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Authors: Stuart Woods

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“Fourteen, in seven bedrooms, including the guesthouse.”

Stone counted noses. “Mike, we’re okay on numbers, unless you’re staying.”

“For a night or two,” Mike replied.

“You can use my house, then.”

“Thank you, Stone.” He turned to his men. “Get your luggage inside, then I want a by-the-square-foot search of the property for any possible security risk.” The men moved to their work.

“These people are Mr. and Mrs. Gelbhardt,” Stone said to Robert. “They are the principal guests. Can you please show them to the best available room?”

“This way,” Robert said, then led them into the house. Stone, Willa, and Mike followed and waited in the large living room.

“You say Barton Cabot was once your client,” Mike said. “No more? A falling-out?”

“Nothing like that,” Stone replied. “Our business was successfully concluded; we remain on cordial terms. Bart is an antiques dealer.”

“I’ve researched him thoroughly,” Mike said. “I think this is a perfect safe house for our purposes.”

“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Stone said. “It’s a pity you can’t see Bart’s workshop. He builds eighteenth-century American antiques out there.”

Mike laughed. “You mean, like those factories in South America that turn out pre-Columbian art?”

“Yes, except Bart’s pieces are handmade from old mahogany with the same hand tools that were employed at the time. The pieces are indistinguishable from the real thing, believe me.”

Mike’s cell phone rang. “It works here!” he said, surprised. “Freeman.” He listened for a moment. “Good afternoon, Lance. May I put you on speaker so Stone can hear you?” Mike pressed a button and put the phone on the coffee table.

“Good afternoon, Stone,” Lance said.

“Good afternoon, Lance.”

“Is anyone else with you?”

“Yes, my friend Willa Crane, deputy district attorney in the Manhattan office.”

“How do you do, Ms. Crane?” Lance said.

“I’m very well,” Willa replied.

“Ms. Crane, do you have a federal security clearance?”

“I did when I worked for the U.S. Attorney, some years ago.”

“Please hold.” Lance put them on hold for a couple of minutes, then returned. “I have authorized the reinstatement of your clearance, which had expired,” he said. “I thought I might as well, because if you are where you are, you already know more than a civilian should.”

“Thank you for your trust, Mr. Cabot,” Willa said.

“Are you all settled in, Mike?” Lance asked.

“Happening now,” Mike replied. “Within the hour my people will have surveyed the environment and taken appropriate actions to deal with any anomalies.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Lance said. “I’m sure Barton’s people will make you all comfortable.”

“Pablo has brought some of his own people to help out,” Mike replied.

“Lance,” Stone said, “have you any news of what’s happened at Tora Bora?”

“Mostly what you’ve seen on the news,” Lance said. “But I can tell you that the cave system is pretty much pulverized. Anyone still alive there won’t be for long and is beyond rescue.”

“Is there any news of the principal target?” Mike asked.

“Our intelligence is conflicting,” Lance replied. “Maybe there, maybe not. At the very least we’ve destroyed his formidable refuge.”

“That’s a start,” Mike said.

“You might tell Pablo that.”

“He and his wife are resting, I think.”

“Any children?”

“They are apparently elsewhere.”

“Do you have enough people there, or too many?”

“I’ll know later today, and I’ll report back to you.”

“Your cell has captured this number, I’m sure. Call me back here.” Lance hung up.

“Who is Lance?” Willa asked.

“Lance Cabot is the deputy director for operations of the CIA,” Mike replied. “Apart from the director, probably the most powerful figure there.”

“Oh,” Willa replied, looking impressed.

A young man entered the room. “Excuse me, Mike.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve done a walk-around, and we’re in good shape. There is a boat dock that will need covering, as will the whole of our shoreline. We’re on a peninsula that juts out into the lake. We’re starting our by-the-square-foot inspection now.”

“Good,” Mike replied, and the young man left.

“Mike,” Stone said, “I don’t think there’s any more we can do here.” He handed Mike a key. “Here’s the key to the house.” He gave him the security code. “We’ll head on back to the city now.”

Mike’s cell rang again. “Yes, Lance?” He pressed the speaker button.

“Mike, I wanted you to know that the NSA has detected a great deal of chatter in the air around the Middle East since the bombing at Tora Bora, and Pablo’s name has been mentioned several times, and not in a complimentary way.”

“Well,” Mike said, “it looks as though we’ve made the right moves to secure Pablo’s safety. That was a good call on your part.”

“You may thank Stone for his insistence on that point,” Lance replied. “I’ll let you know if we pick up anything more specific.”

“Thank you, Lance,” Mike said, but Lance was gone.

FIFTY-TWO

Stone and Willa were halfway back to New York when his cell came alive. He pressed the speaker button on the dash. “Hello?”

“It’s Joan. I just left the house after doing some work and there are two men on the block I don’t like the look of.”

“Describe them.”

“Young, Mediterranean-looking, very fit.”

“Now, don’t get all excited,” Stone said, laughing.

“Ha-ha,” she said.

“Please call Bob Cantor and ask him to put a couple of men at or near the house. Tell them not to shoot anybody, but I don’t want the house burned to the ground, either.”

“Will do. When are you coming home?”

Stone glanced at his watch: “An hour or so.”

“Do you want me to wait for Bob’s people?”

“No, go on home. All this weekend work of yours is beginning to worry me. Am I in some kind of trouble?”

“Usually, but not at the moment,” she replied, and hung up.

“You’re very fortunate to have Joan,” Willa said. “Ask her if she’d like to work in the DA’s office, will you?”

“I most certainly will not,” Stone replied. “Anyway, she’d be bored rigid down there.”

“Gee, I’m not,” Willa said.

As Stone turned into the block he saw Willie Leahy, one of Cantor’s men, on the other side of the street. He slowed and opened his window. “Any problems?” Stone asked.

“The problems have departed,” Willie replied.

“Under their own steam?” Stone inquired.

“An ambulance was not necessary,” Willie said. “We’ll see if any other problems come to take their place.”

“Thanks, Willie. Use the kitchen for your breaks.”

“How long you want us on, Stone?”

“If no one has turned up by noon tomorrow, then stand down. And don’t work straight through; make Bob send some relief.”

“You bet your ass,” Willie said, then turned back to his work.

“Do you always have armed security on tap?” Willa asked. “I saw the bulge under his arm.”

“From time to time; it’s not a regular thing, but sometimes I sleep better with Willie and his brother, Peter, around.”

Stone turned into the garage and closed the door behind him. “Stay for dinner,” he said to Willa.

“You talked me into it,” she replied.

Stone had just deposited their bags in his bedroom when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Cantor. Willie got photos of the two men on your house and e-mailed them to me.”

“Were you able to ID them?”

“No, but I sent them to a few people, and I just got a hit from one of them. They’re Israeli.”

“Israeli?
What the hell?”

“And not just Israeli, but Mossad, their secret intelligence service. Both are attached to their UN Mission here.”

“Okay, I’m baffled.”

“Me too. Have you been making anti-Semitic remarks lately?”

Stone laughed. “Of course not; I’d have you to deal with, and you’re worse than the Mossad.”

“Just checking.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out why they’re here.”

“Well, we could ask them, but I don’t think they would tell us. See you later.”

“What’s that about Israelis?” Willa asked.

“The two men that were watching the house are Mossad.”

“This gets more exotic by the hour,” she said.

“Too exotic for me,” Stone replied. He dialed Pablo’s cell number.

“Yes?” Pablo said warily.

“It’s Stone.”

“I’m surprised my phone works.”

“Me too. Two men have been spotted watching my house, and a trusted source tells me they’re Mossad. You know anything about that?”

“I’ve done business with Israel many times, and on a few occasions with Mossad.”

“Have you annoyed them lately?”

“I make it a point not to annoy my customers,” Pablo replied.

“Well, they’re not looking for
me
,” Stone said. “I’ve never had anything to do with either Israel or the Mossad. It’s gotta be you.”

“I’ll make a couple of calls tonight and see what I can come up with,” Pablo said.

“Just in case somebody’s listening,” Stone said, “would you mention that you’re not at my house?”

Pablo laughed. “Of course.” He hung up.

So did Stone. “I’ve got some steaks in the fridge,” he said to Willa, “and I make a mean risotto. Dinner here okay?”

“More than okay,” she said, kissing him.

They were having dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. Stone got up and answered it. “Hello?”

“Mr. Stone Barrington?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Aaron Beck. I am with the Israeli UN Mission.”

“Yes?”

“I wish to apologize for the presence of our people near your house this afternoon. I realize they must have caused you some anxiety.”

“I think my friends may have caused your men some anxiety.”

“I wonder if I might invite you to lunch tomorrow to discuss this situation.”

“How good a lunch are we talking about?” Stone asked.

“Would the Four Seasons Grill suffice?”

“It would suffice very nicely,” Stone replied. “What time?”

“One o’clock?”

“See you there, Mr. Beck.” Stone hung up.

“Now what?” Willa asked.

“Now the Mossad wants to have lunch at the Four Seasons,” Stone replied.

“One thinks of the Israelis as being very economical,” Willa observed.

“Don’t worry; I’m not picking up the check,” Stone said.

FIFTY-THREE

Stone sent Willa off to work the following morning, then went down to his office.

Joan buzzed him. “Herbert Fisher on line one.”

Stone sighed. “Tell him I’m busy, to call me late this afternoon.”

“Right,” Joan said.

Stone worked through the morning, then walked up to the Sea-gram Building and entered the Four Seasons. At the top of the stairway he stopped and looked around. A man at the bar to his right got up and came toward him.

“Mr. Barrington?”

“Mr. Beck?”

They shook hands, and the maître d’ seated them between the tables of Henry Kissinger and the literary agent and attorney Morton Janklow.

“Good table,” Stone observed. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Only when the expense account allows,” Beck replied. “The table is usually occupied by our ambassador, who is away.”

“I’m surprised that the expense accounts of the Mossad extend to the Four Seasons,” Stone said.

Beck froze for half a second, then managed a small smile. “I must relate your observation to the Mossad, the next time I encounter them.”

“Come on, Mr. Beck,” Stone said, “I know who you are. This conversation will probably go better if we don’t try to bullshit each other.”

A captain came with the menus, and Stone ordered the Dover sole, his favorite fish. Beck ordered a large salad. Stone thought the sole must have used up most of the expense account for the day. Stone ordered a glass of Chardonnay; Beck stuck with the mineral water already on the table.

“I will not challenge your assumption,” Beck said after the waiter had taken their order and left them alone.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Beck?” Stone asked.

“Please call me Aaron, and may I call you Stone?”

“Of course.”

“Israelis are an informal people,” Beck said.

“If you say so,” Stone replied. “I don’t suppose I’ve met more than two or three Israelis in my life.”

“You’ve led a sheltered life,” Beck said, smiling.

“Perhaps so. What can I do for you, Aaron?”

“I won’t beat around the bush,” Beck said. “I would like to arrange a meeting with Mr. Pablo Estancia.”