by Stuart Woods
“Who’s running things now?” Stone asked.
“The old guy, the one who hated you so much, died of a heart attack, probably brought on by the bullet in his brain.”
“Who’s the new guy?”
“Anton Pentkovsky,” Rick replied. “Younger brother of your stalker, Izak.”
“Nepotism in reverse?”
“Yeah. I didn’t want to bring this up, but you did.” Rick turned to Rocky. “Stone gets a little nervous when the Russian Mob comes up.”
Stone held out a steady hand. “I’m not nervous.”
“I wish you were,” Rick said, “the situation would cost me less sleep.”
“I don’t see any bags under your eyes, Rick,” Stone said.
“They’re figurative, but they’re there.” Rick tapped his temple with an index finger.
“How can we calm these people down, get them off my back?”
“Your head on a cocktail tray would do it, I think, but I take it that’s off the table.”
“Good guess. Anything less painful?”
“Rocky? Any ideas?”
“I could shoot Izak,” she offered.
“As much fun as that would be, it would only make things worse.”
“Define ‘worse,’” Stone said.
“Dead sooner.”
“Rocky,” Stone said, “don’t shoot Izak.”
13
Lasserre occupied an entire townhouse on the Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and the dining room was upstairs from the reception area. The restaurant was a large, square room, with a grand piano in one corner, and—everyone’s favorite feature—a large panel in the ceiling that slid silently open, to reveal a rose arbor on the roof and the night sky above it.
While they sipped a champagne fraises des bois (essentially a kir royale, but substituting a strawberry liqueur for the usual stuff—it cleared the palate and made the mouth ready for fine food), Stone had a look around the restaurant over his menu. Half the men were clad in fine European tailoring of one country or another, the others were in American suits of an expensive nature; the women were dressed to kill.
“See any assassins?” Rocky whispered from behind her menu.
“Not yet,” Stone said. “Everyone seems too well-dressed for that kind of work.”
“Yes, a meticulous workman doesn’t want spatter on his Charvet suit, does he?”
Stone grimaced. “Let’s change the subject to food.” They did, and ordered directly.
To Stone’s surprise, Rick La Rose appeared from the kitchen in a busboy’s white jacket and began pouring ice water for the guests at their tables.
Rocky stifled a laugh. “I’ll never let him live this down,” she said.
“I think he’s checking out décolletages, rather than assassins.”
“You could be right.”
“I usually am.”
She arched an eyebrow at him.
“Not always, but usually.”
Rocky sighed and ordered.
* * *
—
They had just finished their main courses and were watching the ceiling slide open when a small vase of flowers on their table exploded. There was no bang, just the tinkle of breaking china.
Rocky put a hand on Stone’s arm. “Don’t move. It’s being taken care of. It’s happening on the roof. I saw a barrel peeking out of the rose arbor.” She looked at their butter dish, just behind the vase, and it had split in half. “The butter took a round,” she said. “Same one as the vase.”
Rick appeared at Stone’s elbow and pretended to add water to his glass. “We’ve got to get you out of here,” he said.
“Not until we’ve had dessert,” Stone replied.
“Stone . . .”
“Whoever fired it missed, and your people have already roused him.”
“You’re not safe here.”
“He could be waiting for us to hurry out the front door, couldn’t he?”
“Possibly,” Rick said through clenched teeth.
“Well, I’d rather be sitting where he’s already missed, rather than encountering him outside. Let us know when the whole place is officially clear, but not before we’ve finished dessert.”
Rick left the table with his pitcher of water.
“You’ve embarrassed him,” Rocky said.
“I’m the one being shot at, and he’s embarrassed?”
“Your logic is impeccable, I’ll give you that. We’re just as safe here as anywhere.”
Dessert arrived, and Rick was right behind it, this time in a suit. “This way, please, sir, madame.” He walked them to the elevator and got in with them. “The front door has been cleared, and so has the traffic,” Rick said, fingering the little tear in the left shoulder of Stone’s suit jacket. “We’ll send this back to Charvet for repairs.”
“Simpler to have it done in New York,” Stone said.
Rick put them in the rear seat of the vehicle, then got into the front passenger seat. “We’re going to take a circuitous route home, to give my people time to clear your house. How many shots did you hear?”
“None,” Stone said, “but there must have been two. One couldn’t have hit my shoulder and both dishes, the angle would have been wrong.”
“I’ll accept your judgment on that,” Rick said. “The weapon was silenced. We found it on the roof.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Russian light game rifle, folding stock, scope, short barrel. If he were a better shot, your head would have looked like the butter.”
“What a nice thought!”
“We’re moving up your flight time to six am,” Rick said.
“Swell.”
“You can sleep on the airplane.”
“I guess. I hope you got the check.”
“We run an account there.”
“Does the manager understand what happened?”
“I hope not. I’d hate for us to be banned.”
“You’d better be back in their good graces before my next visit to Paris,” Stone said. “Lasserre is one of my favorites.”
* * *
—
They were back in Stone’s New York house by early afternoon the next day. Stone’s cell phone was ringing. “Yes, Lance?”
“Congratulations on your narrow escape from the Angel of Death,” he said. “That’s what the cognoscenti call Izak Pentkovsky.”
“Nothing I did. The shooter was just unlucky.”
“The Russians have probably already shot him by now; Lasserre is one of their ambassador’s favorite restaurants.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want him to get a bad table,” Stone said.
“There aren’t any bad tables at Lasserre.”
“I agree.”
“I hope you also agree that this isn’t over.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Stone replied. “Where would you like me to dine tonight?”
“At home.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll keep you posted on progress,” Lance said, then hung up.
“Was that Lance?” Rocky asked.
“Who else?”
“What was his attitude?”
“Inscrutable. I’m not sure whether he was happy or sad that I survived.”
“Stone, I’m sure he was happy. Why else would he have laid on all that security in Paris?”
“Of course, you’re right. I guess I’m just tired of being a target.”
“Are you tired of being so closely guarded?”
“Not by you, I’m not. Perhaps we should keep the level of my peril alive just enough to keep Lance interested in having you stay at my side.”
“At some point, I’ll be needed elsewhere,” she said.
“Not by me,” S
tone replied.
14
Ed Rawls sat on the front porch of his house in Dark Harbor, Maine, on the island of Islesboro, in Penobscot Bay, munching scrambled eggs and sausages from the dish on the folding table at his elbow. There was a 12-gauge police riot shotgun lying across his lap; his only concession to gun safety was that there was not a round in the chamber.
His iPhone uttered a chirp that told him there was someone at his gate a hundred yards down his driveway. Ed picked up his iPhone and pressed an icon. A picture of two men in a car appeared on-screen, one of them at the wheel.
“Go away,” Ed said into the phone.
“Mr. Rawls?”
“I’ll tell you one more time before I set off the charge in the gatepost: Go away.”
“I’m here at the behest of one far above us,” the man said. “If you want to kill somebody, make it him.”
“You’re closer and easier,” Rawls said.
“I’d like to speak to you on behalf of that person.”
“Do it now, then.”
“There are ears in the forest around here and on that Hinckley Picnic Boat about a hundred and fifty yards off your beach.”
Rawls looked out at the water and squinted. Such a craft bobbed at anchor, and he could see someone moving in the cockpit. He pressed another icon on his iPhone, one controlling the gate. “One of you can walk up the driveway and live; more than one, and the other gets buckshot for breakfast.”
“Understood,” the man at the wheel said, and got out of the car.
Rawls pressed another icon and got a display of four images from cameras around the house. He watched as the man passed through the open gate, wearing khaki trousers, a lumberjack’s shirt, and a barn coat. “Leave the gun on the gatepost,” he said.
The man stopped, reached inside his coat, brought out a Colt .45 model 1911, and set it carefully on the gatepost.
“Proceed,” Rawls said. “When you come around the corner of the house, you’d better have your hands in the air.”
The man came around the corner of the house with his hands in the air. He didn’t wait to be offered a seat but took the nearest porch chair.
“I didn’t invite you to sit down,” Rawls said.
“I don’t really give a shit,” the man said. “You going to shoot me for sitting down?”
“I could shoot you for the backup piece strapped to your left ankle,” Rawls said. “Take it out and throw it at the driveway.”
The man did so.
“All right, speak.”
“Yesterday after the president’s daily intelligence briefing, she asked a person to remain when the others left. She then inquired as to the safety measures taken to protect the life of her friend, Stone Barrington, upon whose life two attempts have been made, the most recent in Paris last night.”
“Is he dead or alive?”
“Alive, so far.”
“Who wants him dead?”
“From the available evidence, looks like the Russian Mob. The top guy is Pentkovsky, the younger. The elder brother appears to be on the case, as well.”
“Those guys don’t miss much. Why ain’t Barrington dead?”
“Our people in Paris are good, too, and one of ours is at Mr. Barrington’s side at all times.”
“She must be beautiful if Stone is sitting still for that.”
“I’m told it is as you say.”
“What do you want?”
The man looked around, as if there might be someone listening. “What I’m about to say is off the books and, in addition, was never said.”
“Then why are you recording our conversation?” Rawls asked.
“I am not wearing a wire.”
“Well, your man on the Hinckley has got a dish antenna the size of a pizza pointed at us. Don’t that count?”
“All right, he’s ours, and his companion has a sniper’s rifle and a bead on your head, should your greeting get any less friendly. May we proceed?”
“All right, go ahead.”
“Our very important person has been told by a very, very important person that the world would be a better place if the Pentkovskys were not in it, and has requested action to that effect. I stress that this is not an official request and is entirely off the books.”
“So the president and Lance Cabot want me to off a Pentkovsky?”
“Two Pentkovskys—stressing that such a thought never entered their heads nor passed their lips.”
“And I’m supposed to do this for God, Country, and the American Way?”
“There is an aluminum camera case containing a million dollars in used, nonsequential fifty-, twenty-, and ten-dollar bills buried somewhere on this island. On corroboration of the successful completion of this task, the coordinates and a photograph of the site will be texted to you.”
“You said two tasks.”
The man gazed out to sea and thought about it for a moment. “All right, two million dollars. All of it will be in place before the next ferry leaves for the mainland.”
“Whose money is it?”
“Yours, if you do the work; if not, nobody’s. It will be returned to its usual resting place, to await another occasion when it is required. And you get the text only after both tasks are completed.”
“What happens to it if I get killed? What about my heirs and assigns?”
“You have only one heir, and we couldn’t care less about your assigns, if such exist.”
Rawls thought about it for half a minute. “What is the geographical location of the persons named?”
“They’ll both be in New York by dinnertime, and so will you, if you accept our offer and a ride. All your expenses will be covered, too, including transportation.” He reached into his pocket and produced a thick envelope. “This contains fifty thousand dollars, to cover your costs, and we’ll throw in a room at the Carlyle Hotel, already booked.”
“I accept your offer and your money,” Rawls said. “Toss over the envelope.”
The man tossed the envelope and Rawls caught it with the reflexes of an old catcher, which he was. “All right,” he said, “find your gun. It will take me a few minutes to pack some things and a couple of weapons.”
“We have a rather special and versatile weapon in the car for you, along with a compact 9mm semiautomatic and silencer and leather for it, and ammo for each.”
“You guys think of everything, don’t you?” Rawls got up and went into the house. “I’ll open the gate in fifteen minutes, and you can drive down here.”
He went inside and closed the door.
15
Rawls got out of the car at the airstrip on Islesboro and watched a black helicopter appear on the horizon, as the two men unloaded his luggage. One of the men got back into the car and drove away.
“Where’s he going?” Rawls asked his companion.
“To bury the rest of your fee; he’ll get the ferry. We’re going directly to MacArthur Airport, on Long Island, which is lightly used.”
The helicopter landed with a surprising lack of noise; somebody in a nearby house wouldn’t have heard it. A crew got out and dealt with Rawls’s luggage, and he and the CIA officer got into the helicopter and put on headsets. The officer flipped a switch on the panel into which the headsets were plugged.
“Now we’re on intercom, just the two of us,” he said. “The pilot and copilot cannot hear us, and we are not transmitting.”
“Gotcha,” Rawls said.
“My name is Jim, for these purposes, and you will communicate with me over this phone.” He handed Rawls a white iPhone and gave him the four-digit access code. “The only number you can phone is mine, and you will receive all instructions from me and report all your actions on this phone alone. Clear?”
“As gin,” Rawls replied.
Jim handed him a black
file folder. “Everything you need in the way of background is in here. If there’s anything else you need to know, ask me. If I don’t know, I’ll find out.”
Rawls nodded.
“You will note from the file that the Pentkovskys are also staying at the Carlyle, one floor below you. They are having dinner this evening at Caravaggio, a fancy Italian restaurant around the corner from the Carlyle. It would be a good place to have a drink at the bar and get a good look at them. You are not to kill them there or at the Carlyle or on a New York City street, except after dark, do you understand?”
“What’s left?” Rawls asked.
“You may kill them in a vehicle on the street at any time. If you are seriously wounded or at risk of being taken by the authorities, you must not be taken alive. Is this clearly understood?”
Rawls looked thoughtful but said nothing.
“Do you understand?”
“I guess if that happened, life wouldn’t be worth living anyway, so yes.”
“Good decision.”
Rawls knew that if he had not satisfactorily answered that question, he would have departed the helicopter well ahead of its arrival at MacArthur Field, probably over Long Island Sound, where an outgoing tide would soon introduce his carcass to the Atlantic Ocean.
“Do they travel in an armored vehicle?”
“Perhaps, but the weapon I have given you will penetrate the windows. Fire once for penetration, then again, through that hole for the kill. I need hardly tell you that we would find it preferable for you to kill them both at once; otherwise, we’d just have the other one walking around, raising the alarm with his people.”
“How much security do they travel with?”
“Normally a driver and another man riding shotgun, and two men in a following car. You may kill whoever you have to in order to get a clear shot at them or to avoid being shot yourself. You are not to carry any form of personal identification while working—not even a credit card—but you may carry all the cash you require for walking-around money. If you become a fatality, your room at the Carlyle will be deep-cleaned, and any personal effects, except for clothing, will be removed and sent to your daughter at an appropriate moment. Your body will be cremated by a reputable Manhattan undertaker, and your ashes offered to your daughter. If she declines them, they’ll do God knows what with them.”