Strategic Moves (15 page)

“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.”

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 representing 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?”

Pablo accepted the agreement. “I will revert to my original name, Erwin Gelbhardt,” he said. “I have a valid passport in that name.”

“Joan, this is Mr. Gelbhardt,” Stone said.

“How do you do, Mr. Gelbhardt,” Joan said, and they shook hands.

Gelbhardt signed both copies of the agreement and handed them back to Stone. Stone signed them both, handed one back to Pablo and the other to Joan for filing.

“But I prefer to be called Pablo,” Gelbhardt said.

“Pablo it is,” Joan replied, and left the office.

“Now, Pablo,” Stone said, “what sort of information will you supply to the CIA, in return for being left alone?”

Pablo thought for a moment. “Well, how about the longitude and latitude of the current location of Osama bin Laden?” he replied.

Stone stared across the desk at his new client. The man did not exhibit any sign of insanity. “You actually have that information?” he asked.

“I do,” Pablo responded.

“Who knows that you have it?”

“No one. I came across it quite by accident, and the person who gave it to me died almost immediately after telling me.”

“Is there anyone who
believes
you have that information?” Stone asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Pablo replied.

“Then let’s keep it that way for the time being.”

“I should have thought you would want to dangle it before Lance Cabot and his colleagues as an incentive.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that bin Laden might move to another location?”

“No.”

“Then let’s first dangle other information before Lance, and save that little piece until we really,
really
need to use it.”

“I must tell you, Stone, that as a patriotic American, I have a moral imperative to give that information to my government.”

“Are you morally impelled to give it to them today, tomorrow, or next week?”

“I suppose not.”

“Then please let me choose the moment for transmitting it, so that you may derive the maximum benefit for being a patriotic American.”

“I take your point,” Pablo said.

“Now, what other information do you have for them?”

“I can give them the details of every arms transaction I have been involved in for the past twelve years,” Pablo replied. “I should mention that I have what is often referred to as a photographic memory, although it might be more accurate to describe me as visually and audibly memory-efficient.”

“Do you have documents to support your recounting of these transactions?”

“Alas, such transactions are never committed to paper, except as notes, which I have always destroyed at the conclusion of the business.”

“What we very much need, then,” Stone said, “is a transaction that they can confirm independently, as a means of confirming your veracity.”

“I am unaccustomed to having my veracity questioned,” Pablo said, “having built a reputation for truthfulness over these many years.”

“You will have to try not to be offended by the disbelief of others,” Stone said. “Each person you speak to will have his own very good reasons for disbelieving you, unless the truth can be more objectively confirmed.”

Pablo sighed. “Ah, that is human nature, I suppose.”

“It is the nature of the intelligence bureaucracy,” Stone said, “where every person is responsible to those above him and must, therefore, cover his ass.”

Pablo laughed. “I think you are right; I am unaccustomed to dealing with bureaucracy. In my business, decisions are made quickly, albeit with verification on both sides.”

“As in ‘you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine’?”

“Precisely.”

“Please remember, as we progress, that we are not dealing in the sale or purchase of hardware, but a trade of information in return for the safety of you and yours. What we are likely to get, if we are successful, is a sheet of paper with some writing and a signature on it.”

“I understand. Tell me, Stone, do you have a very good safe in your offices?”

“I do.”

“Then I must ask you to deposit there any paper on which you have written any information about me, so that, if your offices should be . . . disturbed, that information will not fall into other hands.”

“I will do so,” Stone replied. He looked at his watch. “Now,” he said, “I think you should go to a place where you feel secure and wait there while I conduct some preliminary discussion with what we must think of as the opposition. If you will give me a phone number, I’ll call you when I have progress to report, probably tomorrow.”

“Please memorize this,” Pablo said, then gave him the number. “Repeat, please.”

Stone repeated the number.

Pablo stood and offered his hand. “I feel better now,” he said. “I look forward to working with you.”

“I look forward to that, too,” Stone said, shaking the hand.

When Pablo had gone, Stone called Lance Cabot.

“Holly Barker.”

“Holly, it’s Stone. May I speak to Lance?”

“I’m afraid he’s out of the office for the rest of the day,” she said. “Did you get any sleep this morning?”

“I did, though not enough. Will you ask Lance to call me at his earliest convenience?”

“Sure. Anything I can help you with?”

“Not yet,” Stone replied. “Bye-bye.” He hung up, then called Dino and made a dinner date. He called in Joan, scribbled Pablo’s phone number on a notepad, ripped off the page and handed it to her, along with the letter from the IRS. “Start a file on Mr. Gelbhardt,” he said. “Keep it in the safe, along with any other material pertaining to him, and keep the safe locked at all times.”

“Anything scary about this client?” she asked.

“He’s a pussycat, but there might be those who wish to harm him in some way, and they may not be as nice—hence, the safe.”

“Got it.”

“Deposit his check and pay the taxes on it today, please.”

“Got it.”

There was a knock at the door, and Herbie Fisher stood there. “Hey, Stone.”

“Hey, Herbie, come in.”

Herbie took a seat.

“You don’t look so happy,” Stone said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I’m not seeing very much of Stephanie.”

“Why not? You still live together, don’t you?”