by Stuart Woods
Dear Stone,
I’m so sorry for how things went last night and, especially, this morning. Dino was giving you a hard ride, and I made the mistake of climbing on board. Big mistake.
I want you to know how truly grateful I am for the way you have protected me over the past days. I would be dead if you hadn’t been there, and I would not have liked that. I enjoy your company so much—not to mention the sex—and I want to go on seeing you. Maybe you’ll be able to forgive me after a while, and we can meet for dinner. I’m at The Pierre, in a suite with a nice view of Central Park from a low floor. I’m going to start seeing apartments this morning with your friend Margo Goodale, who sounds very nice and very knowledgeable on the phone.
Again, I offer my sincere apologies for my behavior, and I hope you will accept them.
Stone read it a second time and melted a little. He wrote back that he would call her soon.
* * *
—
A TEXT CAME from Dino. “Sorry about last night, pal,” he said. “Viv’s coming in late this afternoon, so you’ll have somebody to talk to over dinner. Can we meet at Rotisserie Georgette at 7:30? I’ll book. I’m buying, to make up for the hard time I gave you yesterday.”
Stone wrote back: “See you then, and as long as you’re buying, I’ll pick the wine.”
* * *
—
EVERYBODY WAS on time for dinner, and the waiter knew to bring Stone’s bourbon and Dino’s scotch. Viv had a martini.
They clinked glasses. “I hear you’re talking only to me,” Viv said.
“It’s a relief, really,” Stone replied. “Your husband never shuts up, and it’s hard to get a word in edgewise.”
“Tell me about it,” Viv said. “Are you still mad at Meg?”
“No, she wrote me a very nice note today, and I’ve gotten over it.”
“Good,” Viv said, “because she’s right around the corner at The Pierre, and she’s joining us for dinner, and she says she has some very exciting news. Ah! Here she comes! What timing!”
Stone rose to greet Meg, who kissed him on the lips before she sat down. “May I have some of that bourbon you drink, please?” she said to Stone.
Stone ordered the Knob Creek and it arrived quickly. A small jazz group began to play up front.
“All right,” Viv said, “what’s this exciting news you have?”
“I found an apartment,” Meg said.
“What, on your first day of looking?”
“First day, first apartment I looked at.”
“Tell us about it,” Viv said.
“Well, to begin with it’s in your building.”
“Oh, I know the one—it’s two floors up from us. The old gentleman who lived there died a couple of weeks ago. His wife died last year.”
“Sounds like the one,” Meg said. “It wasn’t even on the market yet, but Margo got a tip from one of the doormen, and he let us in to see it. It has big rooms, and lots of them. The gentleman’s kids had cleared it of his personal things, but it’s available furnished. Not everything is to my liking, but there are a couple of beautiful Persian carpets that were left, and I’ll need some upholstering and a few pieces of furniture. It’s even got a grand piano! It will need painting throughout and new window treatments, but it’s fit to move into immediately.”
“Well,” Viv said, “maybe not immediately, exactly. Did Margo explain the application and board approval requirements? It took us nearly three months to get it done.”
“Margo and I spent the afternoon filling out the documents. My accountant is sending my tax returns, so all I need is some personal references and a meeting with the board.”
“We’d be delighted to give you a reference,” Viv said.
“As will I,” Stone echoed.
“As will Arthur Steele,” said Meg. “And the board meets next Monday. Margo says that half of the members are on Wall Street, so they’ll know who I am, and that will help.” She glanced at Stone. “I do need a lawyer to close the sale. Margo recommended somebody, but I’d rather have you, Stone.”
“I’ll get you the best real estate attorney at Woodman & Weld, and I’ll look over everything to be sure it’s right.”
“Margo took a contract over to the seller, who is the owner’s son. I made it easy for him by offering the asking price. She expects to get the contract back tomorrow, and if we get board approval, we can probably close by the end of next week.”
“You’re lucky the son didn’t want to move in, himself,” Dino said.
“He’d just bought a house in Westchester, and the place is too big for a pied-à-terre.”
They ordered dinner, and the women took the opportunity to go to the ladies’.
“I’ve got some news, too,” Dino said.
“Shoot.”
“We braced Stanislav Beria this afternoon, and, as expected, he clammed up and claimed diplomatic immunity.”
“But . . . ?”
“But we nailed the gorilla off the reservation, and we have him locked up. Turns out he works for Selwyn Owaki, not for the mission, so he has no immunity. He’s being pumped right now for information on his boss. With a murder charge hanging over him, we might be able to turn him.”
“That is very good news.”
“His name is Boris Ivanov, and he’s a nasty piece of work—ex-GRU, military intelligence, but forget about the intelligence part, he’s just muscle.”
“I’d be delighted to testify against him,” Stone said.
“Funny thing,” Dino said.
“What’s that?”
“He had a notebook in his pocket with your car’s tag number written in it.”
“Damn it, he must have made my car when we were following the mission Mercedes.”
“That is not good news,” Dino said. “If Ivanov has your license plate number, then Beria has it, too, and if he has it, Owaki has it, and by this time he will have a lot more information about you. Frankly, I wouldn’t want Owaki to know that much about me, and since you’re the only witness against his guy, you’re going to have to watch your ass—at least until we can turn him.”
“Well,” Stone said, “hurry the hell up, will you?”
The women returned, and they had dinner.
Meg looked at Stone closely. “Are you worried about something?”
“No, nothing at all,” Stone said.
39
Tommy Chang landed the Beech Baron at Essex County Airport as darkness was coming on. He arranged for hangar space and called a car service to drive him into New York.
The car arrived very quickly, his luggage was loaded, and they started into the city. Tommy got out his iPhone and tapped on the locator app. The blue dot appeared on Fifth Avenue, at the corner of East Sixty-first Street. This was a surprise, as he was expecting her to be on East Forty-ninth Street. “Driver, what’s your name?”
“Gene, sir.”
“Gene, what’s at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East Sixty-first Street?”
“The Pierre hotel,” Gene replied. “You want to go there?”
“Let me make a call.” He called American Express Travel and asked them to book him into The Pierre. In moments, he had an affirmative reply. “Okay,” Tommy said, “take me to The Pierre.”
“Right.”
* * *
—
AT THE PIERRE, Tommy got out of the car and asked Gene for his card. “Gene, are you going to be available for the next few days?”
“Sure, you can call me directly on the cell number.”
Tommy paid and tipped him generously, then followed the bellman with his luggage to the front desk and checked in.
The desk clerk’s nameplate read “Gloria.” “Gloria, I’m meeting a friend here. Her name is Meg Harmon. Has she checked in yet?”
Gloria
checked her computer. “Yes, she has, but she’s just left to go out to dinner. I saw her go out.”
“I guess I didn’t get here soon enough,” Tommy said. “What’s her room number? I’ll give her a call later.”
“I’m afraid our security precautions prevent me from giving you her room number, Mr. Edwards,” she said. He had checked in and presented a Texas driver’s license and a credit card in that name.
“I’ll just leave her a note, then. May I have paper and an envelope?” She handed it to him. He wrote a note saying: “Carl, I’m in town. Call me on my cell.” He tucked it into the envelope, sealed it, and handed it back to Gloria, then he completed the registration form.
“How many keys, sir?” Gloria asked.
“Two, please.” She gave them to him in a small packet, and he turned to follow the bellman to his room. As he did, he saw Gloria put the envelope into a box with the number 212.
“You’re on the third floor,” the bellman said, as they boarded the elevator, “with a view of the park.”
“Perfect,” Tommy replied.
The room was large, with a king-sized bed and a comfortable seating area. He asked the bellman for some ice, then he went to the window and looked out at the park. “I’ll bet you have the same view,” he said. The bellman returned.
“Tell me, Frank,” he said, reading the man’s name tag, “I like to go for a run in the morning, and I noticed a stairway across the hall. Can I go down and come back that way, instead of taking the elevator?”
“Yes, sir, just use your key card,” Frank replied.
Tommy overtipped him and he left. Tommy gave him a head start, then left the room, went down the stairs, and let himself out of the stairwell with his key card on the second floor. Room 212 was just across the hall. He examined the door and its lock carefully: just like his own room’s. He walked down to the ground floor, found the bar, and ordered a drink and some dinner. He finished dinner a little after ten, charged his food and drink to his room, and left. With any luck, the shift would have changed at the front desk. He was right.
Tommy approached the front desk and took his spare key card from its packet and handed it to a young man on duty there. “My name is Harmon. I’m in room 212 and my key card isn’t working. Can you give me a new one, please?”
The young man checked his computer for the name. “It says here ‘Meg,’” he said.
“Michael Edward George Harmon,” Tommy said. “Meg, for short.”
“I see.” He put a new card into a slot and tapped in a code and the room number. “There you are, Mr. Harmon,” he said, handing Tommy a new packet. He thanked the young man, then went to his room. He opened his weapons case, chose a small 9mm pistol, and screwed a silencer into the barrel. Then he stretched out on the bed for a moment. He would wait until the middle of the night to visit Ms. Harmon. He dozed.
* * *
—
TOMMY WOKE UP with sunlight streaming into his room; he checked the bedside clock: 7:20 AM. “Shit,” he said. He had been more tired after the long flight than he had thought. He ordered some breakfast from room service, then shaved and showered. There was a New York Times slid under his door, and he put on a robe and read it until breakfast came.
When he was done, he dressed in a business suit, went downstairs, and crossed the street, carrying the Arts section of the Times. He took up a position on a bench along the wall that separated Fifth Avenue from Central Park and had a good look at the hotel. Room 212, he calculated, was to the left of the front door and one floor up. He took a small monocular from a pocket, concealed it in his fist, and pointed it at the windows. The curtains were still drawn; she must be sleeping late.
He folded the paper open to the crossword puzzle, took out his pen, and began. Twenty minutes later he was halfway through the puzzle and the curtains were open in room 212. He took the folded page from the business magazine containing the article on Meg Harmon and studied the face in the two photographs, committing it to memory. She was a very good-looking woman, he thought.
He began the puzzle again, checking a clue, then checking the hotel’s front door, then writing in the answer and checking the door again. More than an hour passed in this fashion, then finally the hotel door opened and a well-dressed blonde walked outside and was immediately shown into a waiting Town Car, which drove away. He couldn’t find a cab quickly enough to follow her, but at least she was out of her room.
He went back into the hotel and went up to his room. He opened the weapons case and took out some miniature electronics equipment, then he left his room, went into the stairwell, and went down to the second floor, opening the door with his 212 key card. A maid’s cart was a few doors down the hall, and a card saying PLEASE MAKE UP MY ROOM was hanging on the doorknob of 212. He used his new key card to let himself inside, turning the door card over to read PRIVACY, PLEASE.
It was a large, handsome suite, sitting room and bedroom. He went to work installing a tiny camera and a microphone in each room. He wished he’d had a third camera; it would have been nice to install it in the bathroom so he could see her naked. Well, time enough for that, he thought.
He opened the front door a crack, checked for the maid, who was closer now. He turned the card on the door handle over again, then closed the door and took the stairway down to the street.
Might as well do some shopping, he thought. He’d check on Ms. Harmon around six, when she might be changing to go out.
40
Stone was in his office the following day when Joan buzzed him. “Ms. Harmon, on one,” she said.
He picked up the phone. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. I enjoyed myself last evening.”
“So did I.”
“If you’re free this evening, come and have dinner with me at The Pierre.”
“Love to.”
“Come to my room, 212, and we’ll have a drink there.”
“All right, see you then.”
They both hung up.
* * *
—
TOMMY CHANG SLEPT LATE, then checked his cameras in 212 with his iPhone. The rooms were empty, and there was a room-service table there, bearing dirty dishes. She had gone out. He checked the locator app: the blue dot was a dozen blocks downtown and moving. He’d have to make tonight the night.
* * *
—
STONE’S NEXT CALL was from Dino. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” Stone replied.
“I’ve got some more news, and it isn’t good.”
“Break it to me.”
“Remember Boris Ivanov?”
“The gorilla? How could I forget him?”
“He’s out.”
“What?”
“He lawyered up. A senior partner at Craig and Zanoff showed up and sprung him.”
“That’s a white-shoe firm,” Stone said. “What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Greg Zanoff.”
“The guy with his name on the door comes down and springs a Russian gorilla? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I guess Selwyn Owaki can buy anybody he likes.”
“I don’t know much about Owaki, just what I’ve read in the papers.”
“Owaki specializes in not having anybody know anything about him,” Dino said. “He does his deals at arm’s length—always has a lawyer or two between him and his customers. He has eight or ten houses in world capitals, lives like a potentate, makes large donations to charities. He’s handsome and charming.”
“I’ve never even seen a photograph of him.”
“We have one in our files, but it’s of very poor quality,” Dino said. “I couldn’t make him on the street.”
“Do I have anything to worry about?”
“You’re the only witness who can put Ivanov in Bellini’s apartment at the
time of the murder.”
“But not enough of a witness to convict him?”
“I would have thought so, but Ivanov is on the street now, and probably has left the country. Owaki has a fleet of private jets, three or four, plus a couple of helicopters. In New York he works out of the four top stories of a very expensive apartment building that he owns on East Fifty-seventh Street.”
“Sorry, he owns the apartment or the building?”
“The building and the apartment.”
“That’s a new one on me,” Stone said.
“Listen, if you’ve got an army you want equipped, Owaki is your guy—weapons, aircraft, missiles, tanks, you name it, he can assemble and deliver the order.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, during the short time he was talking, Ivanov told us his excuse for being in Bellini’s apartment.”
“Which was?”
“A computer thumb drive that contains the plans for something that his pal Beria had bought from Bellini.”
“I know about the thumb drive,” Stone said.
“You don’t have the thing, do you?”
“No, I gave it to Meg—the designs belong to her company. And Bellini rigged his computer so that Beria could open the files once, but the second time the data would be destroyed.”
“So Meg has what Beria—which means Owaki—wants?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Does Beria know that?”
“No, but he may think I have it. Bellini could have told him.”
“Listen, pal, I think you better go armed for a while, and I mean day and night.”
“But you think Ivanov has left the country.”
“I think maybe he has, but Beria hasn’t, and he could walk into your office, blow your brains out, and we couldn’t touch him.”
