by Stuart Woods
He had seen some railway tracks as he floated down, and he headed that way. When he found them he thought about it, then started walking south along the tracks. After half a mile or so he could see a train station ahead of him, and he made for that.
A sign on the station proclaimed the stop to be Rye, New York. Estancia hoisted himself onto the deserted platform and looked around. A schedule on the wall told him the first train of the morning would be arriving at five-ten. He checked his pockets for money but found only euros. He went into the station men’s room and urinated, then pulled out his shirttail and took out some dollars, replacing them with the euros from his pocket. He also removed an American passport. He put everything in his pockets, then tucked in his shirttail and buckled his belt.
He went back to the platform and sat on a bench, then he used his cell phone to call his home in Spain. His wife answered.
“Hello?”
“Listen carefully,” he said. “Plan B.” He waited while she thought about that.
“I understand,” she said.
“All is well,” Estancia said, then hung up.
Plan B meant that she was to immediately pack up the children, most of their clothes, put them and all the staff into four vans, drive to Gstaad, Switzerland, and occupy their house there.
A man walked onto the platform pushing a hand trolley loaded with a high stack of newspapers and began filling a row of coin-operated newspaper dispensers. Estancia didn’t have any change, but he negotiated the purchase of a New York Times for twenty dollars, the smallest bill he had, then he settled himself on a bench and waited for the train.
The C-17 settled onto the runway at Stewart International, braked, and taxied to the lighted ramp in front of the airplane’s hangar. The copilot went aft and lowered the rear ramp, then started releasing the cables holding the pallets in place. Two forklifts rolled up the ramp and began removing the pallets to waiting trucks.
Mike Freeman stood behind the trailer, looking at the sides of the airplane. “I count eight bullet holes,” he said to Todd. “You’d better get your maintenance people on that right away. They’ll either have to be patched or the panels replaced.”
Todd produced his cell phone. “I’ve got to call Lance Cabot,” he said.
Holly put a hand on his arm. “I think you’d better let me do that,” she said. Leaving Todd to speak to the maintenance crew, Holly, Stone, and Mike walked into the offices of Airship Transport and sat down in the lounge. Holly dialed a number on her cell phone.
Stone sat next to her, and he could hear both sides of the conversation.
“Cabot,” a voice said loudly.
“It’s Holly. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Where are you?”
“Back at Stewart.”
“I got your text message,” Lance said. “Congratulations on a successful extraction.”
“The extraction went perfectly,” she said. “Todd did an outstanding job of planning it.”
“Then why do you sound so down?” he asked.
“As we were approaching the coast we lost Estancia.”
“You lost him? How the hell did you do that?”
“He lowered the rear ramp of the airplane, then got into the Mercedes that delivered him, started the engine, and backed out of the aircraft.”
“Backed out of the aircraft? Onto the tarmac?”
“We hadn’t landed yet.”
Lance digested that for a moment. “You were still in the air?”
“Yes.”
“Estancia committed suicide?”
“Maybe not. Stone says he was wearing a parachute.”
“I saw the shoulder straps,” Stone said, leaning into the phone.
“Where the hell did he get a parachute?”
“There was a binful stacked right outside the cockpit.”
“Let me get this straight,” Lance said. “Estancia put on a parachute, got into the Mercedes, and drove it off the airplane into thin air?”
“Exactly,” Holly said.
“My God,” Lance said. “I hope it didn’t land on somebody’s house. We’d never hear the end of that.”
Fred Holland’s gardener arrived for work shortly after dawn, and on going to the rear of the house saw that the swimming pool’s water level was down by a foot. He got a hose, turned it on, and walked to the edge of the pool and dropped the hose into the water, then he looked down and saw a black automobile sitting on the white bottom. “Jesus H. Christ!” he said aloud to himself. “That must have been some party!”
Pablo Estancia got onto the five-ten train and took a seat. He bought a one-way ticket from the conductor and then got out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Gelbhardt residence,” a sleepy woman’s voice said.
“Helga, this is Mr. Gelbhardt,” he said in German. “I’m sorry to wake you but I’m arriving in New York soon, and I should be at the apartment in about an hour.”
“Yes, Mr. Gelbhardt,” she replied. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Yes, please: two scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee.”
“I will look forward to seeing you,” she said.
“Goodbye, Helga.” Estancia hung up. He had owned the New York apartment for more than twenty years. It was in his wife’s maiden name, and the IRS had not discovered it when his difficulties arose. He had not visited it for more than a year, but Helga and her husband, Fritz, kept it in good order, ready for his arrival on short notice.
Estancia opened his Times to the Arts section and began to do the crossword.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Stone woke a little after nine, but he was not ready to get up yet. He ordered breakfast from his housekeeper, and she sent it up with the Times. He switched on the TV, which was tuned to the Today show.
He listened idly to the news as he scanned the front page, then something caught his ear.
“Matt,” a young female news reader was saying, “I have a mystery for you this morning. Let’s go to our local reporter in Rye, New York.”
Another young woman holding a microphone appeared on the screen. She was standing next to a large swimming pool in a lush garden.
“Matt, this is the garden of a surgeon who lives in Rye, and his garden runs all the way down to the beach of Long Island Sound. The doctor awoke this morning to find something in his swimming pool.” The camera crane moved high and over the water, pointing down. “That,” the reporter said, “according to a police diver, is a nearly new Mercedes 550 sedan. It has Spanish license plates and has two bullet holes in the left front fender, and no one is inside. Neither the doctor nor anyone else has the slightest idea how it got there.”
The camera switched to a shot of the reporter and the doctor, with his back turned to the camera. “Tell us what happened,” she said.
“Well,” the doctor replied, “I was wakened at four-thirty or five o’clock this morning by a very loud noise, like an explosion. I got out of bed and looked out the rear window and saw nothing. I figured it must have been thunder, since the area around the pool was wet with rain, and I went back to bed. Later this morning, the gardener found the car and we called the police.”
The camera switched to a uniformed police officer wearing a chief’s insignia. “We’ve looked all over the area,” he said, “and there was simply no access to the pool that would have allowed the car to drive into it. The only way it could have gotten into the pool was to have been dropped from the air.”
The camera switched back to the reporter.
“Regina,” Matt Lauer said, “has anyone reported a car missing from an airplane?”
“Not as far as we know, Matt,” the woman replied. “We’ve called every cargo transporter in the phone book, and they’re as baffled as we are.”
“Keep us up to date on this story,” Lauer said. “I’m dying to know what happened.”
The phone rang. “Hello?” Stone said.
“Stone, it’s
Lance. What the hell happened last night?”
“It’s all as Holly said,” Stone replied. “I watched a movie in the trailer with Estancia, and I got sleepy and went to bed. When I woke up Estancia wasn’t there. Then we heard the rear platform open and all ran aft. I saw Estancia at the wheel of the car, and I could see the shoulder straps of a parachute. Mike had briefed us earlier about where they were stored. Estancia started the car, put it in reverse, and disappeared into the night. There was just a story on the Today show about the car landing in somebody’s swimming pool in Rye, but there was nobody in it.”
“I saw that just now,” Lance said. “Thank God it didn’t fall on a school or hospital.”
“Looks like you’ve bought Estancia a very expensive airline ticket to the United States,” Stone said. “Are the police looking for him?”
“Ah, no,” Lance replied.
“Why not?”
“To call in the FBI or the police would attract too much notice. We can hardly put out an APB on him.”
“Doesn’t he owe the IRS millions? Let them find him.”
“I don’t want to wrestle the IRS for possession,” Lance said. “We’ll have to find another way.”
“Well, good luck,” Stone said. “Goodbye, Lance.” He hung up.
Pablo Estancia had arrived at his Park Avenue apartment, had breakfast, showered and shaved, then phoned his barber and made an appointment for mid-morning.
The man arrived at ten o’clock, set a dining chair in Estancia’s dressing room, and had a look at his head. “The usual?” the barber, who had not seen him for more than a year, asked.
“I’d like it shorter, please, and I’d like to lose most of the gray.”
“Of course,” the man said, and went to work.
After the barber left, Estancia looked in the mirror and thought he looked ten years younger. He looked in a dresser drawer and came up with a box containing various bits of false hair. He selected a couple of pieces, brushed them carefully, and applied a thin coat of rubber cement.
Holly Barker sat next to Todd Bacon in Lance Cabot’s office at the Agency’s Langley, Virginia, headquarters and let Lance vent.
“This is a total fiasco,” he said. “I thought you had this extraction planned down to the last detail.”
“We did,” Holly said, “but in our planning we somehow missed the possibility of the extractee driving a car out of the airplane and into a Rye, New York, swimming pool. I think Todd and I now realize that was an oversight,” she said wryly, “but I have to point out that, in approving the extraction, you didn’t spot that flaw in the plan, either.”
Todd wisely kept his mouth shut.
Lance stared out the window and smiled a little.
“What are you thinking?” Holly asked.
“I was just thinking that this would make a wonderful story for my memoirs, but the Agency’s censors would never allow it to be published.”
Stone was at his desk in the late morning when Joan buzzed him. “There’s a gentleman to see you,” she said. “He won’t give his name, but he says you know him.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Stone said. “It’s a slow morning; send him in.”
A man Stone had never seen before appeared in his office doorway. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties, was dressed in a well-tailored suit, and wore a dark mustache and goatee and heavy, horn-rimmed glasses.
Stone stood up as the man walked toward him with his hand out. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said.
The man laughed and took a chair. “I am Erwin Gelbhardt,” he said, “but you can call me Pablo.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Stone stared at the man for a moment, got it, then laughed, too. “You must have had an interesting morning,” he said.
Pablo gave him an account of his movements since departing the C-17, then he held up a hand. “Before we continue this conversation, I would like to retain you as my attorney.”
“For what purpose?” Stone asked.
“To conduct negotiations with the people who so kindly transported me to this country. I wish to reside again in this country without fear of kidnapping and what the loony right wing like to call ‘enhanced interrogation.’ ”
“What have you to offer them?” Stone asked.
“Will you represent me?”
Stone thought about that for a moment. There was the matter of his consultant’s contract with the Agency, but since he was not currently employed by them, he figured he could tap-dance his way around that.
“If, once I’ve heard your story, I can believe that your objective has a good possibility of coming to fruition, then yes, I’ll represent you. Otherwise, we’d just be talking about a plea bargain.”
“What will your retainer be?” Pablo asked.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Stone replied without hesitation, “payable in advance from a legal source, against an hourly rate of seven hundred dollars, plus expenses.”
“Agreed,” Pablo replied. He took an alligator-bound checkbook from his inside coat pocket and began to write. “This is drawn on a New York City bank account containing only legally derived funds,” he said, handing the check to Stone.
Stone buzzed Joan. “Please type up a representation agreement,” he said. “A retainer of one hundred thousand dollars, against seven hundred dollars an hour.” He hung up the phone and looked at the check. “How is it you have funds in the U.S. that have not been attached by the IRS?”
“I settled with the IRS years ago,” Pablo replied, “and I’ve filed a proper return every year since then.”
Stone smiled. “That’s very good news,” he said, “and, if it’s true, it’s going to make our negotiating position much better.”
“Let me explain something to you going in, Stone. In my dealings with you and the Agency I will tell you only the truth. However, if I feel that my answering a question will place in jeopardy my family or some other innocent person, I will decline to answer rather than lie.”
“Good, that saves my making the standard speech,” Stone replied. “Let’s begin by you telling me how you accomplished a settlement with the IRS.”
“It was remarkably simple,” Pablo replied. “After leaving the United States I gave my tax position a great deal of thought, and I concluded that I did not wish to spend my life as a fugitive from the most powerful nation on earth. So I simply telephoned a deputy director of the IRS, introduced myself, and asked him what would be required to straighten everything out. He told me to call him back in twenty-four hours, and when I did, he said that thirty million dollars in cash and a written agreement to regularize my tax filings in the future would eliminate the problem.” Pablo shrugged. “That was about three million more than I figured I owed him, but what the hell. He faxed me an agreement, I signed it and wired him the money the same day. As a result, I now have a document, signed by the director of the IRS, stating that the United States government has no claim on any of my funds or property in this country or elsewhere as of that date, provided I file accurate returns from that date.”
“I’m going to want a copy of that,” Stone said.
Pablo reached into a coat pocket, produced a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Stone.
Stone read it. “Remarkable,” he said, “given the circumstances.”
“There is one circumstance you don’t know about,” Pablo said. “I escaped from U.S. custody in Miami at the conclusion of my trial, while the jury was still out. After I arrived at my first stop, in Algeria, I learned that the jury had acquitted me. That made everything else simple, except possibly a charge of escape.”
“I should think we can work that out,” Stone said.
“Now, I have a question for you before we go any further. I would like to know how you came to be on that flight that I . . . deplaned from last night, and exactly what your relationship is with the CIA.”
“Of course,” Stone replied. “Some years ago I met Lance Cabot in England, while rep
resenting a client there. I won’t trouble you with the subsequent nature of our relationship; suffice it to say that the following year I signed a consultant’s contract with the Agency, and, on a number of occasions, I have assisted Lance with various problems. That will not be a conflict of interest with your case because they are not currently employing me.”
“And your presence on the airplane?”
“I represent Strategic Services, who previously owned the airplane. They recently sold it to the Agency, along with the attendant charter company, then undertook to make a flight to Iraq, picking you up on the way back. I simply went along on the flight for the experience, which turned out to be very interesting indeed.”
“All right,” Pablo said, “now let me tell you a few things.”
“I’m all ears,” Stone replied.
“Since I settled with the IRS I have taken care not to violate U.S. law. I have, in the course of my business dealings, tiptoed around all sorts of other national laws, but I have never been arrested or charged in any of those countries. I have avoided that, mostly, by conducting all of my business from Spain, by telephone or e-mail or through intermediaries.”
“You are aware, are you not, that U.S. law requires you to register all of your bank accounts outside the country?”
“I am, and I have done so,” Pablo replied. “All I want is what I have already told you.”
“That is certainly a reasonable goal,” Stone said, “if I can convince them that you will give them the information they want.”
“That may be more difficult than you think, Stone, which is why I so readily agreed to your outrageous retainer.”
Joan brought in the retainer agreement and handed it to Stone. He looked it over and handed it to Pablo. “Joan, this is . . . Pablo. What name are you going to be using henceforth?”