by Stuart Woods
Damien heard the tiny noise of a metal ring striking the floor of the van. “Grenade . . .” he began to say.
* * *
• • •
Tigner sat on the motorcycle around the corner and heard the sound of the explosion through the garage ventilator next to him. He put the motorcycle in gear, kicked up the stand, and drove slowly away. “There we go,” he said aloud, “all accounts settled.” He drove a few blocks away to a small wharf he knew on the East River, got out of his jumpsuit, took a length of duct tape from a roll, then stuffed it, along with the jumpsuit, into a saddlebag. He revved the engine to about fifty percent, kicked up the stand, kicked the engine into gear, and released the clutch. The machine shot straight ahead along the little wharf, then sailed out over the water and plunged into its depths.
Tigner found a cab, and when he got back to his apartment, armed with a bag of hot bagels, Karen was still asleep. He kissed her on the ear, and she stirred.
“Wake up, love,” he said. “Breakfast is ready, and the day is ours.”
* * *
• • •
Stone was having lunch with Dino at their club when his phone buzzed. He saw that it was Jamie, so he got up from the table, walked through a door, and answered it.
“Hi, there,” Jamie said. “I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch.”
“You are, but not unpleasantly,” he replied.
“Somebody on the police desk just got a report that sounds like a message from Rasheed.”
“Yes?”
“There has just been an explosion in the parking garage of H. Thomas & Son. Three men are dead.”
“And this is a message from Rasheed?”
“The three have been identified as Henry Thomas, Hank Thomas, and Lawrance Damien.”
“That sounds more like a gift,” Stone said.
“And a perfect ending to my story,” Jamie said, “which I have to go and write now. See you later.” She hung up.
Stone walked back to his table and sat down.
“Why do you look so happy?” Dino asked.
“We just got a gift from Jamie’s contact, Rasheed.” Stone told him what she had said.
Dino smiled.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me an e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.
Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.
Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Random House LLC, 1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.
Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 98212-1825.
Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)
If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.
If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Sara Minnich at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.
A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
Keep reading for an exciting excerpt from SKIN GAME, the latest Teddy Fay novel by Stuart Woods and Parnell Hall.
1
Teddy Fay finished his twenty laps in the terrace pool. He pulled himself out and sat on the deck, drinking in the morning sun.
His broken leg had nearly healed. Remarkable, considering the amount of stress he’d subjected it to before allowing it to be put in a cast. Or rather, put back in a cast. Extenuating circumstances had forced him to cut off the original cast in order to deal with a life-or-death situation. He’d been a good boy since, even followed his rehab regimen.
The fact that he liked swimming didn’t hurt.
He got up, sat in a deck chair, and poured himself a cool glass of lemonade.
Teddy enjoyed the three-story split-level Hollywood house on Mullholland Drive that he’d purchased in the name of Billy Barnett. Teddy had three identities. That is . . . three current identities. In the course of his career, he had played many roles, occasionally more than one at a time, but they were usually temporary. As Billy Barnett, he had risen through the ranks from production assistant to producer at Centurion Studios. As Mark Weldon, he was a stuntman who had evolved into a character actor who specialized in playing villains.
As Teddy Fay, he was not known at all.
His cell phone rang. Teddy scooped it up. “Hello?”
“Billy Barnett?”
“Yes.”
“This is Lance Cabot.”
Teddy nearly dropped the phone. Lance Cabot was the head of the CIA. Teddy had worked for Lance once, before going rogue and killing people who deserved to die. Lance had organized a global manhunt for him, but Teddy was so elusive they soon elevated him to the top of the Most Wanted list. When even a presidential pardon failed to cool the Agency’s ardor, Teddy changed his name and dropped out of sight. He’d been rumored dead. Most agents subscribed to the rumor.
Teddy said, “Why would the head of the CIA be calling a Hollywood film producer?”
“I’m not calling you in your producer capacity.”
Teddy paused. “Go on.”
“We have a problem in Paris.”
“Oh?”
“We have a mole. Which is ridiculous—there’s nothing happening in Paris that would warrant an enemy power planting a mole at that branch. The Agency was tracking only one individual recently, a low-level Syrian agent named Hassan Hamui. Recently he suddenly dropped out of sight, as if he knew he was under surveillance: knew when, how, and by whom.
That’s why we think we have a mole.”
“And you want someone to handle the situation? Well, I’m not the man you’re looking for. I happen to know you went out of your way to try to kill him, so I’d hardly care to be that guy. But if you want me to apply my meager talents to the situation, perhaps we can work something out.”
“You want money?”
“Hardly. I can’t be bought because I have all I need. I’m not above doing a favor for a friend, but you hardly fit into that category.”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“If I wanted to, finding and killing you wouldn’t be hard. After all, I made this phone call.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not at all. I’m pointing it out as a token of friendship, since such things seem to matter.”
“What would I have to do?”
“Go undercover, assume a new identity. I know you’ve played everybody from a bag lady to a bank president, but this might be sort of a stretch.”
“Oh? Who do I have to pretend to be?”
“A CIA operative.”
“Thanks a heap.”
“I need you to leave at once.”
“Are you picking me up here?”
“No.”
“Will you fly me from New York?”
“It shouldn’t look like we brought you in. Our mole would go on high alert. It has to appear as if you’re emerging from deep cover. Whoever you wish to be will suddenly appear in our records as if he’d been there all the time. You get to pick your own legend. Once you do, you might let me know who you are.”
“You’re saying no one’s running me. There’s no one in charge of this mission, I can contact.”
“Would you listen to them if there were?”
“What’s my cover story?”
“It doesn’t matter, just so you have one. We have a leak. We don’t know how high or low it goes, but we can’t be telling people who might be the leak that we’re looking for the leak.”
“I have to create my own cover, fly myself in, and make up my own assignment?”
“I thought you’d like that.”
“Fuck you, too, Lance.”
2
Abad ripped off his headset. This was the call he’d been waiting for. He was sure of it. Fahd Kassin would be pleased.
It was one thing to bug the phone of the most powerful man in the CIA. It was another to sit through the endless daily minutiae that flowed through his office. Abad was excited as he jammed a memory stick into the computer and began the transfer.
* * *
• • •
Fahd Kassin was a bundle of nerves. The coup the Syrian strongman had been planning for months was on the horizon, and things were going wrong. How could it be? His agent had infiltrated the CIA station in Paris, and from all reports the Agency had no idea of his intentions. And yet, a spy was suspected. A mole, that was what they called it. They had no idea who it might be, but the fact they suspected anyone was cause for alarm.
Defensive measures were mandatory. Just for a couple more weeks. Just until he made himself the most powerful man in the world.
In the meantime, it was crucial that Syrian intelligence didn’t become aware of his plan. Fahd Kassin’s project was not officially sanctioned. It was not sanctioned at all.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
A computer hacker entered. Fahd couldn’t recall his name. He was one of the men assigned to monitor the phone and wiretaps.
“Yes?” Fahd said impatiently.
Even his tone could not dampen the hacker’s excitement. “I got it! The call you wanted to be alerted to. The head of the CIA called a man in California. He told him there was a mole in the Paris office and asked him to take care of it.”
“Who did he call?”
“A Mr. Billy Barnett.”
“And who is ‘Billy Barnett’?”
“A Hollywood producer.”
Fahd frowned. “A movie producer?”
“That’s right. The producer tried to claim he wasn’t the man he was looking for.”
“You recorded the conversation?”
“Yes. It’s on this memory stick.”
“I can listen to it here?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
The hacker plugged the memory stick into Fahd’s computer. He opened the file of Lance’s calls, and played back the last one.
Fahd said, “What are you doing about the movie producer?”
“When the director called him, I tuned in to his cell phone frequency.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes. Do you want me to explain how?”
“No. You’re telling me I can listen in to his calls from my computer?”
“Yes.”
“Show me how.”
The hacker plugged in Billy Barnett’s phone number, and opened the channel. “He’s not on the phone at the moment, but if he makes a call you can hear it by clicking this tab.”
“Good job. This could be important.”
“Yes. I will write it up in detail.”
“No need. You have reported it to me. I will take it from here.”
“Of course, sir. It is your project. I will merely report the facts.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“It’s no trouble.”
Fahd frowned. It was trouble from his point of view. He had his own agenda, and there were certain things he did not wish known, even by his own minions.
This was one of them.
Fahd nodded. “Who else did you show this to?”
“No one. I put it on the memory stick and came right in.”
“Good job. Show me again how I access his phone.”
The hacker hunched over the computer.
Fahd pushed a button on his desk.
A short, squat man in a drab brown suit glided in the door on little cat feet. He stepped up behind the hacker, deftly removed a handgun from a shoulder holster under his coat, and shot him in the head.
The hacker collapsed on the keyboard.
Fahd flinched. He was afraid the man might hit the wrong key and close the program. But the hacker slid off the keyboard and slumped to the ground.
“I trust you’ll deal with the body,” Fahd said to Aziz.
Aziz didn’t answer. He never spoke. Impassive as ever, he picked up the body of the hacker, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him out.
Fahd Kassin sat at the computer and looked at the screen the hacker had opened for him.
Fahd shook his head. “Billy Barnett.”
To learn more about and order SKIN GAME, please visit prh.com/skingame.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stuart Woods is the author of more than seventy novels, including the #1 New York Times-bestselling Stone Barrington series. He is a native of Georgia and began his writing career in the advertising industry. Chiefs, his debut in 1981, won the Edgar Award. An avid sailor and pilot, Woods lives in Florida, Maine, and New Mexico.
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