Wild Card

by Stuart Woods

  “Are iguanas not nice?” Jamie asked.

  “Don’t ask,” Stone replied. “The good thing is, they’re ugly, not cute—and they shit all over everything, so they don’t get any sympathy.”

  “Not even from the animal activists?”

  “They’ve all got pellet guns,” Stone said. “You know the old saying in the army that there are no atheists in foxholes? Well, there are no animal activists with iguana shit on their shoes.”

  21

  Stone called Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “It’s Stone.”

  “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “I’ve been in Maine and Nantucket, and now I’m in Key West.”

  “And why aren’t you answering your phone?”

  “I’m only answering a throwaway.” He gave Dino the number.

  “Is somebody after you?”

  “Everybody, everywhere,” Stone replied. “If you’ll shut up for a couple of minutes, I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  “Shoot.”

  Stone told him everything.

  “So you’ve got a house full of people?”

  “I do.”

  “What is Ed Rawls doing there?”

  “Shooting iguanas. It keeps him from shooting people.”

  “Well, that’s a good trade-off. When are you coming back to New York?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”

  “The idea is, I’m harder to find here.”

  “They’ll find you wherever you are. You’d be safer in New York.”

  Stone thought about that. “You may have a point.”

  “Come on back. I’ll put a couple of men on your house.”

  “That’s a generous offer. Let me talk with Jamie about it.”

  “Give me as much notice as you can, and I’ll pull a couple of people off whatever they’re doing and send them to your house.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “Bye.” Dino hung up.

  Jamie was on the other line; a moment later she hung up. “They want me to come back to New York,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Everybody. The New Yorker wants to take photographs, and my editor wants to talk about trimming the book by a hundred pages. The Times wants me to talk to their lawyers, and I guess we both need to talk to Herbert Fisher. And I have a shopping itch that I can’t scratch in Key West.”

  “Is tomorrow soon enough?”

  “You betcha.”

  Stone called Faith and asked for wheels up at nine, then he called Fred about meeting them at Teterboro. “Done,” he said. “Dino is putting a couple of cops on the house, so we’ll feel more secure.”

  “I can’t quarrel with that,” Jamie said.

  “Sara’s making dinner for us, and she advises indoors. We’re due for some rain tonight.”

  “By the way,” she said, “this is a wonderful house. I love the interior gardens and the koi pond and all that.”

  “It’s nicer in winter, when the temperature is more suited to human beings.”

  “And it’s less suited to them in New York.”

  “Exactly. There’s a lot to be said for a warm place in winter.”

  “I’ve got a title for the book,” Jamie said. “Excelsior: The Tommassini Files. That’s if my publisher can photograph your safe.”

  “Sure, and it’s a great title.”

  “Maybe Dino shouldn’t put those cops on your house. It’s better publicity if somebody takes a couple of shots at us.”

  “The only trouble with your idea is that one or more of those shots might connect with your ass or, worse, mine.”

  “There is that.”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary to spill blood to publicize your book.”

  “But . . .”

  “Put it out of your mind.”

  “Oh, all right. We’ll play it safe.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The rain arrived in the late afternoon, so they met in the indoor living room for drinks.

  “Jamie and I are flying back to New York tomorrow. You’re all welcome to come or stay here and fly back commercial when you can’t take the heat anymore.”

  Rawls spoke up. “I bagged fourteen iguanas this afternoon, and that’s enough for me. I’ll go to New York with you and spend a few days catching up with friends.”

  “You’re welcome to stay with me,” Stone said.

  “Is there room for Sherry and me, too?” Bob asked.

  “Of course. Sherry, my Turtle Bay house is built a lot like the Maine house: it’s a fortress, with Joan and her .45 guarding the moat.”

  “Sounds great,” Sherry said. “Do you think I can sneak over to my apartment and get some clothes?”

  “Bob’s good at sneaking,” Stone said. “He’ll take you.”

  “I want to check on my place, too,” Bob said.

  “Okay. We’re leaving for the airport at eight AM,” Stone said.

  Sara called them for dinner, and they settled into the dining room.

  * * *

  • • •

  At midday the following day, they touched down at Teterboro. Stone kept everybody aboard until the airplane had been towed into the Strategic Services hangar, then with Fred in the Bentley and another hired car, they all drove into the city and into Stone’s garage before they got out of the cars. Joan met them and handed out room assignments.

  She took Stone aside. “The process server showed up again today,” she said.

  “Ask Herbie to come over. We can brief him, and he can accept service.”

  “When?”

  “After lunch, if he’s free.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Herbie arrived around three and shook hands with Jamie.

  “I’ve already accepted service, and I’ve spoken with the Times attorneys and with the opposition, as well. I think I put the fear of God into those guys about their client having you tracked all over the eastern seaboard. I think they also understand that they don’t have a case, but they’re not turning down the Thomas money, so they’re stringing them along.”

  “Well deserved,” Stone said. “I hope their lawyers bleed them dry.”

  Herbie took out a legal pad and ran over a dozen points with Jamie. “I don’t have any points for you, Stone.”

  “That’s okay, I’m just an innocent bystander.”

  “They’ll call you the instigator of the whole thing, if we ever get as far as a courtroom.”

  Jamie spoke up. “I’ll bet the Times will make more from the increased circulation and advertising revenue than the lawyers cost them.”

  “That would be poetic justice,” Herbie said. He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. “Now, let’s see if I can get out of here without somebody shooting me.”

  22

  Bob drove his rental car around Sherry’s block a couple of times and saw nothing amiss. He parked the car, and they went up to her apartment. Bob cleared every room before he let her inside, then he whispered in her ear, “Don’t say anything while we’re here. The place is probably bugged, and I don’t have time to sweep it.”

  She nodded, then went into her bedroom, got a large suitcase from her closet, and began filling it with her things. While she was doing that, Bob had a look around the place but couldn’t find any cameras. A half hour later they let themselves out and went back to Bob’s car.

  They drove downtown to Bob’s place, and he performed the same security check he had at Sherry’s. As they pulled into the garage, he said to her, “Same deal here as at your house. Say nothing.”

  She nodded and followed him past the double locks into his workshop. She smiled and gave him a
thumbs-up. Nice, she mouthed.

  Bob filled a toolbox with electronics gear and a suitcase with extra clothes, then they locked up and went back to the car. Before opening the garage door, Bob had a look at the street through a peephole. A gray van was parked across the street that hadn’t been there when they arrived. He went back to the car. “We’ve got company outside,” he said. “A van. I’m going to have to check it out, so you stay here.”

  “My gun is in my bag,” she said.

  “For God’s sake, don’t shoot anybody. There’ll be hell to pay, no matter how right we are.”

  “I’ll try not to,” she said.

  “Don’t even consider firing unless someone who’s not me opens the car door.” He let himself back into his workshop and opened a vault the size of a bathroom. There were all sorts of weapons—legal and illegal—on the walls, and he picked up a rifle with a nightscope that fired darts. He loaded the magazine, then let himself out a basement door at the rear of the house, locking it behind him.

  He moved around the house, staying between the shrubbery and the outer wall, until he had a clear view of the van. He switched on the nightscope and peered through it at the vehicle. As he did a bright light flared in the front seat, and he squinted as the man behind the wheel lit a cigarette. Two men sat there; the one in the passenger seat had nodded off.

  Bob lowered his aim to target a front tire and pumped a dart into the chamber. He squeezed off a round and saw the dart strike the tire, then he quickly aimed at a rear tire and fired at it. Neither shot had made much noise, but he thought the men inside might’ve heard the darts strike the rubber.

  He watched them through the scope; the driver was starting to nod off, too. Nothing had startled them. He retraced his steps and let himself into the house, double-locking the door behind him. He returned the rifle to the vault, spun the wheel to lock it, and went back to the garage.

  “Now,” he said, “I want you to lie down and put your head in my lap.”

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Can’t you wait until we get home?”

  “Just put your head there and don’t move until I tell you to.”

  “Oh, all right.” She made herself comfortable.

  Bob started the car, then clicked the remote control. The garage door slid silently up; he put the car in reverse, and it rolled backward and onto the street without revving the engine. He closed the garage door and drove down the street, past the van, with his lights off. As he passed the vehicle, the driver looked up and saw his car, then started the van.

  Bob drove slowly down the street and didn’t turn on his lights until he reached the corner and turned uptown. He looked back and saw the van stopped in the street, as the two men checked out the tires. “They won’t be giving chase,” he said.

  “Listen,” Sherry said, “as long as I’m in your lap . . .”

  * * *

  • • •

  Bob had expected that the two men would have made a call for help, but he appeared to be clean when they arrived at Turtle Bay. “They weren’t ready for that,” he said.

  Sherry sat up and looked around. “Are we home?”

  “We are.”

  “Then let’s go to bed.”

  “First, the luggage,” he replied.

  * * *

  • • •

  They passed Stone’s study and found their three companions having a nightcap.

  “Have you been out?” Stone asked.

  “We picked up some things at Sherry’s apartment and my house.”

  “Was the trip uneventful?”

  “Not entirely,” Bob replied, then told him about his encounter with the van.

  “We had something like that rifle at the Agency,” Rawls said. “This guy named Teddy Fay worked in operations, and he invented things like that.”

  “I didn’t invent this one,” Bob said, “but I modified it a little, and I make my own darts—some that will penetrate a tire and some that are small and light enough to penetrate a neck to deliver a dose of a drug. As it was, we left them in the street with two flat tires, and we got back here before they could raise the alarm.”

  “No one saw you enter the garage?” Stone asked.

  “No one.”

  “Would they have seen the license plate?”

  “I disabled the plate light as soon as I rented the car. We’re clean.”

  “That’s good,” Stone said, “but it bothers me that they’re still looking for us.”

  “Not us, me,” Bob replied. “They blame me for the bomb and for, ah, changing Rance Damien’s appearance.”

  “He’s suing the rest of us,” Stone said, “and until you get a subpoena, assume that they still have other plans for you.”

  “At some point,” Bob said, “I’m going to have to . . .” He stopped, deciding that it was better not to go on.

  Stone nodded but said nothing.

  “Well,” Rawls said, “I don’t think anybody is looking for me. Is there anything I can do for anybody in the outside world?”

  “I think you’re okay on the street, Ed,” Stone said, “but don’t assume they don’t know you. They’ve had a look at you a couple of times.”

  “I guess you’re right about that,” Rawls replied. “I’ll just assume I’m being tailed and take pleasure in losing them.”

  23

  Rance Damien checked out of the clinic late in the afternoon, went home, and got drunk on pain pills and scotch. The following morning he went into the office for a scheduled meeting with Henry and Hank Thomas. He found Hank alone in Henry’s office.

  “You’re looking better, Rance,” Hank said. “The old man is not feeling well today. He couldn’t make our meeting.”

  Damien took this as a possible transition. From here on, he’d have to suck up a bit more to Hank, who, lately, had seemed a little inflated from his flirtation with the presidency. Damien had the feeling that Hank would be trying again in four or eight years, and that he might do some house cleaning with that in mind. He was going to have to become more essential than ever around here, he thought.

  “Rance,” Hank said, “I’ve been reassessing the organization, and I’ve come to the same conclusion that Dad and Granddad did: you’re the most capable man on the premises.”

  Damien had not been expecting flattery, and he tried to put it out of his mind. “Thank you, Hank.”

  “How many more operations?”

  “Two or three. My doctor is very pleased with my progress.”

  “Well, you won’t be appearing at any board meetings until your, ah, condition has cleared up. It’s been my observation that rich, powerful men are suspicious of people with physical disabilities or even scars. Just shows you how stupid they can be. Still, the next time they see you, I want it to be when you’re fully recovered.”

  “I understand, Hank,” Damien said, though it infuriated him. After all, he had received his injuries in the service of those men.

  “What are our chances of rebuilding the software we lost in the fire?”

  “Nil,” Damien said, “and it would be pointless to try. We were able to succeed before only because we had bribed a man in their management for the information we needed. Now, as a result of our first attempt, they are rewriting all their code.”

  “Can’t we bribe someone else there?”

  “The best thing is to wait until they’ve perfected the new code, then buy a copy of it from someone there.”

  “How long?”

  “Perhaps two years.” Damien didn’t know that, but he didn’t want Hank on his back all the time about trying their scam again.

  “What about this fellow who posed as the copying-machine technician? Have you identified him?”

  “His name is Bob Cantor, from what we’ve picked up while surveilling the girl, Sherry. But he called himsel
f something else when he was in our offices.”

  “Haven’t you found his residence?”

  “Yes, but it’s owned by a Delaware corporation, and a lawyer’s name is the only one on the deed. It’s possible even he might not know Bob Cantor. There’s no mortgage on the house. His neighbors don’t know him. He seems to live in a kind of bubble he’s made for himself.”

  “I’d like him in the East River,” Hank said.

  “Believe me, so would I. We actually caught him visiting the house last night, but he disabled our vehicle, and our people couldn’t give chase.”

  “What about the girl, Sherry?”

  “She’s dropped off the planet. None of the girls here have heard from her. We had our chance, but Hurd and Heather blew it.”

  “Didn’t they have a bug on her person?”

  “It came off in Nantucket, our last sighting of her. She left in a private jet.”

  “This girl can’t possibly have that kind of support at her beck and call.”

  “That’s coming from Barrington.”

  “Well, we can’t touch him at the moment, since we’re suing him, along with the Times and some of their people. That’s too good a motive.”

  “I understand that. Our best bet is to concentrate on Van and Sherry, but we’ve been shorthanded. I’m considering pulling in Hurd and Heather from Maine, but their faces are known to Sherry.”

  “I understand that Heather is adept at extracting information from women,” Hank said.

  “She has gifts in that area.”

  “Then let’s find Sherry and give Heather an opportunity to display her skills. Nobody will notice if Sherry disappears.”

  “I agree, but she has already disappeared,” Damien pointed out.

  “Surely she must have some family.”

  “All dead. She didn’t even list a next of kin on her employment application. She’s apparently alone in the world.”

  “From everyone except this Van character,” Hank said. “Find him, you find her. They’re a loose end, and I don’t like loose ends.”