by Stuart Woods
He turned left in the East Sixties and saw the awning with Pablo’s street address on it. He did not stop, but drove slowly around the block, checking both sides of the street for loitering men and his rearview mirror for a tail. Nothing.
He circled the block and pulled up in front of Pablo’s building, pressing the button that unlocked the doors. Pablo and his wife hurried from the building, each carrying only a small duffel, and jumped into the rear seat.
“Put your luggage on the front passenger seat,” Stone said, again watching both sides of the street, “and keep an eye out for trouble.”
He turned up Madison Avenue, then left on East Sixty-sixth. A moment later they were crossing Central Park. Stone took the opportunity to check his rearview mirror again, and he did not like what he saw. “Black Range Rover behind us,” he said. “Three men.”
“That’s my car,” Pablo said, “with my two security men and my butler, who will return to the city with the car when we are gone.”
Stone took a few deep breaths and tried to get his pulse to return to normal. “How are your men’s driving skills?” he asked.
“Excellent,” Pablo said, “particularly the one now driving.”
“Good. I don’t want to have to worry about them if we have to evade something.” Leaving the park, he turned right on Central Park West, then left on West Seventy-second Street. A few blocks later he turned north on the West Side Highway and increased his speed to seventy miles an hour.
Soon they were on the Henry Hudson Parkway, with its well-engineered curves and its beautiful stone bridges, constructed by Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration in the 1930s. He drove north for another three-quarters of an hour, then joined I-684, heading north. Traffic was light, and they were making good time. Stone chose this time to tell Pablo about the events of the day before.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Pablo said. “It was a very beautiful house. I feel I should pay for it.”
“Let Lance Cabot worry about that,” Stone said. “He has deep enough pockets, and it was his fault anyway. He knows that.”
“There’s something else I feel I should do,” Pablo said, “that I would like you to do for me.”
Stone heard the sound of a check being ripped from a checkbook, and it was handed forward. It was made out in the amount of $100,000, to the doctor in Rye into whose swimming pool the Agency’s Mercedes had landed.
“Would you send that to the gentleman with my apologies for the inconvenience?”
“Of course,” Stone said, “but I’m sure he has already convinced his insurance company that he is covered for falling objects.”
“Nevertheless,” Pablo said.
Stone turned onto I-84 and drove east. Past the Southbury exit he got off the interstate and drove on surface roads toward Oxford-Waterbury Airport. The Range Rover kept pace. Stone made the final turn into the airport road and looked up. “Look,” he said, “Gulfstream landing; that’s very good timing.” The big airplane settled behind the trees.
Stone drove up the hill to the little terminal building. He didn’t try to drive through the gate, figuring it would take too much time to get it opened, but pulled into a parking space. “Let’s go,” he said, getting out of the car. The Range Rover had pulled in beside them, and three men got out.
Stone grabbed the two duffels in the front seat. “Follow me,” he said. He trotted through the little lobby and was buzzed out through the doors to the ramp, where the Gulfstream sat, its engines running, its door open. He shook Pablo’s hand and hustled the party aboard, and as the door closed, Stone turned back toward the building and saw a gray van come to a halt at the locked gate to the ramp.
Stone grabbed the butler’s arm and hustled him back through the building. “There’s a van at the gate to the ramp,” Stone called to the receptionist. “Don’t open it or there will be trouble.” He hustled the butler outside. “Get out of here,” he said, getting into his own car. As he waited for the man to back the Range Rover out, he looked toward the van and saw a bearded man arguing with the intercom at the gate, and then he saw the Gulfstream turn onto a taxiway and head for the runway.
Stone got the car started, then got out his cell phone and called Lance.
“This is Cabot,” Lance said.
“It’s Stone. I’m at the Oxford-Waterbury Airport in Oxford, Connecticut, and I’ve just put our friend on an airplane, which is about to take off. There is a van with four men inside trying to get out onto the ramp.” As he looked toward them he saw the Gulfstream race down the runway and lift off. “Pablo is gone, but I see a firearm on the belt of the van’s driver. Can you get anybody up here?”
“I’ll call the Connecticut State Police,” Lance said. “That will be the fastest help I can get to you. Whatever you do, don’t mix it up with those people, just get out of there.”
“Believe me, that is my intention,” Stone said. “Goodbye.”
The Range Rover had backed into the drive very slowly and was now beginning to roll down the hill toward the highway.
Stone backed out slowly, too, so as not to attract attention to himself. It didn’t work. Three more men got out of the van, and each had a light, automatic weapon. One of them shouted, turned toward Stone, and raised his weapon. From behind him came a mechanical thudding, which was the sound of automatic fire striking his rear window. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed a row of dents where the bullets had struck the armored glass.
Stone floored the car and burned rubber all the way to the first bend in the road. The Range Rover was dawdling its way toward the highway. Stone flashed his lights and leaned on the horn but got no reaction, so he swung around the car as he lowered his window, pointing to his left, signaling the butler to turn that way.
At the main road Stone whipped to his right and stomped on the accelerator. He had one advantage: his Mercedes E55, with its AMG engine, was faster than anything on the road he was likely to encounter. It was half a mile to the interstate. He pressed a button on the steering wheel and instructed the phone to dial Lance.
“Cabot.”
“I’m turning onto I-84 West,” Stone said, “driving very fast. Please let the Connecticut cops know the bad guys are in a gray van—four of them, heavily armed.”
“Will do.”
Stone put the car into a four-wheel drift and connected with the on-ramp, then floored the accelerator again. “I don’t know why these guys want me, but I’ve taken automatic fire,” he said to Lance. “Bye-bye.” He punched the off button and drove onto the interstate at 110 miles an hour, narrowly missing an enormous truck. He threw the car into the fast lane, and a moment later he was doing 140 and still accelerating. From somewhere far behind him he heard the whooping of a police car.
Stone was up to 160, weaving in and out among cars and trucks, but the traffic was light, and he didn’t kill himself or anyone else. He figured the cops were probably just in time to see the van follow him onto the highway. In the rearview mirror he saw the lights of at least two police cars that had apparently blocked the interstate. He eased off the accelerator and began to slow down. He was decelerating through 120 in the center lane when he saw the motorcycle.
The Harley Hog and its driver had parted company for reasons he did not understand. The driver was doing flips and rolls in the grassy median, and the Hog was skidding along on its side, making sparks. There was a truck to his right and two cars to his left, so he was left with no alternative but to drive over the big machine, braking as hard as he could. His car struck the bike and became airborne.
Everything happened very fast after that; the car was turning end over end, and Stone was straining against his seat belt, his face full of airbags. Then the lights went out.
SIXTY-ONE
People were shouting at one another as Stone slowly came to, upside down, suspended from his seat belt, his arms below his head, deflated airbags everywhere.
The voices seemed to come from a great distance. “He’s coming to!
” a man shouted. “We can’t move the car, and I can’t break the window. Get that thing going!”
Stone saw the man kneeling outside his window, the thick glass muffling his voice. Some sort of engine started, something like a chain saw. Stone found the window switches and pressed one. To his surprise his window slid down—or, rather, up. The machine noise became deafening.
The man was shouting something at him, but he couldn’t understand over the noise. Stone thought it better that he take a nap.
When he opened his eyes again they were filled with blue sky, then a man in a uniform leaned over him.
“Is your name Barrington?”
“Yes,” Stone managed to say.
“We’re getting you to a hospital right away,” the cop said. “Is there anybody you want us to call?”
Stone thought. Not Lance. “Mike Freeman, Strategic Services, New York.” He felt himself being lifted, then he went to sleep again.
Stone woke in a darkened room.
“Ah, there you are,” Mike’s voice said from somewhere.
Stone took a deep breath, and it didn’t hurt much. “Turn on the lights,” he said softly.
The blinds opened and sunlight flooded the room. Mike was silhouetted against the window. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you know. You’re woozy because some EMT gave you morphine; I’m not sure why.”
“Well,” Stone said, “it’s pretty rosy in here where I am.”
The electric bed moved Stone into a sitting position. “I could use a drink,” Stone said.
“Later, my friend.”
“Did I break anything?”
“Not even a rib. No head injury, either. I saw a picture of your car; it’s a mess. You’re a very lucky guy. They had to cut you out with that Jaws of Life thing.”
“Can I have some water?” Stone asked.
Mike poured some from a bedside flask and handed it to him. There was ice in it; it tasted wonderful.
A man in a white coat came into the room. “I see the morphine is wearing off,” he said. “The EMT said he gave you the morphine because he figured you must hurt all over.”
Stone tried moving things. “Everything seems to work,” he said.
The doctor gave him a neurological examination, then patted him on the shoulder. “I want you to stay here overnight for observation. If you don’t die before morning, you can go home.” He walked out.
“We’re at Danbury Hospital,” Mike said. “I’ll stay at your place in Washington tonight and drive you home in the morning. Get some rest.” He tucked something cold under the covers and held a finger to his lips, then he left.
Stone sat the bed up a bit farther and felt for the cold object. It was half a bottle of Knob Creek, with a straw taped to it. He smiled.
The following morning they wheeled Stone out of the hospital through a side door, where Mike was waiting with one of his big black SUVs. The two of them settled into the backseat, and the driver drove them away.
Mike handed him a plastic bag with a lot of stuff in it. “They cleaned out the glove compartment and found your cell phone on the ceiling,” he said, “but your car is not coming home. By this time, it’s probably a small cube in a junkyard.”
“Well, that’s what insurance is for,” Stone said.
“Don’t worry about it; I’ve found you something of ours to drive until you buy something new.”
“Thanks, Mike. What happened to the guys in the gray van?”
“They rolled it half a mile behind where you hit the Harley. Cuts and bruises. The four of them are in a special part of the Danbury Federal Prison, where Lance’s people are questioning them. Turns out they’re four guys from Waterbury who are partners in a car-painting business, all radical Muslims from a storefront mosque. One of them has a history of raising money for some sort of charity that sounds like a front.”
“How did the guy on the Harley do?”
“The rider is banged up a bit, but the Harley is history. It blew a front tire and threw him off; nothing to do with your being behind him. How are you feeling?”
“Sore and stiff, but okay. The bourbon hit the spot. I finished it last night.”
Mike dropped him at his house and held out a car key. “There’s something armored in the garage. Drive it for as long as you like.”
Stone looked at the key. It said Bentley. He dug into the plastic bag and found the remote control, opened the garage door. There was a shiny green Bentley Flying Spur inside. A promotion!
Joan came into the garage and hugged him. “I’m so glad you are all right. When I heard about it I thought I was out of a job.”
“Gee, thanks,” Stone said.
“Just to cheer you up, Herbie is waiting for you.”
“Swell,” Stone said. He walked into his office and found Herbie asleep on the sofa.
Herbie stirred and raised his head. “Hey, Stone.”
“Hello, Herbie.”
“I hear you spread your car around half of Connecticut.”
“Close.”
Herbie sat up. “I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For getting my money out of Jack’s business.”
“You’re welcome.”
“It’s a mess all over again.”
“What’s a mess?”
“The Gunn company. TV says they got away with nearly two billion.”
“Herbie, start at the beginning.”
“Stephanie and David. She came home from the office yesterday and told me to pack a bag and come with her. I did, and we drove out to Teterboro, where there was a Boeing Business Jet waiting. David and his girl were there, too.”
“Go on.”
“Stephanie said we were going to the South Pacific, to Attola. I asked her when we were coming back, and she said we weren’t, unless I wanted to live in a federal prison.”
“And why are you still here?”
“I told her she didn’t tell me we were leaving the country, so I didn’t bring my passport. And you know what she did?”
“No, Herbie.”
“She kissed me and said, ‘Well, fuck you, kid; you’re out.’ Then she got on the plane and they left. I didn’t hear anything else until this morning, on TV.”
Stone began to laugh.
“What’s funny?” Herbie asked.
“I was just thinking that there are two very pissed-off ladies right about now in the DA’s and the U.S. Attorney’s offices.”
“If you say so,” Herbie replied. “Oh, there are some guys in your waiting room that want to talk to us.”
“Us?”
“They’re FBI agents. I told them I wouldn’t have anything to say until my attorney arrived, and Joan said you were on the way, so they waited.”
“Okay, Herbie,” Stone said, hanging his tattered coat on the back of his chair and sitting down at his desk. “Trot ’em in here and let’s see if we can get you out of this one.”
And Herbie did.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again I am grateful to my agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, for their tireless efforts on my behalf over the past thirty years. They are peerless.
Again I am grateful to my editor at Putnam, Rachel Kahan; my publisher, Ivan Held; my publicist, Michael Barson; and all their colleagues for keeping my career on the boil.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their
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Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.
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If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.