by Stuart Woods
“It is, certainly. Macher, if he wasn’t paranoid before, is now climbing the walls, and it would not surprise me if that has the effect of a more serious attempt on the Carlssons or Barrington, or all of them.”
“Well, we knew that would have to happen before we achieve a resolution of this sorry affair, didn’t we?”
“I suppose we did.”
“And we will achieve a satisfactory resolution,” Rawls said.
“I hope so.”
“I think the time has come for you to meet Stone Barrington.”
“I’d like that very much,” Fox replied.
“Call him at this number in half an hour,” Rawls said, dictating it.
22
Joan buzzed Stone. “Ed Rawls on one.”
Stone picked up. “Yes, Ed?”
“Stone, I think it’s time for you to meet my source at St. Clair.”
“I’m up for that.”
“His name is Charles Fox, Charley to his friends. He’s going to call you in half an hour, and I suggest that you invite him to your home for dinner, rather than meet at a restaurant, and warn him not to be followed.”
“All right. Tell me something about him.”
“He’s in his mid-thirties, a Southerner, scholarship to Yale, Rhodes Scholar, recruited to the Agency by a Yale professor. I’ve read his personnel file, and he got high marks from everyone during his training. When I was station chief in Stockholm, he was sent to me for an operation requiring an officer who was not connected to the embassy. He performed beautifully. He’ll tell you the rest, including what he wants.”
“All right, I’ll look forward to hearing from him.”
“By the way, I didn’t thank you properly for dinner and the guest room. We had a wonderful time. See ya.” Rawls hung up.
—
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Joan buzzed. “A man who won’t give his name but says you’re expecting his call.”
“Right.” Stone pressed the button. “Hello?”
“This is Ed’s friend. May we meet?”
“Are you free for dinner this evening?”
“Yes.”
Stone gave him the address. “Come here at seven, and we’ll dine in. Ed says you should be careful of a tail.”
“Right. See you then.” He hung up.
—
AT SEVEN on the dot, Stone picked up the phone to answer the front door. “Yes?”
“It’s Fox.”
Stone pressed the button to unlock. “Come in.” He got up and walked from his study into the living room to greet his guest.
Charles Fox was about five-ten and thickly built—maybe two hundred pounds, sandy hair, pleasant mien. He moved like a man who knew how to take care of himself.
Stone offered his hand. “I’m Stone.”
Fox shook it. “I’m Charley.”
“Come into the study,” Stone said, leading him in. “What will you drink?”
“I’m a Southerner, a bourbon man.”
Stone poured two Knob Creeks and showed him to one of a pair of chairs before the fireplace, where a small fire blazed.
“Ed speaks highly of you,” Stone said.
“I think highly of him. I thought he got a raw deal at the Agency, and I’m glad it got straightened out.”
“Tell me a little about yourself—the sixty-second bio will do.”
“Born Delano, Georgia, thirty-four years ago. Father and mother mill hands. Public schools, scholarship to Yale to study English lit, a Rhodes, spent at Oxford, then back at Yale, recruited for the Agency.”
Stone nodded. “Did you like it there?”
“I did. I actually enjoyed the training, especially the physical stuff, which a lot of my classmates shied from. I got a couple of interesting assignments right away, including one in Stockholm, under Rawls. I spent two years in the London station.”
“Who’d you work for in London?”
“Dick Stone. Ed says you were related.”
“First cousins.”
“A good man. He would have been director by now.”
“Why’d you leave the Agency?”
“I was always a poor boy, and I wanted to make some money. A friend of a friend introduced me to somebody at Goldman Sachs, and they hired me as a trainee. I spent six years there, made partner after five.”
“How’d you get to St. Clair?”
“He called me out of the blue, said a friend had suggested he talk to me. I’d heard of the man, of course, so I met him. He invited me up for a few days on his new yacht, and we got along. He gave me to understand that he needed somebody to work acquisitions, and that he wanted somebody who could rise to CEO quickly. He was backing a guy named Knott to run against Katharine Lee for President, and he told me that when his man was elected—when, not if, mind you—he’d be spending a lot of time in D.C., and if I worked out, I’d be minding the store in New York. I liked the idea. I found Goldman too regimented for me, too many committees, layers. He offered me two million a year, with a million-dollar signing bonus, and I jumped at it.”
“I should think you would have,” Stone said.
“I got there about a month before he blew himself up by opening what sounded like an Agency strong case the wrong way.”
“What did you think of St. Clair?”
“He was a charmer, but I quickly learned that he liked cutting a corner or two, and I was uncomfortable with that. There was no management tree to speak of, so when he died, the place was adrift. Erik Macher stepped into the breach.”
“And what did you think of that?”
“I stayed out of his way, until I could figure out what was going to happen. Macher didn’t even know who I was. He was based in a security company in D.C. that was St. Clair’s personal police force. He’s no businessman, and I figured that, if I could edge him aside, I might still end up running the place. I checked up on his time at the Agency, and it was clear that the man was a thug. I figured that if I stuck around St. Clair and had to work for Macher, I’d end up in jail. I started collecting information that might stand me in good stead if the FBI or the New York Attorney General’s Office came calling. There was a lot of gossip around the office, and I made notes, then I got into the company’s most secure computer network. I’ve copied a huge lot of documents, more than enough to cover me.”
“What do you plan to do with it?”
“I don’t have a plan yet. I just want to get out of there before the place blows. Macher is a deeply paranoid character who reacts badly when he’s crossed. He’s in league with a lawyer named Thomas Berenson, who’s corporate counsel, and during my computer searches I came up with a will for Christian St. Clair that Berenson had drawn, that pretty much handed the company to Macher. I also came up with the original will. Berenson had just substituted the new stuff for a couple of pages of the original, which had already been executed and which didn’t mention Macher at all.”
“That was pretty slick of Macher.”
“He’s a dangerous guy, in more ways than one. He had a reputation at the Agency for unnecessary violence. He’s got a guy named Jake Herman, ex-FBI, who left the Bureau under unfavorable circumstances, and he’s doing for Macher what Macher used to do for St. Clair, except out of the New York office, instead of D.C. The two of them make quite a pair.”
Stone set down his drink. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I want to make a phone call.”
“Sure.”
Stone got up and called Mike Freeman. “I’m dining with an interesting young man that you should meet. Can you join us at my house?”
“What time?”
“Now is good. We’re still on drinks.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Stone hung up and rang Fred, letting him know they’d be three for dinner.
23
Mike Freeman arrived and was given a drink while Stone and Charley started a new one. Stone introduced Mike to Charley and filled him in on his background with Charley’s help. D
inner was served, and Fred poured the wine.
“So, Charley,” Stone said, “what do you want to do as soon as you can extricate yourself from Macher and St. Clair?”
“Well, if I can’t run St. Clair, I’d like to go into the mergers and acquisitions business for myself, or with partners.”
Stone and Mike exchanged a glance. “What sort of acquisitions interest you?” Stone asked.
“Start-ups, or interesting small companies with the potential for rapid growth, if they get the financing they need.”
“What are you prepared to invest in such a business?” Mike asked.
“Five million to start. I made a couple of really good deals at Goldman, and I’ve still got my starting bonus from St. Clair.”
“Is that everything you’ve got?” Mike asked.
“Not quite, and I’d need a salary to live on, of course.”
“Where do you live?” Stone asked.
“I have a suite at the Lombardy Hotel, on East Fifty-sixth Street. It’s expensive, but I get hotel services like room service, laundry, and maid, so I don’t have to spend any time keeping house.”
“How much time were you putting in on a weekly basis at Goldman?” Mike asked.
“Sixty to eighty hours a week,” Charley replied. “It was what was expected of the younger guys, and it was too much. I want a life, too.”
“That seems reasonable.”
They chatted on through dinner and Stone got the strong impression that Mike wanted to go into business with Charley Fox. After dessert, he pulled Mike aside. “What do you think?”
“I think we need this guy,” Mike said. “We’ve been acquiring slowly, catch as catch can, and we need somebody who can put together deals and do the due diligence.”
“I think you’re right, and I think he’s the guy.”
“I’ve got some free office space in our building. We can install him in there with a secretary and a small staff.”
“Good,” Stone replied. “What should we pay him?”
“A million a year, then bump him up to two as soon as he starts doing deals that will support it. I reckon we’re going to be pumping in operating expenses for at least a year, but that’s what we’re for in the deal, the daddies.”
“Are you going to kick in free rent?”
“Sure, until he generates the revenue to pay for it.”
They went back to the dinner table. “I guess you’ve got a contract with St. Clair,” Stone said.
Charley produced it from an inside pocket. “Christian drew it up, and I signed it.”
Stone read it quickly. “Nothing to keep you from taking a hike whenever you feel like it.”
“Or to keep him from firing me out of hand.”
“Can you just walk out tomorrow?”
“I need a little more time with document collection,” Charley said, “then I’m out.” He paused. “If I’ve got someplace to go.”
“Mike and I want to give you that place,” Stone said. He outlined the deal he and Mike had discussed. “What do you think?”
“Do I get a piece of each deal?”
“You can invest up to a third of each one, if you can find the money.”
Charley shook his head. “I want a fee for each deal, and that gets plowed in as an investment.”
“What sort of a fee?”
“A third of a third of the investment. Sometimes I’ll be able to ante up, sometimes not.”
Stone and Mike exchanged a nod. “That’s a very sweet deal, Charley,” Stone said, offering his hand. “You’d better hold up your end.”
“Agreed,” Charley said, and he shook Mike’s hand, too. “When I said I was interested in small deals, that won’t always be so.”
“When you’ve got the right deal, we can find the cash,” Stone said. “From more than one source.”
“Great.”
“Okay, I’ll draw up a contract and get it to you in a couple of days. Do you have a lawyer?”
“I’d like for you to be my lawyer.”
“Not ethical. There’s a guy at Woodman & Weld named Herb Fisher that you’ll like. In fact, you talk to him, and he can draw up the contract.”
“Charley,” Mike said, “does anybody at St. Clair know where you live?”
“My address is in my employee records,” he replied.
“You’d better get out of there before you make the move. It may piss off Macher, and we don’t want you to be too easy to find.”
“Tell you what, Charley,” Stone said. “I own the house next door where my staff live. There’s a furnished ground-floor rear apartment empty there, opens onto the common garden. You can move in there rent-free, until you decide where you want to live.”
“Thanks, Stone.”
“Call my secretary, Joan Robertson, when you want to start sending stuff over.”
“It’s just clothes—won’t take long.”
“You figure out when it’s the right moment to bail out of St. Clair, and tell me how you want to do it.”
“I’ll want to vanish in a puff of smoke,” Charley said.
“When you do, give Macher a proper letter of resignation. Do you still have family in Georgia?”
“Nope, they’re all gone.”
“Then tell him you have to go back there to deal with family matters. If he looks for you there, he’ll find a dead end.”
“Good idea,” Charley said. “And there’s something I should tell you.”
“Okay,” Stone said.
“I’ve got Macher’s office wired for sound, and I have recordings of a couple of his meetings, including one with his board, which is exercised over something to do with the Coast Guard finding cocaine aboard the company yacht.”
“I believe I’m acquainted with that incident,” Stone said drily.
“Do you want me to keep the wire in there?”
“Yes, but for informational purposes only, since it’s illegal. Make sure you shut it down without a trace when you go. You don’t want them finding it later.”
“Right,” Charley said. “I’ll be out of there in a week.”
“Good. Be careful. Don’t roil the waters there. We don’t want our new partner to get hurt.”
“Charley,” Mike said, “I’m in the security business, you know. If you feel in danger at any time, call me on my cell, twenty-four/seven.” He handed Charley a card. “I can put people on you or snatch you off the street, if necessary. And when you check out of the hotel, give them a forwarding address in Georgia, and after you leave, don’t return to the hotel.”
“Not even for a haircut?” Charley asked. “My barber’s there.”
“Find a new barber for the moment,” Mike said.
“I get my hair cut there, too,” Stone said. “I’ll make excuses for you next time I’m in.”
They walked Charley to the front door.
“Let me have a look outside,” Mike said, “then I’ll give you a lift to the hotel.” He did so, while Stone and Charley waited.
“I think this is going to work well,” Stone said. “Just remember to stay safe. You’ve been trained on how to do that, haven’t you?”
“I certainly have,” Charley said.
Mike returned. “Okay, into my car,” he said, and the two of them left.
24
Charley Fox turned up early the next morning and started going through his desk, cleaning out drawers and putting what he wanted to take away in his briefcase. He downloaded the cache of documents he had been saving onto a pair of thumb drives, numbered one and two, and tossed them into his briefcase. He deleted all his computer files and reformatted the hard drive. Finally, he disconnected the little amplifier hooked to the bug in Macher’s office and tossed them into his briefcase, as well, along with the two burner cell phones in his drawer. That done, he typed up a letter of resignation, put it into his briefcase and locked it.
“Charles,” a woman’s voice said.
He turned to find Agnes, the group secretary, s
tanding in his doorway. “Yes, Agnes?”
“Mr. Macher would like to see you in his office.”
“I’ll be there shortly, thanks.”
“He said, now.”
“All right.” He got into his jacket, grabbed his briefcase, removed the resignation letter, put it into his jacket pocket, and walked upstairs. In the outer office, he set his briefcase down next to Macher’s secretary’s desk. “I’ll pick this up in a few minutes,” he said to her.
“Fine,” she replied.
He knocked on the door and heard Macher shout, “Come!” He found Macher sitting at his desk and Jake Herman standing behind him, leaning against a bookcase. This did not look good.
“Sit down, Charles,” Macher said.
Charley did. “Good morning, Mr. Macher, Jake.”
“Charles, have you heard anything about the company yacht being stopped by the Coast Guard last weekend?”
“Nope, not a thing,” he replied. “They do equipment checks on yachts all the time, though. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because the checks are routine. They probably didn’t single you out.”
Herman spoke up. “You ever had any telephone conversations with the Coast Guard, Fox?”
Charley shook his head. “Nope. I’ve never needed their help at sea.”
“You sail?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Not everybody,” Herman replied.
“Come on, Jake, what is this about?”
“Somebody tipped the Coast Guard to search the company yacht,” Herman replied.
“What for?”
“Drugs.”
“Did they find any?”
“Unlikely.”
“Then what’s the problem, and what do I have to do with it?”
Jake left the room and came back a moment later with Charley’s briefcase. “Let’s have a look in here,” Herman said.
Charley leaned over as he passed and snatched the case out of Herman’s hand. “Let’s not.” One of his burner phones would have the Coast Guard number in it.
“Charles, let Jake open the case,” Macher said.
“For what purpose?”
“For whatever purpose I wish.”
The secretary knocked, came into the room, and set some things on Macher’s desk. “Your mail, sir,” she said. “And there’s one from the Coast Guard. You asked me to watch for it.”