by Stuart Woods
“By the way, Marisa’s father has said that your medical bills and your stay here are on him, so don’t worry about that.”
“That’s very good of him.”
“You can thank him when you see him. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with Arthur Steele at the Steele Insurance Group and get a full corporate package put together for Triangle, you, and the new employees.”
“You think of everything.”
“I’ll have to, until you’re well enough to think.” Stone said goodbye and went home.
—
“GET YOUR closing done?” Joan asked.
“By the skin of my teeth.” He told her of the day’s events.
“Sheesh! That Macher is a bastard, isn’t he?”
“If that’s the worst name you can think of.”
“Oh, the locksmith dropped off the new keys to the mansion,” she said, handing him a set.
“Please messenger a set and the new alarm code to Kaley Weiss at Strategic Services. Oh, and Charley has a knife in his desk drawer in the apartment—include that in the package, but not the gun.”
She went to get it done, and Stone called Dino.
“Bacchetti.”
“Thanks for the help of the NYPD today,” Stone said. “They did a great job.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Charley Fox has applied for a carry permit, and since he’s already been attacked, I can’t see any impediment, can you?”
“Nope. I’ll oil the machinery and get it done. Shall I send it to him at the clinic?”
“That will make him feel much better.”
“As long as he doesn’t hunt Macher down and shoot him.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve already had that conversation with him.”
“Bad news,” Dino said. “The DA called and says he can’t move against Macher on the murder charge.”
“Don’t tell me, not enough evidence.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“I’d certainly feel better if he were behind bars, no bail, awaiting trial.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t provide that service without some paperwork from the DA, and these days I can’t send somebody out to hunt him down and kill him.”
“You never could do that,” Stone said.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could?”
“I always knew you had fascist tendencies.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“Dinner later?”
“Sure. Patroon?”
“Done.”
41
Stone called Ed Rawls, who answered immediately.
“Ed, I need your advice,” Stone said. He told him of Macher’s effort to blow up the St. Clair building. “We don’t have enough evidence to prosecute him. Have you any advice as to how to proceed?”
“Shoot the son of a bitch and don’t get caught,” Rawls said.
“That’s excellent advice, Ed, but I need a way ahead that doesn’t involve life in prison without parole.”
“I said don’t get caught, didn’t I?”
“Ed, I was a homicide detective for a long time, and I never encountered a perfect murder. These days, there are too many kinds of evidence that didn’t exist all those years ago.”
“Yeah, DNA, and all that crap.”
“Right. How do we defend ourselves from somebody with no scruples at all? Somebody who’s willing to do anything?”
“Stone,” Ed said, “if I knew that, Macher would already be dead.”
—
LIEUTENANT GEORGE MARCONI, who commanded one of the NYPD’s bomb squads, sat at his desk and stared at the burner cell phone that had been attached to the bomb found in the St. Clair mansion. He pressed the recent button and found a single phone number. Could this possibly work? He retrieved a small recorder from a desk drawer and plugged it into the cell phone, then pressed send. It was answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Macher, this is George Marconi, how are you?”
“Okay, I guess, who are you?”
“I want to be sure that I’ve got the right person,” Marconi said. “Is this the Erik Macher who, until recently, ran the St. Clair company?” He heard Macher suck in a breath, then stop.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Macher said, and hung up.
Marconi sighed. Nearly had him. Macher wouldn’t be answering that phone again. He went to his computer and found a secure directory of all cell phone numbers in the Northeast, entered his password, then did a search for Erik Macher. There! He called the number.
“Erik Macher,” a gruff voice said. The same voice he’d just heard on the burner.
“Mr. Macher, it’s George Marconi again. Why did you hang up on me?”
“How’d you get this number?” Macher demanded.
“Oh, I can get anybody’s cell number,” Marconi said, “even a burner number.”
A long silence, then, “What’s a burner number?”
“That’s a number on a throwaway cell phone, like the one you attached to your bomb at the St. Clair mansion.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you, I’m George Marconi.”
“That doesn’t tell me who you are.”
“I’m curious, Mr. Macher, where did you get the design for your bomb?”
Another silence, then, “Bomb? What bomb?”
“Come on, Erik, you’re not going to play dumb, are you? Would you like me to go to the police and tell them you’re the guy who planted the bomb at the St. Clair mansion, and I can prove it?”
“Prove what?”
“That you’re the man who planted the bomb.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m a reasonable man,” Marconi said, trying to get him talking, “I can be bought off, and for less than you might imagine.”
“Bought off?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? Okay, you pay me twenty-five thousand or I’ll tip off the police and give them your whereabouts. Is that clear enough for you?”
“What’s clear to me is that you’re a crazy person. I don’t know anything about any bomb.” He hung up.
Marconi’s phone rang almost immediately. “Lieutenant Marconi.”
“Marconi, this is Bacchetti.”
“Afternoon, Commissioner.”
“What are you turning up on the bomb at the St. Clair mansion?”
“Funny you should mention that, sir. I was just on the phone with Erik Macher. I called the phone number that the burner phone attached to the bomb heard from—the one that Mr. Barrington answered?”
“And who did you get?”
“Erik Macher. And I recorded the two conversations I had with him.”
“Play the recordings for me.”
Marconi did so.
“That was a really good idea,” Dino said, “except for the part about it not working.”
“It nearly worked, Commissioner.”
“So, it was a really good idea that didn’t work.”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“How about coming up with an idea that works?”
“I’m working on that, Commissioner.”
“You do that, Lieutenant.” He hung up.
Marconi hung up and called his lab.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Have you come up with anything on that explosive I sent you?”
“Funny you should mention that, Lieutenant. I just did.”
“Tell me.”
“You know, a few years back, there was an experimental program started that was supposed to help us trace explosives?”
“No, I didn’t know that. What kind of program?”
“The idea was that the manufacturer would place a marker in the explosive that would allow it to be traced back to the manufacturer, who would keep a record of who the explosive was sold to.”
“Did it work?”
“Sure, it worked, but Con
gress wouldn’t pass a law allowing that to be done. There was another suggestion that ammunition could be marked the same way, and they were apparently afraid the NRA would shout that they were infringing on gun owners’ rights, so they wouldn’t approve it for either ammunition or explosives.”
“So why are you telling me all this?”
“Because, Lieutenant, the explosive you sent me was apparently part of the experimental program. It contained a tracer element.”
“So, did you trace it?”
“Yes, sir. I called the manufacturer, and they were able to look it up and tell me who they sold it to.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, man, who did they sell it to?”
“The CIA.”
Marconi’s jaw dropped. “You’re telling me that the explosive I sent you came from the CIA?”
“That’s what I’m telling you, Lieutenant. So I called the CIA, and eventually I got connected to somebody in the technical services division, who would have issued the explosive to somebody at the Agency.”
“And who did they issue it to?”
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
“What? Did you explain that the explosive was part of a criminal investigation?”
“I did, sir, but they denied all knowledge of it. So I guess it was kind of a dead end.”
Marconi groaned. He thanked the man and hung up. He called the commissioner back but got his voice mail, so he left a message describing his conversation with the lab.
42
Stone got to Patroon first and ordered drinks for both himself and Dino. They arrived just as Dino did.
“I’m impressed with your timing,” Dino said.
“You’re easily impressed—I just wanted a drink, and I didn’t want to wait for you.”
“I figured. I just thought I’d make you feel better after what must have been a depressing day.”
“Why would you think it was a depressing day? I got the deal closed, and I’m going to make zillions of dollars from it, eventually.”
“Gee, I don’t know, I thought it might have been depressing for you to come within a second of getting your ass scattered all over the Upper East Side.”
“On the other hand, it was exhilarating for that to not happen. You have to look on the bright side, Dino. Otherwise, who would have had a drink waiting for you?”
Dino took a swig. “You’re right, I feel better already.”
“I’m so glad.”
“Listen, I got some interesting news from my people this afternoon.”
“I’m always interested in the interesting.”
“Turns out the explosive in Macher’s bomb was an experimental batch that contained a trace marker that allowed the manufacturer to have a record of who it was delivered to.”
“You’re right, that is certainly interesting. To whom was it delivered?”
“The CIA.”
“Aha!”
“Don’t aha so fast, my friend, they won’t tell us who—rather, to whom—they issued it.”
“Well, that’s annoying of them, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is, but we have an in with the Agency, don’t we?”
“And who is that?”
“That is you.”
“You think they’d tell me?”
“You’re Lance Cabot’s fair-haired boy—he’d tell you.”
“I question your assessment of the fairness of my hair in Lance’s eyes, so let me rephrase the question. You think Lance would tell me who checked out the explosive, then testify to that in open court? I think he might well express a certain reluctance to participate in that scenario.”
“You have a point, but you’re making it without reference to your gift of persuasion, especially where Lance is concerned.”
“Oh? Kindly quote me an example of when I persuaded Lance to do something for me. It’s always the other way around, and Lance’s persuasion is always tainted with a veiled threat about what might befall me if I should not be persuaded.”
“Okay, you persuaded him to sell you that house in Paris that the Agency owned, and at a minimal price, if memory serves.”
“That was only because Lance desperately wanted something from me.”
“And what was that something?”
“I don’t recall offhand, but it must have been something really important to make him that desperate. Also, it was very expensive for the Agency to maintain the place as a safe house, and they hardly ever used it. I’m sure the General Services Administration was pleased to have it off their books.”
“I forget what point I was trying to prove.”
“You were trying to persuade me that I could persuade Lance to give me the name of the person who signed out the explosive, and then to testify to that in open court.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now.”
“I’m so relieved. I had thought you were exhibiting signs of early-onset dementia.”
“Not in the least. Will you call Lance?”
“Only if we can think of something to give Lance in return, something that he really wants.”
There followed three minutes of silent contemplation.
“I can’t think of a thing,” Dino said finally.
“Neither can I.” Stone got out his cell phone. “I’ll call Lance.”
“Good idea. Put it on speaker.”
Stone did so.
“This is Cabot. Why are you calling me at this time of night?”
“Because I know you work at all hours, Lance.”
“Ah, Stone, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”
“I thought, Lance, that you might derive some satisfaction from helping to imprison a former CIA agent, a thoroughgoing rogue who is a contemptible and murderous swine.”
“As inviting as imprisoning a contemptible and murderous swine sounds, I cannot imagine how I could help.”
“Then I’ll clear it up for you. The former agent checked out a quantity of plastic explosive from your technical services division some time back, and after performing whatever task he had in mind, he retained a considerable portion of that explosive until this very morning, when he deployed it in an attempt to murder everyone at a meeting at which I was in attendance, not to mention a few dozen innocents in adjacent buildings on the Upper East Side of this city. We were saved only by a passing Labrador retriever who was skilled in the arts of explosive sniffing.”
“A passing Labrador retriever? One on the sidewalk, sniffing for a place to do his business, who just happened to zero in on some plastic explosive at your meeting?”
“It was a she, name of Bessie, but all right, she was actually attending the meeting, in the company of her owner, when she began barking at the fireplace. The bomb was contained in a wood box next to same, which, at Bessie’s suggestion, I opened just in time to disconnect a cell phone attached to said explosive. A moment later, it rang.”
“I hope you answered it.”
“I did, and on the other end was the aforesaid contemptible, murderous swine, name of Erik Macher.”
“Ah!” Lance said. “I believe I do recall that person, and you have described him accurately.”
“Thank you.”
“And what is it you want me to do to him?”
“Just instruct your director of Technical Services to testify that the explosive was checked out to Mr. Macher, and that he did not return any of it.”
“Forgive my asking, but how would my man determine that the same explosive he issued to Macher was contained in the bomb of your acquaintance?”
“Because the manufacturer of said explosive took part in an experimental program to add trace markers to their product, and they have a record of having delivered explosive containing that marker to your own estimable agency, and the NYPD has identified the marker. All we need is the Agency’s confirmation that it was issued to Macher and none was returned.”
“Stone,” Lance said, “I believe you are well acquainted with the level of secrecy under which we oper
ate, are you not?”
“I am, but I don’t see how getting a contemptible, murderous swine off the streets would compromise that secrecy.”
“Because the world at large is not aware that our technical services division even exists, let alone the name of its director, nor does it know for certain that we sometimes find uses for explosives. We do not wish to implant that information in the consciousness of unsuspecting citizens, which might later emerge to bite us on the ass in a congressional hearing, or other such venue, which it surely, as night follows day, would. Please give my warm regards to Bessie, and I bid you a pleasant good evening.” Lance hung up.
“You see?” Stone asked Dino.
“You weren’t persuasive enough,” Dino replied.
43
Stone arrived at the Carlsson Clinic just before noon and opened the door to Charley’s room to find Charley and Kaley close together, both a little breathless and flushed.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Stone said, dragging a chair up to Charley’s bedside.
“Of course not,” Charley panted.
“I was just leaving,” Kaley said, checking her appearance in her compact mirror and refreshing her lipstick. She kissed Charley and left.
“You got here just in time,” Charley said. “I might have expired.”
“Lovely way to go,” Stone observed.
“I’d just as soon hang around for more,” Charley replied.
“I thought I’d bring you up to date.”
“Shoot.”
“First of all, I checked with Ed Rawls and asked his advice on how best to quietly remove Macher from the scene.”
“And what did Ed suggest?”
“He suggested shooting him in the head and not getting caught.”
“You know,” Charley said, “that’s not a bad idea.”
“I gave Ed the benefit of my experience as a homicide detective in a past life and explained that I had never encountered a perfect murder.”
“But wait,” Charley said, “in a couple of days I’m going to be ambulatory. I could creep out of here, off Macher, and creep back in. I’m an invalid—no one would ever suspect me. How perfect is that?”
“Imperfect,” Stone said. “You forget that we have no idea where Macher is, or whether he is predisposed to getting shot in the head by an invalid, who would probably pop his sutures and bleed to death in the street before he could creep back into the Carlsson Clinic.”