by Stuart Woods
“Our intelligence is conflicting,” Lance replied. “Maybe there, maybe not. At the very least we’ve destroyed his formidable refuge.”
“That’s a start,” Mike said.
“You might tell Pablo that.”
“He and his wife are resting, I think.”
“Any children?”
“They are apparently elsewhere.”
“Do you have enough people there, or too many?”
“I’ll know later today, and I’ll report back to you.”
“Your cell has captured this number, I’m sure. Call me back here.” Lance hung up.
“Who is Lance?” Willa asked.
“Lance Cabot is the deputy director for operations of the CIA,” Mike replied. “Apart from the director, probably the most powerful figure there.”
“Oh,” Willa replied, looking impressed.
A young man entered the room. “Excuse me, Mike.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve done a walk-around, and we’re in good shape. There is a boat dock that will need covering, as will the whole of our shoreline. We’re on a peninsula that juts out into the lake. We’re starting our by-the-square-foot inspection now.”
“Good,” Mike replied, and the young man left.
“Mike,” Stone said, “I don’t think there’s any more we can do here.” He handed Mike a key. “Here’s the key to the house.” He gave him the security code. “We’ll head on back to the city now.”
Mike’s cell rang again. “Yes, Lance?” He pressed the speaker button.
“Mike, I wanted you to know that the NSA has detected a great deal of chatter in the air around the Middle East since the bombing at Tora Bora, and Pablo’s name has been mentioned several times, and not in a complimentary way.”
“Well,” Mike said, “it looks as though we’ve made the right moves to secure Pablo’s safety. That was a good call on your part.”
“You may thank Stone for his insistence on that point,” Lance replied. “I’ll let you know if we pick up anything more specific.”
“Thank you, Lance,” Mike said, but Lance was gone.
FIFTY-TWO
Stone and Willa were halfway back to New York when his cell came alive. He pressed the speaker button on the dash. “Hello?”
“It’s Joan. I just left the house after doing some work and there are two men on the block I don’t like the look of.”
“Describe them.”
“Young, Mediterranean-looking, very fit.”
“Now, don’t get all excited,” Stone said, laughing.
“Ha-ha,” she said.
“Please call Bob Cantor and ask him to put a couple of men at or near the house. Tell them not to shoot anybody, but I don’t want the house burned to the ground, either.”
“Will do. When are you coming home?”
Stone glanced at his watch: “An hour or so.”
“Do you want me to wait for Bob’s people?”
“No, go on home. All this weekend work of yours is beginning to worry me. Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Usually, but not at the moment,” she replied, and hung up.
“You’re very fortunate to have Joan,” Willa said. “Ask her if she’d like to work in the DA’s office, will you?”
“I most certainly will not,” Stone replied. “Anyway, she’d be bored rigid down there.”
“Gee, I’m not,” Willa said.
As Stone turned into the block he saw Willie Leahy, one of Cantor’s men, on the other side of the street. He slowed and opened his window. “Any problems?” Stone asked.
“The problems have departed,” Willie replied.
“Under their own steam?” Stone inquired.
“An ambulance was not necessary,” Willie said. “We’ll see if any other problems come to take their place.”
“Thanks, Willie. Use the kitchen for your breaks.”
“How long you want us on, Stone?”
“If no one has turned up by noon tomorrow, then stand down. And don’t work straight through; make Bob send some relief.”
“You bet your ass,” Willie said, then turned back to his work.
“Do you always have armed security on tap?” Willa asked. “I saw the bulge under his arm.”
“From time to time; it’s not a regular thing, but sometimes I sleep better with Willie and his brother, Peter, around.”
Stone turned into the garage and closed the door behind him. “Stay for dinner,” he said to Willa.
“You talked me into it,” she replied.
Stone had just deposited their bags in his bedroom when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Cantor. Willie got photos of the two men on your house and e-mailed them to me.”
“Were you able to ID them?”
“No, but I sent them to a few people, and I just got a hit from one of them. They’re Israeli.”
“Israeli? What the hell?”
“And not just Israeli, but Mossad, their secret intelligence service. Both are attached to their UN Mission here.”
“Okay, I’m baffled.”
“Me too. Have you been making anti-Semitic remarks lately?”
Stone laughed. “Of course not; I’d have you to deal with, and you’re worse than the Mossad.”
“Just checking.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out why they’re here.”
“Well, we could ask them, but I don’t think they would tell us. See you later.”
“What’s that about Israelis?” Willa asked.
“The two men that were watching the house are Mossad.”
“This gets more exotic by the hour,” she said.
“Too exotic for me,” Stone replied. He dialed Pablo’s cell number.
“Yes?” Pablo said warily.
“It’s Stone.”
“I’m surprised my phone works.”
“Me too. Two men have been spotted watching my house, and a trusted source tells me they’re Mossad. You know anything about that?”
“I’ve done business with Israel many times, and on a few occasions with Mossad.”
“Have you annoyed them lately?”
“I make it a point not to annoy my customers,” Pablo replied.
“Well, they’re not looking for me,” Stone said. “I’ve never had anything to do with either Israel or the Mossad. It’s gotta be you.”
“I’ll make a couple of calls tonight and see what I can come up with,” Pablo said.
“Just in case somebody’s listening,” Stone said, “would you mention that you’re not at my house?”
Pablo laughed. “Of course.” He hung up.
So did Stone. “I’ve got some steaks in the fridge,” he said to Willa, “and I make a mean risotto. Dinner here okay?”
“More than okay,” she said, kissing him.
They were having dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. Stone got up and answered it. “Hello?”
“Mr. Stone Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Aaron Beck. I am with the Israeli UN Mission.”
“Yes?”
“I wish to apologize for the presence of our people near your house this afternoon. I realize they must have caused you some anxiety.”
“I think my friends may have caused your men some anxiety.”
“I wonder if I might invite you to lunch tomorrow to discuss this situation.”
“How good a lunch are we talking about?” Stone asked.
“Would the Four Seasons Grill suffice?”
“It would suffice very nicely,” Stone replied. “What time?”
“One o’clock?”
“See you there, Mr. Beck.” Stone hung up.
“Now what?” Willa asked.
“Now the Mossad wants to have lunch at the Four Seasons,” Stone replied.
“One thinks of the Israelis as being very economical,” Willa observed.
“Don’t worry; I’m not picking up the check,
” Stone said.
FIFTY-THREE
Stone sent Willa off to work the following morning, then went down to his office.
Joan buzzed him. “Herbert Fisher on line one.”
Stone sighed. “Tell him I’m busy, to call me late this afternoon.”
“Right,” Joan said.
Stone worked through the morning, then walked up to the Sea-gram Building and entered the Four Seasons. At the top of the stairway he stopped and looked around. A man at the bar to his right got up and came toward him.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Mr. Beck?”
They shook hands, and the maître d’ seated them between the tables of Henry Kissinger and the literary agent and attorney Morton Janklow.
“Good table,” Stone observed. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Only when the expense account allows,” Beck replied. “The table is usually occupied by our ambassador, who is away.”
“I’m surprised that the expense accounts of the Mossad extend to the Four Seasons,” Stone said.
Beck froze for half a second, then managed a small smile. “I must relate your observation to the Mossad, the next time I encounter them.”
“Come on, Mr. Beck,” Stone said, “I know who you are. This conversation will probably go better if we don’t try to bullshit each other.”
A captain came with the menus, and Stone ordered the Dover sole, his favorite fish. Beck ordered a large salad. Stone thought the sole must have used up most of the expense account for the day. Stone ordered a glass of Chardonnay; Beck stuck with the mineral water already on the table.
“I will not challenge your assumption,” Beck said after the waiter had taken their order and left them alone.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Beck?” Stone asked.
“Please call me Aaron, and may I call you Stone?”
“Of course.”
“Israelis are an informal people,” Beck said.
“If you say so,” Stone replied. “I don’t suppose I’ve met more than two or three Israelis in my life.”
“You’ve led a sheltered life,” Beck said, smiling.
“Perhaps so. What can I do for you, Aaron?”
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Beck said. “I would like to arrange a meeting with Mr. Pablo Estancia.”
“Who?”
“I thought you wished not to bullshit each other,” Beck replied.
“And why do you believe I can arrange such a meeting, Aaron?”
“You arranged it for my friend Lance Cabot and his people,” Beck said.
“Just how good a friend are you to Mr. Cabot?” Stone asked.
“We have a cordial working relationship.”
“Then perhaps you should speak to Lance about arranging such a meeting.”
“Stone, I have reason to believe that you are not ethically obligated to seek Lance’s permission to arrange a meeting with Pablo.”
“Oh, are you and Mr. Estancia on a first-name basis, too?” Stone asked.
“We have had occasion to meet once or twice in the past.”
“Then why don’t you just ring him up? I’m sure you know how to get in touch with him.”
“Our usual line of communication is presently out of service,” Beck said. “Thus, my meeting with you.”
“Tell me, Aaron, why do you think Pablo would wish to see you?”
“As I said, we’ve met before and done business.”
“Was the business you have done with Pablo conducted to your satisfaction?” Stone asked.
“You might say that,” Beck replied.
“Is there some reason why you didn’t contact Pablo a short time ago when your line of communication was still serviceable?”
“Circumstances change all the time,” Beck said. “I didn’t need to speak to him at that time. Lance didn’t need to contact Pablo until he kidnapped him.”
Stone feigned surprise. “Did Lance tell you he kidnapped Pablo?”
Beck sighed. “I have more than one source of information.”
“Aaron,” Stone said, “do you wish to harm Pablo?”
“Of course not,” Beck replied.
“Do you wish to invite him to Israel for a chat?”
“I would be happy to extend such an invitation.”
“Do you wish to take him to Israel whether or not he wants to go?”
“Do you really believe we are so ham-fisted as that, Stone?”
Stone smiled. “I have formed the opinion that the Mossad will sometimes go to great lengths to achieve its ends. I am in mind of an assassination in an Arab country that made the news recently, involving numerous Mossad agents carrying stolen passports. On that occasion the Mossad was quite ham-fisted.”
“Let us not revisit the past,” Beck said, spreading his hands. “Why don’t we concentrate on the near future.”
“Why do you wish to speak to Pablo?”
“I’m afraid that my instructions do not allow me to impart that information to anyone but Pablo.”
Their lunch arrived.
“Suppose Pablo agreed to see you with his attorney present?” Stone asked.
“Stone, Pablo is not charged with any crime in Israel; why would he require an attorney?”
“He might require a witness,” Stone said. “And you might be less inclined to press an invitation to your country upon him if an American citizen was present and handcuffed to Pablo.”
“Handcuffed?”
“Metaphorically,” Stone replied. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. What have you to gain from Pablo by such a meeting, and what would Pablo have to gain from it?”
“We wish only to have the answers to some questions,” Beck said. “As for Pablo, he might gain freedom from our attentions in the future.”
“And how long might this conversation last?”
“I’m sure we could conclude it within the same time frame as his discussions with the CIA.”
“And where do you propose that this meeting take place?”
“Perhaps at the offices of our mission?”
“You are assuming that Pablo is still in this country.”
“Yes, but if he is back in Europe, his house in Switzerland would be a satisfactory meeting place.”
“Pablo found his conversations with Lance and his people to be very tiring,” Stone said. “I’m not sure he would wish to endure another such session. How about a nice chat on the phone?”
“I’m afraid I must insist on a face-to-face meeting,” Beck replied.
“Insist?” Stone asked. “And I thought this was going to be a friendly conversation.”
“Forgive my impertinence,” Beck said smoothly.
Stone put down his napkin and polished off his mind. “All I can do, Aaron, is deliver your kind invitation to Pablo, if I should happen to speak to him in the near future.”
“If?”
“I have no way of knowing if he will call again.” Stone stood up. “Thank you for a very good lunch,” he said. “I hope they don’t take it out of your pay.”
Beck looked pained. The two men shook hands, and Beck handed him a card, identifying him as the agricultural attaché to the Israeli UN Mission.
FIFTY-FOUR
Stone walked back to his office and phoned Pablo.
“Yes?”
“It’s Stone. I’ve just had lunch with one Aaron Beck of the Mossad. Do you know him?”
“I do, but under a different name: Moishe Aarons. He is quite highly placed in the organization, and I’m surprised to hear that he is in this country.”
“He may have come here to see you,” Stone said. “He knows about your conversation with Lance and his people. He may even have heard about that from Lance himself.”
“Or possibly not,” Pablo replied. “Wherever there are Jews, Mr. Aarons has sources.”
“If you say so.”
“Why do you think he might have come to the United States to see me?”
“Because he was deepl
y interested in having a conversation with you, along the lines and depth of the one with Lance.”
Pablo snorted. “Tell him that if he has any questions of me, Lance is in a position to answer them.”
“I like that,” Stone said. “Did you make inquiries about why the Israelis might be interested in you?”
“My inquiries, though oblique, lead me to believe they may think I have sold arms to the Palestinians.”
“Ah.”
“You may tell Mr. Aarons the following,” Pablo said. “Quote: I have never knowingly sold arms or ammunition to any person or group representing the cause of the Palestinians. Unquote.”
“ ‘Knowingly’?”
“In my business identities can be . . . flexible, but I am usually aware of with whom I am dealing.”
“I will pass that on to him,” Stone said, “along with your suggestion of asking questions of Lance.”
“I hope that will be an end to it,” Pablo said.
“I hope so, too,” Stone replied. “I’ll let him stew for a while, then call him tomorrow. Goodbye, Pablo.”
“Goodbye, Stone.”
They both hung up.
Joan buzzed him. “A Mr. Herbert Fisher to see you,” she said.
Stone sighed. “Oh, all right, send him in.”
Herbie opened the door, let himself in, and sat down. “Hey, Stone.”
Stone noticed that he was wearing a cashmere tweed jacket, a custom-made shirt, and that he had, apparently, found a barber who disdained gel. “How are you, Herbie?”
“Troubled,” Herbie replied.
“What is troubling you, Herbie?”
“My wife.”
“Well, I tried to get you to do the prenup.”
“It’s not that—not exactly.”
“Then what is it?”
“You remember, we were supposed to go on a honeymoon in the islands?”
“Yes, I recall that.”
“She won’t go now.”
“Herbie, women—especially women as bright and strong-willed as Stephanie—have minds of their own, and they often change them. You will come to have much experience of this.”
Herbie shook his head. “It’s not the changing of her mind that worries me.”
“Unburden yourself, Herbie.”
“You remember the business about the disappearing billion dollars from the Gunn company?”
