Strategic Moves Page 5
Stone spoke up. “I’m sure that Richard Nixon offered the same protection to the Watergate burglars.”
Lance blinked. “Well, perhaps so.”
“I’m sure I could find personnel in our organization who would be enthusiastic about such an operation,” Freeman said, “but I am not sure I could furnish someone with a sufficient level of computer expertise to break into a secure system within a matter of a few hours, which is what you are talking about.”
“I understand,” Lance said. “That is why your people would take an NSA operative along with them.”
“I think that would make a great movie,” Stone said, “but a bad business story in the Wall Street Journal. I have to tell you, Mike, that you would be putting your company at great risk at a level all out of proportion to the reward to be gained.”
Lance bristled. “The reward, as you put it, Stone, is to destroy the enemies of your country.”
“By breaking the laws of my country,” Stone pointed out.
“I think I sense your position on this, Stone,” Freeman said. “Lance, I will have to discuss this matter with some of our people, then get back to you with a decision in principle, not having details of the actual operation.”
“Perfectly understandable, Mike,” Lance replied. “I’m at the Lowell, and here’s my cell number.” He handed Freeman a card.
Freeman stood up. “Thank you for coming to see us, Lance.” They shook hands and Lance left.
Stone and Freeman sat down again.
“Well, Stone, what do you really think?”
Stone laughed. “I think that Lance Cabot is someone who can never be completely trusted, and I would not want to see the reputation of Strategic Services in his hands.”
“Is that the only reason you’re against it? I mean, dealing Al Qaeda a serious blow is an attractive goal.”
“Mike, if this job were as easy as Lance makes it sound, he’d have his own people do it. The Agency is not short of people with the requisite skills for such an operation, so why doesn’t he use them? And I very much doubt that the president would ever put his signature to a finding on such an operation. That might very well be grounds for impeachment.”
“Good points, all,” Freeman said.
“Mike, I can see you’re attracted to this. Why?”
“For personal reasons, I suppose. I’ve always believed that the greatest benefits derive from operations with the greatest risks.”
“Then, if you were a poker player,” Stone said, “you’d always try to fill an inside straight.”
“Not always,” Freeman replied, “but sometimes.”
“If you gamble for thrills, that’s a good position to take,” Stone said. “But if you have to make a living playing poker, you’d soon find yourself on the street, broke and hungry.”
“What you say about poker is true,” Freeman replied. “But in this kind of operation you make your own odds.”
“You’d need to know everything to make your own odds, and with an operation like this you can never know everything; you’ll only know what Lance wants you to know. Also, Mike, if you undertake this, you’d be dabbling in politics, and that’s a dangerous arena for a business.”
“All valid arguments,” Freeman said, “and I’ll take them all into consideration.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t mind having Lance Cabot in my debt; that might come in useful sometime.”
“Mike, I’ve had considerable dealings with Lance, and I can tell you it can be profitable to deal with him. But you must remember that, in any situation, the safety of Lance’s ass is Lance’s most important priority, and any benefits from dealing with him will come only after Lance has first benefited, if then.”
Freeman took an envelope from his desk and handed it to Stone. “Here’s the check for your old airplane,” he said. “I trust it’s correct.”
Stone glanced at the check. “Entirely acceptable,” he said.
Freeman handed him another envelope. “These are the sales documents and the request to the FAA to keep your old tail number. The process will take a few weeks.”
Stone signed in the relevant places and handed the papers back to him. “Fly it in good health,” he said. “It’s always served me well.”
Freeman handed him another envelope. “And these need your signature for your new airplane,” he said.
Stone walked home with a spring in his step, the check burning a hole in his pocket.
ELEVEN
Stone hired a driver and went to pick up Adele Lansdown at her apartment at 71 East Seventy-first Street. He knew that this was the side door for a more famous address, 740 Park Avenue, said to be the most prestigious in the city.
The doorman on duty called up, then directed him to the elevator. Stone knew the building because he knew a woman who lived there, in her parents’ apartment.
A houseman in a white jacket admitted him, led him to the living room, and poured him a drink. Stone spent his waiting time looking at the pictures in the room.
“Are you interested in art?” Adele’s voice said from behind him.
Stone turned to watch her come toward him. “I enjoy looking at it, but I’m not in the market at this level,” Stone said. “My mother was a painter, and we always had good pictures in our house.”
“Would I know her?”
“Perhaps. Her name was Matilda Stone.”
“I know her work very well,” Adele said. “I have standing orders at two galleries for her work, should it ever become available.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Stone said. “People who acquire her work seem to hold on to it.”
“Do you have anything of hers?”
“I have four of her oils—New York scenes.”
“I envy you those. May I see them sometime?”
“Of course,” Stone said. “They’re in my bedroom.”
Adele laughed. “And I’ve already turned down one invitation to tour that site.”
“Perfectly understandable, on short acquaintance.”
“Perhaps on my next visit to your house. Shall we go to dinner?”
“Certainly. My car is downstairs.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought the Four Seasons would be nice.”
“Always.”
They arrived at the restaurant and were immediately seated in the Pool Room, a reference to the pool, not the game. They ordered drinks, then dinner.
“How are things in your family?” Stone asked.
“Difficult,” Adele replied.
“I understand Jack hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“That’s correct, and it’s the only thing that lets us hold our heads up around town.”
“Have the accountants finished their work?”
“Their report is due in a day or two,” she said.
“Did Jack invest your money?”
“Some of it. I put the proceeds of my husband’s estate in his hands, but I continued to manage my own funds. I started a cosmetics business years ago, and I sold it before the recession, so I have means of my own to support me.”
“An enviable position to be in,” Stone said. “Has anyone heard anything from David?”
She gazed at him over her martini glass. “You’re very well informed. What do you know about David?”
“That he’s . . . on vacation.”
“Well, yes.”
“And that he’s suspected of being the real culprit—or, at the very least, Jack’s coconspirator.”
“Suspected by whom?” she asked.
“Just about everybody, I gather.”
She shrugged. “I honestly don’t think Jack is capable of stealing his clients’ money. For one thing, he’s always made plenty of his own. He was a top man at Goldman Sachs; only went out on his own when he was passed over for CEO there. He left with a very large bundle, which he used to establish his own business, and that has done extraordinarily well.”
“And how do you feel about David?”
“I love the boy. He’s always been the perfect young man, you know—top of his class, everybody’s choice to succeed.” She made as if to continue, but stopped.
“But?”
“But I don’t understand his generation; they are all so different from the way we are, used to having everything so early in their adulthood.”
“You think he might have cut corners?”
“A billion dollars’ worth of corners?” she asked. “It hardly seems possible.”
“I guess we’ll know when the accountants are done,” Stone said.
When they were back in the car Adele said, “Now I’d like to see your mother’s pictures.”
Stone mixed them a drink in the living room, then took Adele upstairs in the elevator and switched on the lights that washed the wall where the four pictures hung.
Adele went and stood before them, gazing intently at one after the other. She turned and put her hand on her breast. “They take my breath away,” she said.
“They still do that to me, too,” Stone replied.
“If you should ever—”
Stone held up a hand. “Never. They’ll go to the Metropolitan Museum—eventually—to hang with her other work there. The museum shop is already selling reproductions that are somewhat smaller than the originals.”
Adele sipped her drink and looked around the room. “You’ve done this quite well,” she said. “Who was your designer?”
“I was,” Stone replied.
“I’m not at all uncomfortable in your bedroom,” she said, “but I’d like to take one more look at your pictures and then be taken home.”
“As you wish,” Stone said. He waited until she was finished, then took her empty glass and led her to the elevator.
“Did you ever marry?” she asked on the way down.
“Never,” Stone lied. There had been a marriage, with the daughter of a friend, but it was terminated after only a few weeks. He had never felt married.
“Do you have something against the institution?” she asked.
“No, I always assumed I would be married someday; it just hasn’t happened.”
They left the elevator and walked to the car.
“Have you ever come close to marrying?” she asked as he opened the door for her.
“Yes, but I’ve managed to stay out of serious trouble.”
She laughed. “A bachelor would look at it that way.”
“It was just a joke,” he said.
“I wonder,” she replied.
“I’ll have the driver take you home, if that’s all right.”
“Of course,” she said. She reached up and put her hand on his cheek, then kissed him in a meaningful way. “I hope you’ll ask me out again.”
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
“I’m perfectly available.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine on Saturday morning, then.”
“Where are we going?”
“A surprise,” he said. “Bring country clothes and some good boots for walking and a warm coat.”
“I’ll be ready,” she said.
He kissed her again, then put her in the car and sent it on its way. Now he had something to look forward to.
TWELVE
Stone was having breakfast in bed the following morning while doing the Times crossword puzzle with the TV on. He was distracted from the puzzle by the mention of Jack Gunn’s name and turned his attention to the TV.
“A moment ago,” the reporter was saying, “the forensic accountants who have spent the past days combing through the business records of Gunn Investments made the following statement.”
A man in a pin-striped suit appeared on camera: “After a thorough inspection of the books and computer systems of Gunn Investments, we have concluded that no money is missing, and no wrongdoing has been committed by anyone in the firm. We did find and have corrected an anomaly in the firm’s computer software that incorrectly transferred some of the firm’s general fund to three of its foreign accounts. Those funds have been returned to the New York account, and the books now balance. We have recommended to the Securities and Exchange Commission that the firm’s customer accounts be unfrozen, and we have recommended to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York that no charges be filed against any member of the firm.”
The camera returned to the reporter. “There you have it. Gunn Investments has been given a clean bill of health, and Jack Gunn is scheduled to make a public statement in about an hour. We’ll have that for you. In the meantime, David Gunn, Jack Gunn’s son, has returned to Miami after a week-long sail in the Caribbean.” The camera showed a handsome young man in sailing clothes being mobbed by reporters at a marina.
“I knew nothing about all this until we sailed into the harbor this morning,” he said. “I’ve been at sea and out of touch for a week, and I’m returning to New York today to be of any help I can in sorting this out.”
Stone turned the volume down and went back to his puzzle, but he couldn’t concentrate. Herbie had told him that David Gunn had spoken to his sister, Stephanie, a day or two earlier. Now he was saying he’d been out of touch for a week?
But Stone had other things to think about. He put down the puzzle, called the caretaker of the Maine house, and asked him to get the place in order for guests and to meet him at the airstrip on Saturday morning, then he called Mike Freeman.
“Good morning, Stone. Did you hear the good news about Jack Gunn?”
“Yes, I just saw it on TV,” Stone said.
“That’s a great relief,” Freeman said.
“I’m planning to use the Mustang on Saturday and Sunday,” Stone said, “if you don’t need it. I’ll be back no later than noon on Monday.”
“Fine, enjoy yourself.”
“Have you heard anything more from Lance Cabot?”
“No. I think he’s expecting me to call him today. I’ll do that, and I’ll say, while we are interested in doing work for the Agency, we don’t want to participate in the sort of mission he mentioned.”
“I think that’s a good move, Mike.”
“Let’s have lunch next week sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Stone replied. They said goodbye and hung up.
Stone was already at his desk when Milton Levine called.
“Morning, Milt.”
“And to you, Stone. Thanks for the referral of Peter Collins.”
“You’re very welcome. How did it work out?”
“We’re pretty much squared away. Turns out Collins had a permit for the gun, and the man who was shot agreed it was an accident. I pleaded him to one count of unlawful discharge of a firearm and he got probation and community service.”
“Nothing for the hostage-taking?”
“None of the people involved wanted to press charges, and the hostage negotiator testified to Collins’s cooperation, so the whole thing pretty much went away. He’s back at the office this morning.”
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall at the first meeting between Collins and Jack Gunn,” Stone said.
“So would I, but my guess is they’ll put it behind them, and it will be business as usual. I owe you a good dinner for the referral.”
“Anytime, Milt,” Stone said, and they hung up.
Stone felt a sense of relief that all the problems that had cropped up in the past few days seemed resolved. Now he could leave for the weekend with nothing on his mind, and he relished that prospect.
“Hi, Stone.”
Stone looked up to see Herbie Fisher leaning against the door-jamb.
“Good morning, Herbie.”
“I hear you and Adele hit it off last night.”
“We had a very pleasant evening,” Stone replied.
“And I hear you’re off to some surprise place this weekend, too.”
Stone frowned. “You certainly hear a lot, Herbie.”
“The women in the family are constantly talking to one another,” Herbie said. �
��Don’t tell one of the family, unless you want them all to know. Where are you taking Adele?”
“I’m going to take your advice, Herbie, and not tell you. Otherwise, it won’t be a surprise, will it?”
“You heard that Jack is off the hook? David too?”
“I heard.”
“Jack’s spending the day calling clients and telling them everything’s okay.”
“Good idea.”
“Say, Stone, would you like to invest some money with Jack? He doesn’t take a lot of new clients, but Stephanie could have a word with him.”
Stone thought about the unaccustomed large chunk of cash sitting in his accounts, from his Woodman & Weld bonus and the sale of his old airplane to Strategic Services. “That’s an interesting idea, Herbie. Let me get back to you on that, will you?”
“I’m putting everything with Jack, myself,” Herbie said.
“Everything?”
“Sure, why not? Stephanie will be watching over it for me.”
“It’s a good idea to put her in charge of your money, Herbie. She probably doesn’t have a bookie.”
Herbie found that very funny. “No, she’s a lot more conservative than I am.”
“Everybody is a lot more conservative than you are, Herbie.”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“Anything else on your mind?”
“No, I was just passing by,” Herbie said.
“When are you off on your honeymoon?”
“In a few days. We’re rebooking everything.”
“Have a good time,” Stone said, turning back to his work. Investing with Jack Gunn seemed like a pretty good bet, he was thinking.
THIRTEEN
On Saturday morning Stone picked up Adele and drove to Teterboro Airport, to Jet Aviation, where the Mustang sat out on the apron, waiting for them.
Adele showed an interest in the airplane, so, after loading their bags in the forward luggage compartment, Stone took her along on the preflight inspection, then he hooked up the battery, and they prepared to taxi. Stone got his IFR clearance, then worked his way through the long checklist, started the engines, and asked ground control for permission to taxi. Shortly, they were lined up on runway one with a takeoff clearance. Stone did his final, brief checklist, then pushed the throttles all the way forward and held the brakes on while the engines spooled up. He released the brakes, the airplane accelerated quickly down the runway, and Stone rotated, then retracted the landing gear and flaps. At seven hundred feet, he switched on the autopilot and began flying the Teterboro Six departure, but shortly he was given a vector to the Carmel VOR, then a moment later, direct to Kennebunk.