Dirty Work

by Stuart Woods

  “Where is the meeting being held?”

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not going to harm a hair on anybody’s head while I’m in this, or you’ll have to get yourself a new lawyer. I’m not going to be an accessory to a killing.”

  “Oh, all right, I won’t murder anybody for a while,” she said, like a child promising to be good.

  “Good. Talk to you later.” He dictated some notes to Joan and read them as they came off the printer, then read them again. He was ready. He looked at his watch, impatient to get on with it.

  42

  Sir Edward and Carpenter were on time, and Stone showed them into the dining room. “Would you like some refreshment?” he asked.

  “Perhaps later,” Sir Edward replied. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Stone sat down. “Marie-Thérèse is willing to meet with you in a public place of her choosing, under stringent security requirements, which she will dictate.”

  “Agreed,” Sir Edward replied. “Subject to my approval of her choice of place.”

  “You offered to meet at a place of her choosing. You won’t know the place until you’re there. If you become concerned as you make your way there, you can always abort.”

  “How will she arrange this?”

  “You’ll go to a public place, then be contacted by cell phone and directed to another public place, then another, until she is satisfied you didn’t bring company. Then, and only then, will the meeting take place.”

  “Agreed,” Sir Edward replied.

  “She will require a written apology from you, personally, on your service’s letterhead, for the deaths of her parents.”

  Sir Edward grew an inch. “Absolutely out of the question,” he said.

  “And monetary damages,” Stone said.

  “That is patently ridiculous,” Sir Edward replied hotly.

  “Is it? Think about this for a moment, Sir Edward. On your instructions, members of your service lay in wait for her parents, deliberately destroyed their vehicle on a public street, killing her mother and father. That is, of course, a criminal act worthy of life in prison anyplace in the civilized world, but we’ll overlook that and keep this a civil matter.”

  “It doesn’t sound very civil to me,” Sir Edward said.

  “Civil as opposed to criminal. Marie-Thérèse, in return for your written acceptance of responsibility and apology, plus monetary damages, will forgo, in writing, her right to press criminal charges, and she will waive any further civil action.”

  “Her parents were killed in a war,” Sir Edward said.

  “Oh? Was there a declaration of war by Britain on Switzerland and its citizens?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then, under international law, there was no war.”

  Carpenter spoke up. “Stone, surely you can see that we cannot give her anything in writing. An apology, maybe, but not in writing. She might publish it.”

  “That’s exactly what she intends to do, should you renege on the agreement.”

  “Ridiculous,” Sir Edward said.

  “Is it? You have recourse if she breaks the agreement: You can reinstate the computer record of her activities with international law enforcement and intelligence services, and she becomes a fugitive again. She is entitled to recourse, as well, and the ability to publish your letter would be a motive for you to keep the agreement.”

  “What else does she want?” Sir Edward asked.

  “Just those two things.”

  “How much does she want?”

  “Two million dollars; a million for each parent.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Make me an offer.”

  Sir Edward did some whispering with Carpenter.

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” Carpenter said.

  “If you’re going to make jokes, then we don’t have anything left to talk about,” Stone said, gathering his notes.

  More whispering. “All right, half a million,” Carpenter said.

  “A million,” Stone replied.

  “Three quarters of a million . . . euros,” Sir Edward said, “and that’s my final offer.”

  “I believe I can recommend that to my client,” Stone said, “though she reserves the right to reject the offer at her meeting with you.”

  Sir Edward nodded.

  “I’ve drafted some language for your letter,” Stone said, sliding a sheet of paper across the table.

  Sir Edward shoved it at Carpenter. “Read it to me.”

  Carpenter picked up the letter. “ ‘To whom it may concern: On (fill in date) in the city of Cairo, Egypt, agents of this service, at my personal direction, assassinated two Swiss citizens, René and Fatima du Bois, who were innocent of any crime. I wish to apologize personally, and on behalf of this service, to their daughter, Marie-Thérèse du Bois, for this unconscionable act. As a consequence of my actions, this service is paying the sum of (fill in amount) to Mademoiselle du Bois as reparations for the deaths of her parents. Signed.” ’

  “Will you excuse us for a few minutes?” Sir Edward asked.

  “Of course.” Stone got up and went into his study. He could hear murmurs and occasionally the raised voice of Sir Edward. Finally, Carpenter came into the study. “All right, come in. And Stone, he will not go one inch further than what you’re about to hear.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Stone said, getting up and walking back to the dining room.

  Sir Edward sat, his jaw clenched, and stared at Stone.

  “This is what we have,” Carpenter said, reading from a handwritten document. “ ‘To whom it may concern: Some time ago, agents of British Military Intelligence conducted an operation in the Middle East, during which two Swiss citizens, René and Fatima du Bois, were inadvertently killed. This organization regrets its actions and extends its apologies and sympathy to their daughter, Marie-Thérèse du Bois.’ That’s it. There will be no mention of reparations in the letter. It will be typed on the letterhead of the Ministry of Defence.”

  “And I won’t change a fucking word of it,” Sir Edward said.

  “All right,” Stone replied, “you may present the letter and your offer to Marie-Thérèse at your meeting.”

  “Which will be when?” Carpenter asked.

  “I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to my client.”

  Everyone stood up, and Stone showed them out.

  Carpenter hung back for a moment. “Stone, believe me when I tell you, this is an extraordinary concession for Sir Edward. Please tell your client that he will offer nothing further.”

  “I’ll pass that on,” Stone said.

  “Call me when you have a time for the meeting.” The two walked away from the house.

  Stone went back inside, called Marie-Thérèse and asked her to call back from a pay phone. When she did, he read her the text of the letter and told her about the money.

  “The letter and the sum are both inadequate,” she replied.

  “Listen to me, Marie-Thérèse. This is the offer, and it won’t change. It’s more than you ever expected to get, and I advise you in the strongest terms to accept it.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “All right, but Sir Edward will have to apologize to me in person when we meet.”

  “We can make that demand at the meeting, but don’t expect it to happen.”

  “All right. Now, how are we going to prevent these people from trying to kill me at the meeting?”

  “I have some ideas about that,” Stone said, and he explained.

  “I like it,” she said. “Tell Sir Edward to be at the Rockefeller Center skating rink tomorrow at three p.m.”

  “All right,” Stone said, and hung up. Then he called Dino.

  43

  Stone was halfway through his first bourbon when Dino arrived at Elaine’s.

  Dino gave Elaine a kiss and settled into a chair opposite Stone. “A Laphroaig on the rocks,” he said to a waiter.

  “You’re drinking single malts now?” Stone asked.<
br />
  “Only when you’re buying,” Dino replied. “And it’s better than that corn whisky you drink.”

  “Corn liquor aged in oak barrels for ten years,” Stone said. “And bourbon is a patriotic American libation.”

  “Then you ought to get the Medal of Honor. What’s going on?”

  “I need your help.”

  “So what else is new?”

  “You’ll be preventing a killing on the streets of New York, so just think of it as doing your job.”

  “I’m real anxious to hear what your idea of doing my job is.”

  “All right, pay attention, this is complicated.”

  “I’ll try to follow,” Dino said, “if you’ll keep it to words of two syllables or less.”

  “Actually—”

  “That’s four syllables.”

  “Dino, shut up and listen.”

  “Can I have another Laphroaig on the rocks?” Dino asked a passing waiter.

  “You haven’t finished the one you’re drinking,” Stone pointed out.

  “Yeah, but you’re going to talk for a long time, and I don’t want to interrupt you by ordering another drink.”

  “You just did.”

  “After this. Go.”

  “I’ve arranged a meeting between the head of Carpenter’s service and La Biche, and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dino nearly shouted. “How the fuck could you do that when you don’t know either one of them?”

  “We’ve all met since I saw you last.”

  “Last I heard, you were upset about their trying to kill her.”

  “I still am. I’m trying to stop it from happening. That’s why I need your help.”

  “Okay, just a minute, there’s something I want to know.”

  “What?”

  “What are four retired NYPD cops doing outside in the street and at the bar right now?”

  “They’re making sure I’m not being followed.”

  “Stone, have you come over all paranoid?”

  “Dino, if you’ll just let me talk uninterrupted for a few minutes, all your questions will be answered, I promise.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, you’re not, you’re asking questions.”

  “No, I’m listening.” Dino rested his chin in his hand. “See? This is me listening.”

  “To begin again, I’ve arranged a meeting between La Biche and Sir Edward Fieldstone—”

  “Where do the Brits get these names?” Dino asked, shaking his head.

  “Dino, shut up and listen.”

  Dino drew an imaginary zipper across his mouth.

  “ . . . who is the head of Carpenter’s service. He has proposed a truce between his people and La Biche—in short, they stop killing each other.”

  Dino shook his head in wonder and laughed.

  “Dino . . .”

  “I didn’t say a word, but that was funny.”

  “The participants in this situation don’t think it’s funny.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet. How many of this Fieldstone guy’s people has La Biche got on the scoreboard?”

  “Too many, that’s why he wants the truce. So I’ve arranged a meeting between them.”

  “Is the girl bananas? If she shows up at a meeting, the Brits will waste her.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to prevent, and that’s why I need your help.”

  “You want me to get her some body armor to wear?”

  “That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had, but no, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be anywhere nearby when this meeting happens.”

  “That’s exactly where I want you to be.”

  “Not anywhere nearby?”

  “No, nearby. In fact, very nearby.”

  A look of incredulity spread across Dino’s face.

  “Just hear me out.”

  “You want me to take a bullet for this broad?”

  “No, but if you’re there, nobody will take a bullet.”

  “And how do we know that?” Dino asked. “Really, I’d like to know why my presence would stop them from pulling her plug.”

  “Dino, you’re a lieutenant in the NYPD. It’s not in their interests to kill such a person. That’s why they won’t shoot if you’re close to her and they know it.”

  “And where is this meeting going to take place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Let’s backtrack a minute here,” Dino said. “How is it you happen to be in touch with La Biche?”

  “I got her number from Bobby, the bartender.”

  “From Bobby, the bartender here?” Dino pointed down.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get this straight: If you want to get in touch with an international terrorist and assassin, the guy to see is Bobby, the bartender at Elaine’s?”

  “In this case, yes. You see—”

  “Boy, I’ve been underestimating Bobby. I thought all he did was pour drinks, but all the time, he’s a clearinghouse for spies and assassins.”

  “You remember the night you arrested her here?”

  “I seem to have some recollection of that.”

  “She was at the bar talking to Bobby. He asked her for her number, and she gave it to him. Her cell phone number.”

  “Man, I wish I’d thought of that when I had her in custody. It would make it so much easier to get in touch with her the next time she kills somebody.”

  “Dino, that’s how it happened. I called her and met with her—”

  “And why the fuck would you want to do a stupid thing like that. After that thing in the Post . . .”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk with her, to explain that I had nothing to do with trying to kill her. I didn’t want her breathing down my neck.”

  “And she took your word for that? She’s not as smart as I thought she was.”

  “She is very, very smart, believe me, and I can pull off this meeting and stop this killing, if you’ll go along with me.”

  “Sure, sure, I’ll go along. It’ll make a nice change. I haven’t done anything this crazy in years.”

  “All right,” Stone said, “this is how we’re going to do it.”

  Dino listened, rapt. When Stone had finished, he burst out laughing.

  “Jesus, I love it. And what are you going to do if World War Three breaks out in this public place?”

  “Trust me, Dino, this is going to work.”

  “I hope to God you’re right,” Dino said, “because if you’re not, it’s going to be my ass.”

  “And mine.”

  “Never mind yours,” Dino said.

  44

  Sir Edward Fieldstone stood in the middle of Rockefeller Center and tried to watch the skaters. He did not like being in the midst of all these . . . people . . . these foreigners, these colonials, these Americans with what he assumed were Brooklyn accents. His idea of New York accents had been formed by watching a great many World War II movies, American ones, mostly. His idea of a New Yorker was William Bendix.

  He had stood there, increasingly annoyed, for twelve minutes before the cell phone in his hand vibrated. He opened it and put it to an ear. “Yes?”

  “Good afternoon, Sir Edward,” Marie-Thérèse said.

  “If you say so.”

  “Now, now, mustn’t be unpleasant.”

  His annoyance, and the thick body armor he wore under his jacket, caused him to begin to perspire. “May we get on with this, please?”

  “Of course. You are to walk west on West Fiftieth Street, to your right. When you come to Sixth Avenue, cross and turn left.”

  “What . . .” But the connection had been broken.

  “I’m to walk west on Fiftieth Street, cross Sixth Avenue, and turn left,” he said, lowering his head and hoping the microphone pinned to the back of his lapel was working.

  “The van won’t be able to follow you,”
Carpenter replied, “because the traffic on Sixth Avenue moves uptown, and you’ll be walking downtown, and I don’t think we can take the risk of backup on the ground. But the chopper will keep you in view.”

  Sir Edward looked up.

  “Don’t look up,” Carpenter said, “and don’t lower your head when you speak. The microphone can pick up your voice. Speak as little as possible, and when you do, try not to move your lips.”

  What was he, a ventriloquist? He hated that he had allowed Carpenter to talk him into this nonsense, but he had to agree that it was their only chance to get at La Biche. He began walking. At Sixth Avenue, he crossed and walked downtown at a leisurely pace. He didn’t like Sixth Avenue; it was full of taxicabs and grubby people and those awful street vendors with their kebobs and foreign food stinking up the atmosphere. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

  “At the next corner, cross the street, then continue downtown.”

  He followed her instructions, resisting the urge to look behind him. There was no one there anyway, unless La Biche had accomplices.

  Stone’s cell phone went off. “Hello?”

  “It’s Cantor. The Brit is crossing Sixth and heading downtown. None of my guys have been able to spot a tail yet. He may be clean.”

  “Good,” Stone said, then closed his phone.

  Sir Edward had walked for nearly eight blocks with no further word. He did not enjoy walking, especially in New York; he preferred his car and driver. His cell phone vibrated. “Yes?”

  “Cross Forty-second Street, then turn left into Bryant Park, behind the New York Public Library. Ten paces into the park, stop and wait for another call.” She cut the connection.

  “She’s directed me into the park behind the library,” Sir Edward said to the air around him.

  “I can’t believe we’re that lucky,” Carpenter replied, “unless it’s not the final meeting place.”

  “She told me to stop when I get into the park. Do you think she’ll fire?”

  “I don’t believe she will. Now listen, when she’s clear, your signal to fire is to take off your hat, smooth your hair, and put your hat back on.”

  “I believe I remember that,” Sir Edward replied. “Just be sure your man doesn’t miss.”