, drained. He was grateful that the marathon questioning of Pablo was over, and he doubted if he would hear from the man again. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
There was a rap on the door, followed by a familiar voice.
“Hey, Stone.”
Stone didn’t open his eyes. “Not now, Herbie, please.”
“I think you’re going to want to know this, Stone.”
“All right,” Stone said with a whimper, “tell me.”
“The DA is investigating me.”
Stone opened his eyes. “What?”
“No kidding. An investigator with the DA’s office has been questioning my doorman about my comings and goings.”
“Do you have any idea why they’re interested in your comings and goings, Herbie?”
“No, and I don’t understand it.”
“Herbie, without giving me any details, have you been involved in anything that might even remotely resemble an illegal activity?”
“No, Stone,” Herbie replied, sounding wounded. “I’m just living my life, that’s all.”
“Herbie, I’m going to tell you a secret that will transform your life, if you will only believe it.”
“What’s that, Stone?”
“If you’re an honest man, you don’t have to worry about being investigated. The DA can’t find anything incriminating about you if you haven’t done anything incriminating. Does that make any kind of sense to you?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“Do you believe what I just said?”
“Well, it’s logical.”
“No, Herbie, you have to believe in your heart that you are innocent, and then you will feel better. Work on that.”
“Okay,” Herbie said. “See you later.”
“Please, God, no,” Stone whispered to himself, closing his eyes again.
There was another rap on his office door. “Stone?”
“What is it, Joan?”
“One of those technicians from upstairs wants to do something to our telephones.”
Stone thought about that for a moment. “Send him in, please.” He tucked a pillow
under his head and waited.
A man wearing a tool belt came in. “Mr. Barrington, I need to take a look at your office phones.”
“Are you going to remove the bugs?”
“Well, sir, without acknowledging that there are any bugs on your phones, I would like to take a look at them. Only take a minute.”
“All right, go ahead,” Stone said.
The man went to Stone’s desk and used a screwdriver to take the plastic top off the phone. There was a snipping sound, then he put the phone back together and repeated the process with the phone on the coffee table.
“Don’t forget the secretary’s phone,” Stone said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you do all the ones upstairs?”
“Yes, sir, all the way to the top of the house. The kitchen, too.”
“Thank you.”
The man went away, and Stone closed his eyes again and took a deep breath. The phone rang, and Joan came on the intercom. “A Willa Crane for you.”
Stone picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, Willa.”
“You sound tired,” she said.
“I’ve just finished a four-day, ah, deposition,” Stone replied.
“Oh, the one with the CIA?”
“I will not confirm or deny that.”
“I will consider it confirmed, then.”
“I’m afraid your boss is not going to make any cases from what transpired—unless he has extended his jurisdiction to Europe and the Middle East.”
“He will be very disappointed to hear that,” she said.
“In that case, you shouldn’t tell him, but let Lance Cabot explain.”
“Good idea. You free for dinner?”
“Sure. I should have recovered my health by then.”
“Can we go to Elaine’s?”
“Oh, you liked it there, did you?”
“It wasn’t bad; I enjoyed the crowd.”
“Okay, eight-thirty at Elaine’s?”
“See you there,” she said, and hung up.
Stone closed his eyes and lay back. After what seemed only a moment later Joan spoke. “It’s six-thirty; I’m leaving.”
Stone opened his eyes. “Six-thirty? You’re kidding.”
“You’ve been out like a light.”
