Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels

by Stuart Woods

  “I assume you’ve already turned over the place.”

  “You assume correctly. The only items of any interest were four passports from as many English-speaking countries and some cash. They’re all in a safe, and we left it undisturbed. May I suggest that, if we have anything further to discuss, we do it outside? The man could come home at any moment.”

  “All right,” Tiff said. She led the way out of the apartment. The elevator had to make two trips to get them all downstairs.

  On the sidewalk, Lance spoke to her again. “I assume you’re after Mr. Stanford for financial crimes?”

  “You could say that,” Tiff replied.

  “We are here on a matter of national security,” he said, “and I’m afraid that trumps your investigation. I must ask you to stay away from the man. There’s a great deal more at stake here than you realize.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Tiff said.

  “Have your boss call my boss,” Lance said. “So good to meet you.” He herded Stone and his two men toward an anonymous-looking sedan.

  Stone stopped and whispered in Tiff’s ear. “Dinner tonight?”

  “You’re on,” she said.

  “Elaine’s at nine o’clock. See you there.”

  Lance held the door of the sedan, and Stone climbed in.

  He phoned Barbara Stein. “May I bring over my people now?”

  “Of course,” she said. “I have an appointment at my hairdresser’s, but I’ll instruct the butler to let you in and give you the run of the place. I won’t be back before five this afternoon. I’m leaving a note with the doorman for Whitney.”

  “Thank you, Barbara; we’ll leave the place as neat as possible.” He hung up and turned to Lance. “We’re on.” The car drove away.

  “I’m impressed with your resourcefulness, Stone, not to mention your acquaintanceship.” Lance said. “I was optimistic about your eventual value to us, but you’ve surpassed my expectations.”

  “I’ll bill you,” Stone said.

  “How ever did you learn about the wife and the apartment?”

  “I have my methods.”

  “We must discuss those sometime. You know, I think it might be valuable for you to take a little trip down to rural Virginia for a few weeks sometime, to undergo some useful training.”

  “Useful to whom?”

  “To us and to you. I think you might find the experience entertaining.”

  “Is this the famous ‘Farm’ you’re talking about?”

  “Camp Peary, to be precise.”

  “Lance, I would not find it entertaining to run around in the woods, being barked at by drill sergeants. I’m a little . . . mature for that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, it’s not like that at all. You’d enjoy learning some of the dark arts.”

  “You make it sound like Hogwart’s Academy.”

  “Well, I suppose it is, in its way.”

  They pulled to a halt in front of Barbara Stein’s building and got out of the car.

  “You know,” Lance said reverentially, “someone once said that, if there is a God, he probably lives at Eleven Eleven Fifth Avenue.”

  Stone spoke to the doorman, and they were sent upstairs, where the butler greeted them.

  “Gentlemen,” the man said in a tony British accent, “my name is Smithson. Mrs. Stein has told me that you are to have access to the entire apartment, and that I am to assist you in any way I can.”

  “Thank you, Smithson,” Stone said, “but I don’t think we’ll need anything.”

  “There are bells scattered around the three floors, for butler, maid and cook. Should you require my help, please press the ‘butler’ button.”

  “Thank you.” Stone turned to Lance. “Let’s start with our man’s dressing room; there’s a safe in there.”

  Stone led them downstairs to the master bedroom and thence to Stanford’s dressing room.

  “The man does live well, doesn’t he?” Lance said, looking around at the racks and cubicles full of expensive clothing.

  Stone pushed back some suits, revealing the safe.

  “Get started on that,” Lance said to one of the men. “The rest of us are going to go through the pockets of every jacket and pair of trousers in this room, collecting every stray piece of paper we find.”

  Stone took a suit off a rack, hung it on a hook, and started to go through it.

  DOWNSTAIRS THE DOORMAN watched as a red Hummer trundled to a stop at the end of the building’s awning, and Mr. Whitney Stanford got out.

  The doorman stepped directly into the man’s path. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stanford,” he said, removing an envelope from his pocket and handing it to him.

  Stanford accepted the envelope. “I’ll read it upstairs,” he said, starting to move around the man.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman said. “But Mrs. Stein has asked me to tell you that you may not enter the building.”

  “What?”

  “I believe the letter in the envelope will explain.”

  Stanford ripped open the envelope and read the letter, which was short. He tucked it into an inside pocket. “Please tell Mrs. Stanford that I’ll be at my apartment, and ask her to phone me.”

  “I’ll give Mrs. Stein the message, sir. Good day.” He opened the rear door of the Hummer. Stanford got in, and the truck drove away.

  “ALL RIGHT, what have we got?” Lance asked.

  “The contents of the safe are much like those of the one in his own apartment,” one of the men said. “Three passports—Irish, South African and British—and about a hundred and twenty thousand in dollars and Euros. And a stack of two-dollar bills.”

  Stone pointed to a paper on the dresser top. “We’ve got credit card receipts, one from a tailor and several phone numbers jotted on scrap paper,” he said.

  “Write everything down and put it all back,” Lance said.

  “Mrs. Stein is moving all this stuff into a storage facility tomorrow,” Stone said.

  “In that case, we’ll take the paper with us—the passports and cash, too.” He turned to Stone. “How do you suppose he’s generating all this cash?”

  “Various scams, I guess, but he’s working with eight million dollars that he claims to be investing for his wife.”

  “That should keep him going for a while,” Lance said. “Does Stanford have a study here?”

  “His wife says not.”

  “Then we’re done; let’s get out of here.”

  The went back downstairs, and as they left the building, the doorman spoke.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Barrington?”

  “Yes?”

  “You might like to know that Mr. Stanford was here less than an hour ago.”

  Lance took an immediate interest. “Do you know where he went?”

  “He said that he was going to his apartment, and Mrs. Stein could phone him there.”

  “Let’s go,” Lance said, heading for the car.

  “Oh, and he was riding in a red Hummer,” the doorman called after them.

  26

  THEY PILED BACK into the car and drove back to the Stanford apartment building. As they got out, Lance looked at Stone.

  “Are you armed?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Do you recall my advising you that you should be armed at all times, until we catch this man?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Then why aren’t you armed?”

  “I forgot.”

  “Wait here.”

  “I’ll keep to the rear,” Stone said.

  “You’re vulnerable, and that makes us vulnerable. Stay here.” Lance turned and led his two men into the building.

  Stone looked up at the top-floor windows. A moment later Billy Bob appeared on the roof, a cell phone clapped to an ear, a briefcase in the other hand. He looked down at the street for a second, saw Stone, then starting running along the rooftops toward Lexington Avenue.

  Stone grabbed his cell phone and pressed the speed dial button for L
ance’s number. Busy. He began jogging toward Lexington, watching the rooflines of the buildings he passed. Once he caught a glimpse of Billy Bob’s head, then he didn’t see him anymore. As he reached the corner, the light changed, and a flood of traffic started downtown, among the cars and trucks, a red Hummer.

  “Shit,” Stone said aloud. He tried Lance’s number again.

  “Yes, Stone?”

  “He got out over the roof and made it down to Lex, where the red Hummer was waiting.”

  “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “Stop him? He was five floors up. I don’t know how the hell he got from the roof down to the street.”

  “And you couldn’t shoot him, because you weren’t armed.”

  “No, but I wouldn’t have had a shot at him, even if I had been armed. I only got a glimpse of him. Anyway, I didn’t know we were out to kill the guy.”

  “We’ll be right down,” Lance said.

  Stone waited by the car, and a minute later, Lance and his two men came out of the building.

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Downtown on Lex, but that was three or four minutes ago; he could be anywhere by now.”

  “Outstanding,” Lance said sourly.

  “I don’t need the attitude, Lance; there was nothing I could do, except watch him drive away. Tell me, how did he get away from you?”

  “The living-room television was on when we burst in,” Lance said. “It was displaying the images from four video cameras that we never saw. He saw us enter the building and scampered, first cleaning out the safe.”

  “Well, at least you have photographs of the passports in the safe and the serial numbers on the currency.”

  “Yes, there is that. I’ll flag the passports at all ports of entry and exit.”

  “What would you like me to do now?”

  “Do you actually own a firearm?”

  “Several.”

  “I want you to go home, select one, strap it to your body in some fashion and don’t take it off until I tell you to, unless you’re in the shower. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Stop giving me orders, Lance.”

  “While you’re at home, read your contract with us; it allows me to give you orders and obligates you to follow them.”

  Stone thought about that.

  “Trust me, it does. Until we find this man I want you to think of yourself as on active duty with us. Keep your cell phone handy at all times. If I need you, drop whatever you’re doing and follow my instructions. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “I’ll read the contract,” Stone said.

  “Sorry we can’t drop you,” Lance said, getting into the car and driving away.

  Stone got a cab home, went straight to his office and pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Joan, please get me that contract that I signed with Lance Cabot last year.”

  “Right.” A moment later she came into his office and handed him the contract.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’ll be glad to hear that Woodman and Weld sent over a check for fifty thousand dollars.”

  “I am very glad to hear that.”

  Joan went back to her office, and Stone began to read the contract with increasing alarm. How the hell had he ever signed such a document? Lance could do with him as he wished and probably shoot him, if he objected. He went upstairs, opened the big safe in his dressing room, and chose a Colt Defender that he’d had custom-converted from a .45 to a 9mm. He shoved it into a holster and threaded that and a double magazine holder onto his belt.

  “All right, Lance, goddammit,” he said aloud, “I’m armed.”

  TIFF WAS LATE for their dinner date at Elaine’s, and Stone was on his second Knob Creek when she arrived.

  “I want one of those,” she said, sitting down. “A double.”

  Stone gave her order to a waiter. “Rough day?”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Because of your CIA buddy, I had to sit still for an hour on a conference call with the AG, while he chewed me out in front of a dozen people.”

  “I take it Lance’s claim to Billy Bob trumped yours?”

  “The AG tried to take it to the president, but the White House chief of staff slapped him down. He is very, very pissed off.”

  “The experience will be good for him,” Stone said.

  Tiff sucked up a quarter of her drink, swallowed it and sighed. “Okay, how did you get involved with the Agency?”

  “I can’t tell you much,” Stone said. “I read my contract this afternoon, more carefully than the first time, and well . . .”

  “You mean, if you tell me, you’ll have to shoot me?”

  “No, but if I tell you too much, they’ll probably shoot me. I met Lance a couple of years ago in London, and I became embroiled in an Agency operation that I didn’t even understand. I thought the whole thing was completely screwed up, until Lance explained that that was what I was supposed to think. He asked me to sign on as a consultant—Dino, too, and another friend of mine named Holly Barker. I was flattered, the money was good, and it sounded intriguing.”

  “And none of that turned out to be the case?”

  “All of it turned out to be the case, but I find myself in a position where I have to follow orders, something I have never enjoyed doing.”

  “Welcome to the club. Why does the Agency want Rodney Peeples?”

  “Look, we’ve got to agree on what to call him; it’s too confusing. Can we just call him Billy Bob?”

  “Oh, all right. Why do they want Billy Bob?”

  “I can’t tell you that, on penalty of God knows what. Why do you want him, Tiff? Surely that can’t be a secret, since you’re out of the picture anyway.”

  “The guy has pulled off a series of scams. He used the car dealership in San Mateo to screw a dozen loan companies out of millions, financing nonexistent cars; he used the accounting firm in Oklahoma to set up phony tax shelters that nobody in his right mind, except a doctor or dentist, would invest in, soaking a group of them for more than thirty million dollars; and now there are half a dozen Dallas zillionaires—all of them heavy contributors to Republican causes—who got rooked out of millions and who are screaming bloody murder and wanting Peep . . . Billy Bob’s balls nailed to the barn door, and people like that get listened to by this administration.”

  “Okay, I get the picture.”

  “And, as far as the AG is concerned, I dropped the ball. Shit, I went to that apartment to arrest him. I can’t help it if the Agency one-upped us.”

  “No you can’t,” Stone said sympathetically.

  “Try explaining that to the AG.”

  “What you need is a good dinner and lots of sex.”

  “You’re right, and that’s the only good idea I’ve heard all day.” She picked up a menu. “Let’s get started.”

  27

  STONE GAZED UP at Tiff, who sat astride him, lit by shafts of moonlight through the window. Tiff was moving rhythmically up and down, a small smile on her face.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said.

  “Better than this one?” Stone asked, panting.

  “Nothing to do with this.”

  “Then let’s concentrate on this and talk about it later.”

  “What’s the matter, can’t you think about two things at once?”

  “Not at the moment.” He gave her a bigger thrust.

  “Oooo,” she said. “Being able to hold two opposing thoughts at once is a sign of high intelligence.”

  “I’m thinking about this and doing it at the same time. That’s as smart as I get.”

  “Come now, Stone.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Can you watch a TV movie and do a crossword at the same time?”

  “If the movie’s bad enough.”

  “So, the sex would have to be bad for you to be able to discuss my idea at the same time?”

  “Bad sex is an oxymoron.”

  “Surely you’ve had bad sex at some time.”
>
  “Not that I can recall.”

  “You’re getting smaller, I can feel it.”

  “You’re distracting me.”

  She reached behind her and took his testicles in her hand. “Is this distracting?”

  “Not in the least.” He thrust again.

  “I see I’ve got your undivided attention.”

  “You have.”

  “So, can we discuss my idea now?”

  Stone thrust again.

  “Now you’re trying to distract me.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Then concentrate on the task at hand.”

  “You think of this as a task?” she said.

  “I was speaking figuratively.”

  “You like my figure, then?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She bent over him and swung her breasts across his lips. “Have some.”

  He caught a nipple and gently bit it.

  “What were we talking about?” she asked.

  Stone thrust again. “Coming.”

  She increased her tempo. “Now?”

  “Yes, oh, yes!”

  “Me, too!”

  They both made noises for a little while, then she rolled over and lay beside him. “Now can we talk about my idea?”

  “Talk?” Stone panted. “I can’t even move my lips.”

  “You don’t need to; I’ve seen to that.”

  He took a deep breath and expelled it. “Okay, what’s your idea?”

  “My idea is that you should tell me everything you know about the CIA’s investigation of Peep . . . Billy Bob.”

  “Have you had much experience with the CIA?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Then you can’t tell me what they’d do to me, if I told you about their investigation?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, I think before we discuss your idea further, I should know what the consequences might be. I mean, there’s a full range of possibilities, considering the way my contract reads. They could shoot me; they could torture me; they could put me in an airplane and kick me out over the ocean.”