A Delicate Touch

by Stuart Woods

  “Exactly.

  “My acquaintance believes that the money those donors are giving to Hank’s PAC is being stolen from somewhere—he doesn’t know where—and transferred through a chain of numbered, offshore bank accounts into the accounts of the donors, who are then sending it to Hank’s PAC.”

  “That’s an interesting idea. Is your acquaintance out of his fucking mind?”

  “No, he is a moderately sane person who has a much stronger grasp than you or I of how computers and banking work.”

  “Can your acquaintance prove this in a court of law?”

  “Not yet, but he’s working on it. In any case, I think he would prefer to take it to a newspaper of note rather than to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York.”

  “That works for me,” she said. “Tell him to get a move on.”

  “I have already done so.”

  “Just so you know, when we hang up, no record of this call will exist anywhere. Cute, huh?”

  “Pretty cute.”

  “See you around one of these days. In the meantime, keep me posted.” She hung up.

  So did Stone, after memorizing her number.

  41

  Stone lay in bed with Jamie Cox; they had thrown off the covers to cool down after their exertions, which had been considerable.

  Stone turned onto his side for a better view of Jamie’s body. “You are a beautiful woman,” he said.

  “It’s all right to say, ‘girl,’ in that context,” she replied, turning toward him and giving him a wet kiss.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She fondled him. “Is it too much to hope?”

  “At my age, yes.”

  “What age is that?”

  “A day older than yesterday. Give me a few minutes.”

  “Then you’ll have to give me something to think about, other than your genitalia,” she said, “with which my mind is currently occupied, to the exclusion of all else.”

  “All right, but this is off the record and neither printable nor reportable to your superiors.”

  “Will there come a time when those restraints will be lifted?”

  “If we’re lucky.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “‘We’ is me and an acquaintance of mine and, incidentally, you. We’ll all need to be lucky.”

  “And I can’t tell Scott or Jeremy?”

  “You may not.”

  “They’re getting antsy, especially Jeremy.”

  “The publication of Hank Thomas’s donor list should keep them feeling good for a while.”

  “It will wear off soon, and they’ll be on my ass again.”

  “Who can blame them? It’s such a nice ass.”

  “Come on, cough it up.”

  “You agree to my limitations?”

  “Yes, if not wholeheartedly.”

  “There’s something hinky about the origin and destination of the funds being contributed to Hank’s PAC.”

  “Define ‘hinky.’”

  “It’s a cop term for something that doesn’t look, smell, or feel right.”

  “Continue.”

  “My friend has a theory about all of that.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “I emphasize that it’s a theory, nothing more and maybe less.”

  “Less than what?”

  “Less than real, possibly imaginary on his part.”

  “Okay, let’s start with origination: Where’s the money coming from?”

  “The theory is, it’s being stolen.”

  “From whom?”

  “The theory ends before we arrive there.”

  “We’re talking about tens of millions of dollars. Wouldn’t someone miss that?”

  “It’s not money until it can be spent. Up until then it’s just a lot of ones and zeros out there in cyberspace, being moved around. It’s not like the victim will look in his safety-deposit box and find it empty.”

  “This is all beyond me.”

  “It’s beyond me, too,” Stone said. “The ones and zeros are being gathered in a number of offshore bank accounts, then transferred to a number of computers, and from there to a number of other computers.”

  “But eventually, they arrive in Hank’s PAC?”

  “Yes, but first they go into the accounts of the donors, who then contribute the funds to Hank’s PAC.”

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. She rolled over onto her back and closed her eyes. Half a minute passed before she opened them. “Let me see if I understand the upshot of all this: Hank’s campaign is running, or is going to be running, on stolen money that is laundered through the contributors?”

  “That is the theory.”

  “I just love that,” Jamie said.

  “You love it?”

  “It’s a reporter’s wet dream, and I think I just came.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t of more help.”

  “You did just fine. You know what’s wrong with this theory?”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s just too fucking good to be true. If it were true, and if I could substantiate it, it would surpass Watergate as a story. It would win every journalism prize in existence and make me more famous than Woodward and Bernstein.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s too much of a good thing. Things like that don’t happen to me. My stars are just not aligned that way.”

  “Things like that don’t happen to anybody,” Stone said, “until they do.”

  “I am not, repeat, not, going to think about this anymore.”

  “That would be good, if you can do it.”

  “I can’t do it,” she said. “I’m going to think about nothing else until this happens, if it ever does. Why did you tell me this?”

  “Well, at the moment, everything is sort of stalled. I thought it might cheer you up.”

  “Cheer me up? It terrifies me! If it happens, I’ll never have a life again.”

  “Of course you will. It just won’t be the life you have now. It could be infinitely better than the life you have now.”

  “Jesus, I’m in bed with this lovely man. I’ve just had my brains fucked out—repeatedly—and I’m neck deep in the afterglow. What could be better than that?”

  “Put your mind at rest,” he said. “You don’t have to give that up.”

  “It’s sweet of you to say so. However, I’ll have to move, I’ll have to change my phone numbers and my e-mail address, and I’ll have to buy an entirely new wardrobe for television appearances.”

  “Is the thought of that really painful?”

  “I thought things couldn’t get any better than they are now,” she said. “I’m unprepared for a big improvement.”

  “May I suggest a way of calming yourself?”

  “Shoot.”

  “If and when this all happens, you’re going to have to write a book about it. Don’t wait until then: start now. You’ll have it half done when you learn about the rest, and that’s a great head start. Lose yourself in the book.”

  “Can I put you in the book?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll have to think about that. The experience will be different for me.”

  “How so? Are you afraid you won’t get any credit?”

  “I don’t want any credit. I want my life to continue as it is. I’m not going to win any journalism prizes or get promoted to editor or write a bestselling book, but I’ll be in danger of never having any privacy again. I’d have to leave the country.”

  “I see your point,” she said. “But where would you go?”

  “I have properties in Paris, London, and the English countryside, so where to go isn’t a problem. I just wouldn’t be able t
o stay here, and here is where you are. I couldn’t even be seen with you in public, or there would be a howling pack of paparazzi at my front door. It would upset the neighbors and my Labrador retriever.”

  “I see your point.”

  “And before you publish, I want a head start. I don’t want to be in New York when that issue of the Times hits the doorsteps of the city’s denizens.”

  “I’ll guarantee you a head start,” Jamie said. “In fact, I might even come with you.”

  “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep,” Stone said.

  42

  Scott was at his desk, editing a story, when Jeremy Green rapped on his door and ushered himself in.

  “I’d offer you a seat, Jeremy,” he said, “but you’ve already taken one.”

  “Thanks,” Jeremy replied. “Do you think Jamie Cox is being diddled by Stone Barrington?”

  “‘Diddled’?” Scott asked. “I haven’t heard that word since junior high.”

  “All right, fucked.”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Do you think they might be doing it?”

  “Fucking?”

  “Yes, isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

  “I have to be sure what we’re talking about when I’m talking to you, Jeremy.”

  “Never mind that. Do you think they’re getting it on?”

  “Now we’ve jumped backward from junior high to the sixties, have we?”

  “I just want your opinion, Scott.”

  “I work hard not to form opinions until I’m presented with evidence,” Scott said.

  “You’re evading the question.”

  “I’m glad you noticed.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that they’re fucking? Each other?”

  “Assuming that they both have the required working parts, of course it’s possible. It’s also none of my business, nor yours, for that matter.”

  “Of course, it’s my business,” Jeremy said. “Yours, too.”

  “I’d be interested to know the route you took to believing that.”

  “This paper is ours—yours and mine—more than it belongs to the people who own it. If one of our reporters is screwing a major source for a major story, it would be derelict of us to allow that to happen.”

  “First of all, Barrington is not currently our source, having surrendered copies of the files, which is everything he had. But if you’re correct about their behavior, it has already happened, so we can’t prevent it. What’s the next step, matching chastity belts?”

  “If this thing blows up in our faces there is going to be a massive amount of scrutiny from every other news outlet everywhere,” Jeremy said.

  “I don’t see what we can possibly do about that, except not talk about it, for fear of being overheard.”

  “We can fire Jamie,” Jeremy said.

  “We certainly cannot fire Jamie,” Scott shot back. “She’s the most effective investigative reporter we have, and we can’t afford to be without her. Not to mention that firing her would open a new can of worms.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if we fired Jamie, do you think she would just walk away and wish us luck?”

  “You mean she could sue us?”

  “She could, and she would probably win a big settlement, but she will also walk into another job within a matter of hours, and she would take this enormous story with her. Do you want to be reading about it in the Wall Street Journal or the New Yorker?”

  “That’s a depressing thought,” Jeremy said.

  “Jeremy, we’re dug in to this thing up to our armpits. All we can do now is wait for facts to emerge and make sure that everything is triple sourced. I hope you understand that.”

  “Sure, I do, Scott. I just needed to be told by somebody other than myself.”

  “Jeremy,” Scott said, “has it ever occurred to you that this office and your office and Jamie’s office and all our telephones could be bugged?”

  Jeremy sat bolt upright. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, let’s get somebody in here to find out!”

  “That’s your department, not mine. I just edit.”

  “All right, I’ll get somebody in.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll call Mike Freeman at Strategic Services right now. There’s nobody better at this stuff.”

  “How are you going to explain the expense to the board?”

  “Routine security. We’d be negligent not to scrub the place clean.” He stood up and headed for the door. “I’ll make the call now.”

  “Bye-bye, Jeremy.” Scott gave him a little wave.

  * * *

  • • •

  MIKE FREEMAN GAZED across the desk at the publisher of the New York Times as Viv entered the room. “Jeremy, have you met Vivian Bacchetti?”

  The two shook hands. “In passing only,” Jeremy replied.

  “I understand your concerns about keeping this work quiet, so I thought it would be best if Viv, who is our chief operating officer, could handle it personally, since she already knows about it through her husband, Dino.”

  “Good idea, thank you.”

  Viv produced a notebook and a pen. “Now, Jeremy, how large an area are we talking about?”

  “The editorial department, which occupies all of one floor and part of another.”

  “Then we should sweep all of that?”

  “Yes, I think so. Also, my office, on the floor above.”

  “Only your office on that floor?”

  “I’m the only person on that floor who knows what we’re working on.”

  “If there’s something new, beyond the files, do you want to tell us what that is?”

  “Not unless I have to. I’m just concerned that there is no electronic surveillance of the two areas I’ve mentioned. If, in the course of things, you should discover conversations about our current story, then we can talk.”

  “Well, you seem to be devoting a lot of space to stories about Hank Thomas’s expected announcement.”

  “Correct. That’s certainly relevant. Is H. Thomas a client of yours? Would that be a conflict?”

  “No, H. Thomas keeps all its security operations in-house. No conflict.”

  “Thank God,” Jeremy said.

  “I assume there are people working twenty-four/seven in your editorial department.”

  “Yes, but only a few at night.”

  “I suggest that you pick a four-hour period and announce that there is going to be a visit from a pest control company, who will spray the area with gasses that humans would find offensive or even caustic. That will clear them out for a time.”

  “Let me discuss it with our editor and ask him for a recommendation on when to empty the floors involved.”

  “Good. We’ll send an eight-man crew in with their equipment. That should be adequate for the sweep, and they’ll be dressed in coveralls bearing the name of a pest control company. They’ll also be carrying tanks and masks which will convey to your staff that they won’t want to breathe the air while we’re present. They’ll arrive in two vans in your garage, and the vans will bear the company name, too.”

  “That sounds good,” Jeremy said. “I’ll call you this afternoon about the schedule.”

  Everyone shook hands and Jeremy departed. He was in the backseat of his driven car before it occurred to him that he had not asked what this service was going to cost. Oh, well.

  43

  Bob Cantor sat in an upstairs bedroom of Stone’s house and worked his way from right to left at the bank of computer monitors he had installed there. He had installed his three software bugs on the sysop machines in the computer room at H. Thomas, which covered all fifty computers, and which connected to the secret website he h
ad set up. Three signals appeared on three different monitors, which indicated that all the Thomas computers were being employed in some sort of exercise. He concentrated everything he had on receiving, recording, and decoding their output.

  * * *

  • • •

  FOUR HOURS LATER, exhausted, he fell into bed and went to sleep nearly instantly. He was awakened by the television receiver, on which he had installed a timer, which was now turning it on at seven AM.

  He had displayed six muted screens: NBC, CBS, ABC, CNN, FOX, and MSNBC, and after an hour or so all six suddenly displayed a single image, that of Congressman Hank Thomas. Bob switched on the sound.

  “Good morning to all of you,” Hank Thomas said, revealing very fine dental work. “I’m grateful to all the networks for giving me a couple of minutes of their time to make an announcement.

  “For a long time I have been troubled by the direction the country has taken during the years of the two Lees, who have successively served as president. They have exhibited the behavior we have come to expect from the Democratic Party: soft on defense and immigration; wild overspending on things like PBS, the arts, and medical care; and cutting our military to the bone and beyond. The result has been a weaker nation, one constantly taken advantage of by our enemies and even our allies. I have also been disappointed in the actions of the Republican Party, and so, as I today announce my candidacy for President of the United States, I do so as a conservative independent. I want to come to this election unstained by the continuing political warfare we have seen so much of.

  “These are the things I promise you: a stronger economy than this country has ever seen; a military that can handle three wars simultaneously anywhere in the world; a sensible medical insurance program, which will cover much of every family’s health-care costs; trade policies that will keep our unemployment down and our wages up; absolute support for our Second Amendment rights; and finally, a constitutional amendment that will ban abortion in all its evil forms. I also promise you a major upgrading of our cybersecurity tools and weapons. No longer will any nation be able to attack our vital computer systems. There will be much more, of course, but those are the bones and structure of my campaign.