by Stuart Woods
“How could I forget it?” Stone replied.
“And you remember that David was suspected of that?”
“Again, my recall of those events is perfect.”
“I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t David. I’m beginning to think it was Stephanie—or maybe Stephanie and David.”
Stone regarded Herbie for a moment. He did not appear to be delusional—indeed Herbie had appeared for some weeks now to be conducting himself entirely within the bounds of rationality, a sort of extended lucid interval. “What makes you think that, Herbie?”
“I’ve overheard snippets of telephone conversations; I’ve heard travel arrangements being made; I’ve heard mention of an island in the South Pacific called Attola.”
“I’ve heard something about that place, Herbie, but I can’t remember what.”
“It’s apparently a very posh place,” Herbie said, “and very far from anywhere.”
“Well, it sounds peaceful,” Stone said.
“It also has something to do with offshore banking,” Herbie said.
“Uh-oh,” Stone replied.
FIFTY-FIVE
Stone regarded Herbie with some sympathy. “Herbie, have you invested all your money, all ten million, with the Gunn company?”
“Not all of it,” Herbie said. “Only seven million.”
“Who do you deal with over there?”
“With Jack Gunn,” Herbie said.
“All right, I’m going to try something; you just sit and listen.” Stone looked up the number of Gunn Investments and asked to speak to Jack Gunn. Somewhat to Stone’s surprise, Jack came on the line almost immediately.
“What can I do for you, Stone?”
“I’m calling on behalf of a client,” Stone said. “This is very sensitive, and I must ask you not to mention this to any of your colleagues.”
“All right. What is it?”
“Herbert Fisher is my client. He has seven million dollars invested with you, and he has gotten himself into some difficulties that I believe are temporary. He therefore wishes to withdraw all his funds immediately.”
Gunn was silent for a moment. “Does Stephanie know about this?”
“No, and Herbie is very anxious that she not know. It would be humiliating for him to have to explain it to her.”
“What do you mean by immediately?” Gunn asked.
“I mean right now.”
Again, a silence, then: “All right. I’ll cut a check. Tell Herbie he can pick it up from the receptionist in half an hour.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
“Stephanie tells me that you declined an opportunity to invest with us.”
“I’m very sorry about that, Jack, but circumstances have been difficult. I hope to have a resolution soon, and I hope I can invest with you at that time.”
“I’ll keep the opportunity open, then. Goodbye, Stone.”
Stone hung up. “Herbie, Jack is cutting you a check right now. Go over there in thirty minutes and pick it up from the receptionist. If Jack or anyone else there tries to discuss it with you, just tell them that you can’t talk, that you have to get to your bank immediately. Then take the check to the bank, get ahold of a senior officer, and ask him to clear the check immediately and deposit the funds in your account.”
“All right,” Herbie said. “Thanks, Stone.”
“Herbie, I’d like your permission to discuss this situation with a couple of people. It might help us find out exactly what’s going on.”
“All right, Stone, you have my permission. Now, I had better get over there and pick up that check.” He shook hands and hurried out.
Stone called Airship Transport in Newburgh, New York, and asked for the CEO.
“Holly Barker.”
“It’s Stone. How’s the world of international business?”
“Not as boring as I thought. Actually, Todd Bacon left the place in pretty good shape. The C-17 has been repaired, and we’re back in business. I may be able to get out of here and back to Langley pretty soon.”
“Good luck on that,” Stone said. “I need some information, and I hope you can help me.”
“You can ask,” she replied. “You know I can’t always answer.”
“Nothing like that. Have you ever heard of an island in the South Pacific called Attola?”
“Funny you should mention that,” Holly said. “I first heard about it last week.”
“Tell me what you can.”
“The way I hear it, this was a little fleabag of an atoll, something like twelve miles by five, the sort of place we spent thousands of lives to take from the Japanese during World War Two. It has a central, extinct volcano and some glorious beaches and has failed to attract tourists because its only runway was too short, and the government couldn’t afford to extend it.
“Last year, a consortium of half a dozen billionaires sort of bought the place.”
“Bought a country?”
“Pretty much. The place is run by an elected president and a legislature of twelve men, and they’ve sold most of the island, exclusive of the capital city, its only town, in return for a bundle of cash and an agreement to rebuild the capital and extend the runway. They now have a ten-thousand-foot runway and an airport terminal building, and jet fuel is available.”
“Let me guess: they have no extradition treaty with the United States.”
“Nor with any country,” Holly replied. “The new owners have also subdivided most of the island and have begun selling lots—minimum, five acres—and have funded a construction company to import building materials. They’ve almost completed a cushy new beach resort of about a hundred suites. And the construction company is already the island’s largest employer. They’ve adopted a building code and everything.”
“And—let me guess again—they’ve started a bank.”
“Sorry, I should have mentioned that; it was the first thing they did. It’s up and running and is a member in good standing of the world banking community.”
“And it offers numbered accounts and confidential services?”
“Exactly. It already has deposits of more than a billion dollars.”
“Does the IRS know about this?”
“Probably, but there’s nothing they can do about it. Attola has accepted no foreign aid from the United States, so we have no leverage there, short of invasion or blockade. I understand we would like to have a naval refueling station there for both aircraft and ships, so we’re being nice to them.”
“This sounds like a story on 60 Minutes,” Stone said.
“It probably will be soon. Why do you want to know about this?”
“It’s my turn to give you this answer,” Stone said. “I am not at liberty to say.”
“Gee, thanks. I spill my guts, and you tell me nothing?”
“Soon perhaps; be patient.”
“Go away.” Holly hung up.
Joan buzzed Stone. “Willa Crane on one.”
“Hey, Willa.”
“I can’t talk,” she said. “Dinner tonight at Elaine’s, eight-thirty?”
“Sure.”
She hung up without another word, and Stone was left staring at a dead phone.
At the end of the day Stone decided not to let Aaron Beck stew any longer. He called the Israeli Mission and asked for Beck.
“This is Aaron Beck,” a voice said.
“Good afternoon, Moishe,” Stone said. “It’s Stone Barrington.”
“Ah, Stone.”
“I have heard briefly from Pablo Estancia, and he has asked me to relay the following message to you. I quote: ‘Please tell Mr. Aarons that I have not, at any time, knowingly sold arms or ammunition to anyone representing any Palestinian organization, legal or otherwise, nor do I intend to do so. Any other questions Mr. Aarons has should be directed to Mr. Lance Cabot, of the Central Intelligence Agency, who has all the answers.’ ”
“And where is Pablo?” Aarons asked.
“He did not mention his lo
cation to me before he hung up. Good day, Moishe, and thank you again for an excellent lunch.”
Stone hung up feeling satisfied.
FIFTY-SIX
Stone walked into Elaine’s to find Dino not yet at their usual table. He sat down and a drink was brought to him.
“Dino called,” the waiter said. “He said not to wait dinner for him. He said you’d understand.”
“I don’t understand,” Stone replied. “Dino never misses dinner.”
“He said something about a double homicide.”
“Well, that might cause him to be late.” Stone took a sip of his bourbon and waited for Willa to show. That done, he reviewed his day, and considered that everything was pretty well wrapped up. He had gotten Herbie his money back; he had brushed off Moishe Aarons, and Pablo was still safe. Now he had only to pass on to Willa Herbie’s suspicions about Stephanie, and then he could relax, knowing he had done his duty in full.
Willa walked in, shucked off her coat, asked for a martini, and sat down. “Whew!” she said. “What a day!”
“You sounded a little fraught when you called,” Stone said. “I’ve never received a phone call from anyone whose first words were ‘I can’t talk.’ What kept you so busy?”
“Work, work, work. After being mercifully quiet for a few days, the criminal classes seem to have come to life again. I spent a long day before a grand jury.”
“Which indicted everybody, I’ll bet.”
“How’d you guess?”
“If you wrote a book about cases in which a grand jury declined to indict, it would be a very short book.”
“You’re a cynic.”
“Let’s have the grand jury argument another day,” Stone said, clinking her glass against his. “Salud.”
They drank.
“I have some information for you,” Stone said.
“Oh, good.”
“My client Herbert Fisher has given me permission to speak about this.”
“Is it something I can take to a grand jury?”
“Not yet; not unless you want to add a paragraph to that book about cases they didn’t indict.”
“So this isn’t exactly hard information.”
“It is information that is hard to come by.”
“Now, wait: you said Herbie Fisher told you something, and that was hard to come by?”
“It is information that would be hard for you to come by, without knowing me.”
“Oh, that kind of hard to come by.”
“Yes. Are you ready for the information?”
“Just a minute,” she said, producing a notebook and pen from her handbag.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” she said, pen poised.
“Have you ever heard of an island nation called Attola?”
Willa put down her pen. “I thought you were giving me information, not asking me for it.”
“My question is but prelude to my information.”
“All right, yes, I’ve heard of Attola.”
“You know all about it, then, about the billionaires buying it?”
“I know all about it.”
“Well, I think, from what Herbie told me, that Stephanie, possibly in league with her brother, David, is going to loot the family firm and run off to Attola.”
Willa did not write anything down. “Do you have actual evidence to support that?”
“Not exactly.”
Willa closed her notebook and returned it and the pen to her handbag. “I hate stuff with no supporting evidence.”
“That’s because you’re a prosecutor and not a cop, or even an investigator. If you were an investigator you would be intrigued that Herbie heard fragments of phone conversations in which Stephanie discussed Attola and made travel arrangements.”
“Fragments of conversation? You call that evidence?”
“Stop with the evidence thing. Don’t you ever get a hunch?”
“Despite your opinion of grand juries, I can’t get an indictment based on a hunch, not even if it were my hunch.”
Stone handed her a menu. “Okay, what would you like for dinner?” He perused his own menu, and the waiter appeared on cue.
She regarded the menu. “Green bean salad and penne with mushrooms and Italian sausage. Do you have any other shred of information that might approach the level of actual evidence?”
“Osso buco with polenta, and a bottle of the Saint Francis Cabernet,” Stone said, and the waiter went away. “This afternoon, Herbie withdrew his entire investment of seven million dollars from the Gunn company.”
“On your recommendation?”
“Well, yes; he is my client, after all.”
“You know, what I would really like to investigate is where Herbie Fisher got seven million dollars. Now, that is intriguing, because he couldn’t have gotten it legally.”
“Actually, he got fourteen million—after taxes and further deductions to settle with his bookie and his loan shark and to keep his dead mistress in really sexy underwear, and to retain me. Now he’s left with about ten million, seven of which he invested with his father-in-law’s company.”
“Stone, would it be a violation of attorney-client confidentiality if you told me the source of Herbie’s millions?”
Stone thought about that. “No.”
“Then please cough it up.”
“The source of Herbie’s millions is the New York State Lottery,” Stone said.
Willa took a big pull at her martini. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t know why not; people win the lottery every week.”
“Not Herbie Fisher.”
“I confess I thought that at first, too, but let me ask you this: where do you think Herbie got the money to buy the Park Avenue penthouse off of which his former mistress, Sheila, fell? I mean, he didn’t pull a fourteen-million-dollar bank robbery or win it on a horse. I’m sure if a high public official like yourself rang up the nice folks over at the lottery, they would confirm that one Herbert Fisher got very, very lucky.”
Willa took out her notepad and made a note. “I’m going to do exactly that, first thing tomorrow.”
“But you’re not going to look into Stephanie and David Gunn flying off to the South Pacific with a billion dollars of other people’s money?”
Willa downed the remainder of her martini and waved at the waiter for another. “Call the FBI,” she said. “They’re pretty hunchy over there.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Stone lay in bed, the Times on his lap and the television murmuring. It was nine-thirty, and he had not stirred himself. Instead, he had allowed guilt to make him slothful. Willa had gone to work, and it was time he did, too, he thought, so he showered, shaved, and went down to his office, still feeling guilty. Finally, he decided to take Willa’s advice. He picked up the telephone and called an old flame, Tiffany Baldwin, who happened to be the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York. He was put through immediately.
“Why, hello, Stone,” Tiffany said, transmitting both surprise and interest. “Long time.”
“Yes, it has been, hasn’t it?” Stone replied. “I have a tip for you.”
“Stone, you know I don’t play the ponies.”
“Not that kind of tip.”
“What kind of tip?”
“A tip about the possible occurrence of a crime.”
“What crime?”
“You remember the business with Jack Gunn’s investment firm losing a billion dollars temporarily?”
“Yes, I was all over it. It was resolved.”
“Well, it may be about to happen again, and if it does, it won’t be resolved.”
“Stone, I’m busy. Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Jack Gunn’s son and daughter, David and Stephanie, may be about to decamp to the island of Attola in the Pacific with a great deal of the firm’s money.”
“What evidence do you have to support this?”
“My client is marr
ied to Stephanie. He has overheard fragments of telephone conversations in which she is discussing Attola and making travel arrangements.”
“Go on.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Stone, why are you wasting my time?”
“I thought you might want to instruct the FBI to investigate this.”
“Investigate what? No crime has been committed.”
“Well, not yet. Don’t you investigate crimes that may be about to be committed?”
“No, we don’t, and we don’t ask the FBI to do that, either, not without some sort of solid evidence on which to proceed. I’m surprised at you, Stone; you know better than this.”
“Okay, Tiff,” Stone said, “I’ve done my civic duty. Now I’m going to attack the work on my desk and forget all about this.”
“What a good idea!” she said, laughing. “Dinner?”
“I’m seeing somebody.”
“Who?”
“Oh, no, we’re not going there. Bye-bye, Tiff.” Stone hung up. He felt that a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Now he could attack the work on his desk.
Except that there was no work on his desk.
Joan buzzed him. “Lance Cabot on one.”
Stone picked up. “Good morning, Lance.”
“I’m afraid not,” Lance said. “Pablo has disappeared.”
“Lance, there are eight men from Strategic Services guarding him; he can’t disappear.”
“Nevertheless,” Lance said.
“How did this happen?”
“His wife wanted to go to the market in Washington, and Pablo went with her. They went into the market, followed by two of Mike Freeman’s men, and then straight out the back door, and they disappeared.”
“You’d better check the airport at Newburgh,” Stone said. “It sounds like Pablo has decided to run.”
“Holly is all over that and every other airport in the area,” Lance said. “Run from what?”
“Well, Lance, your very good friend and colleague Moishe Aarons has been trying to find Pablo—God knows why—but Pablo found that disturbing. Somehow—and I’m not making any accusations—Mr. Aarons found out about your meetings with Pablo. How could that have happened?”