Authors: Stuart Woods
Stone had a sandwich at his desk, then Joan came in with the
New York Post
, which he subscribed to but rarely read. Today would be an exception.
RUSSIAN MOGUL DIES ON PRIVATE JET
Yuri Majorov found dead of “heart attack” at Moscow airport
Stone’s heart leapt. He turned quickly to the inside pages for the story.
Russian zillionaire Yuri Majorov arrived aboard his private Gulfstream jet airplane at a Moscow airport a few days ago, dead. Crew members aboard his airplane said that he had gone to sleep before the aircraft left Santa Monica Airport, in California, for Moscow, with a planned refueling stop in Gander, Newfoundland, where he seemed to be still asleep. But after landing in Moscow, when
a flight attendant attempted to awaken him, he was stone-cold dead.
Majorov’s body was taken by Russian police to the Moscow morgue, where an autopsy was performed, but no cause of death could be determined. Authorities await the results of tox screening, to see if any drugs were present in his body, but these tests can take weeks or even months in Russia.
Majorov, the son of a KGB general, was educated at Moscow University and trained as an intelligence agent for the KGB. After the collapse of the Soviet Union he made a major fortune, forming cartels to buy state-owned businesses. He used the proceeds of this wealth to establish himself as a European businessman, but the smell of corruption lingered around him for the rest of his life, and he was rumored to be an important figure in the Russian Mafia.
Stone didn’t know exactly how Majorov had died, but he knew who had effected his death, and he was immensely grateful to that person. His phone buzzed.
“Mike Freeman on one.”
“Hello, Mike.”
“Have you seen the
Post
?”
“I’ve just read it, and I feel a warm glow all over.”
“You know who did that, don’t you?”
“I do: he whose name shall not be spoken.”
“I don’t know if you saw the reports in the Los Angeles papers of the death of Vladimir Chernensky at the Bel-Air Hotel.”
“I didn’t, but I didn’t need to.”
“I hope that, since this business is all cleared up, our friend might soon be coming to work for us at Strategic Services.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Not since leaving L.A., but I expect he’ll be spending some more time out there. After all, he’s teaching your son to fly.”
“Peter already knows how to fly, now he’s working on his instrument rating, and so are Ben and Hattie. In a few months, they’ll all be flying the Mustang.”
“Right.”
“Have you thought of hiring him to work in L.A.? He seems to like it there.”
“It crossed my mind, but that hasn’t come up in our conversations.”
“I’ll be interested to know how it turns out.”
“I’ll let you know.”
The two men hung up, and Stone leafed through the rest of the paper, finding nothing of interest. Then his phone buzzed again. “The first lady on line one,” Joan said.
“Hello, Kate. I’m so sorry to have missed the event last night.”
“Thank you, Stone, I got your very kind note. And your very nice check. Are you free for dinner this evening?”
“I am.”
“Come and have it with me at the Carlyle. I’m on my own, and we can’t go out together without causing talk.”
“Love to.”
“Seven?”
“See you then.”
“Dress down this time.”
“Will do.”
• • •
Stone arrived on time, finding Kate in her usual jeans and a sweater. Somebody brought him bourbon in a glass and they sat down before the fireplace.
“How is your time in New York going?” he asked.
“Busy. Apart from my political ambitions, we’re faced with dozens of requests for end-of-term interviews. Will is having me do as many of these as possible.”
“I should think those interviews could be very important to your ambitions,” Stone said. “After all, they won’t be hostile, they’ll be warm and admiring, and they’ll get the country accustomed to seeing your face and hearing you talk.”
“Yes, well, I tried to do a minimum of those things when I was still DCI, so I guess I’m making up for lost time. Stone, I’m curious about something.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve been close to Will and me for a long time, now, and you’ve never asked us for anything. Do you know how rare that is? Everybody, even among our closest friends, seems to want something—help with a bill in Congress, funding for some pet local project, something.”
“It never crossed my mind,” Stone said. “At least, not until this afternoon.”
“Is there something we—Will—can do for you?”
“Since you ask, yes. But my request is an odd one, and one you and Will might not wish to grant, for all sorts of reasons.”
“Tell me about it. If we can’t do it, then nothing will go farther than this conversation, but maybe we can help.”
“You recall the saga of Teddy Fay?”
Kate laughed. “How could I forget it? I knew him when he was still at the Agency, you know, and I liked him.”
“He’s surfaced,” Stone said.
“Oh, God, where this time?”
“First, in New Mexico, where he saved my son’s life.”
Kate’s jaw dropped. “How on earth did he do that?”
“You may remember a Russian mobster by the name of Majorov.”
“Of course, you had all that trouble with him in Paris.”
“Today’s front page of the
New York Post
is devoted to him. He was flying from L.A. to Moscow in his private jet, and when he arrived in Moscow, he was dead, ostensibly of a heart attack.”
“But?”
“Teddy did that. Majorov had been trying to take over The Arrington, and I wouldn’t deal with him, so he went after Peter. Teddy took two assassins off Peter’s trail when he, Ben Bacchetti, and Hattie Patrick drove across the country; then he turned up in L.A. and was helpful again. I owe him Peter’s life.”
“And you want what for Teddy?”
“A presidential pardon.”
Kate’s jaw dropped again. “I don’t see—”
“Hear me out,” Stone said. “Every president, at the end of his term, hands out pardons—sometimes few, sometimes many. Would it be possible for Will to issue a sealed pardon—say, at the request of the intelligence services—so that Teddy’s name and the pardon’s contents would never be disclosed?”
“I don’t know if that’s ever been done before,” Kate said.
“Kate, I know what Teddy has done—or may have done, but
he’s never been convicted of anything in a court of law, and no notice has ever been given by the FBI that he’s wanted for anything.”
“You have a point,” she said. “Let me talk with Will about it. I’m sure he’ll want to get some advice, and I’ll ask him to limit who he asks for it. I wish I could give you an answer now, but it will have to wait, maybe until near the end of Will’s term.”
“Thank you, Kate. It’s an unusual request, and I’ll understand if it can’t be granted.”
The butler called them to dinner, and they went in.
Stone was having his usual breakfast in bed when his private line rang. Caller ID said the U.K. was calling. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Emma.”
“Good morning, or rather, good afternoon.” It was five hours later in London. “I hope you’re well.”
“Sort of well.”
“That sounds like not great.”
“Personally, I’m fine, but not business-wise.”
“What’s the problem? Not that I know a hell of a lot about business, but I’ll help if I can.”
“Somebody is copying our designs, stitch for stitch, and selling them at less than what it costs us to make them.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“No, and I don’t know how to find out.”
“Have you called the police?”
“Yes, days ago, but they don’t seem to take this sort of thing
seriously. They say I’d have more luck bringing a civil action, but I don’t know who to sue.”
Stone thought for a moment. “Maybe a private investigator would be the best thing.”
“I don’t know any private investigators.”
“Neither do I, but I know a recently retired policeman, one Detective Chief Inspector Evelyn Throckmorton, who might be able to help.”
“Throckmorton? You must be joking—it’s like a name out of Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it. But he knows policemen all over Europe, so he could be useful to you.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Tell me, how soon after you introduce something do the knockoffs appear?”
“Simultaneously. Once, a couple of days before.”
“Then it sounds like an inside job.”
“I know that term from film noir, but I don’t know what it means.”
“It means that somebody working for you—or for someone with access to your designs, like your manufacturer—is selling them to someone else.”
“Ah, yes, I suppose I should have thought of that.”
“I’d give it some thought. It’s the first thing Throckmorton would want to investigate. Is there someone who works for you that you don’t entirely trust? A disgruntled ex-employee? Think along those lines. Would you like Throckmorton’s number?”
“Yes, please.”
Stone looked it up and gave it to her. “How are you coming along on moving some operations to Los Angeles?” He had an ulterior motive for wanting to know.
“Surprisingly well,” she replied.
“It might be harder for people to steal your designs in Europe if you were working out of the United States.”
“Oh, you just want me back in your bed!”
“Guilty!”
“If it’s any consolation, I miss being there. Soon, I’m going to have to start picking up lads in pubs to quench my fires.”
“Quenching fires is one of the things I do best,” Stone said, “but it’s hard on a transoceanic call. We could have phone sex, but all sorts of people might be listening.”
“I’ll see what I can do to move things along,” she said. “We can’t have the intelligence services eavesdropping on our sex lives.”
“Then get your ass in gear!”
“Let me speak to your DCI Throckmorton. The sooner I get this resolved, the sooner I can be back in New York.”
“Then why are you wasting time talking to me?”
“You’re right! Goodbye!”
They both hung up.
Stone got up, shaved, showered, and dressed and went to his office. He had not even gotten through the mail when Joan buzzed. “There’s a teddibly, teddibly British chap named Throckmorton on line one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Evelyn?”
“Barrington.”
“I don’t suppose I can call you Detective Chief Inspector since
you’re retired, and Former Detective Chief Inspector seems a bit much. May we be on a first-name basis?”
“Stone,” Throckmorten said.
“I trust you’re enjoying your retirement.”
“I was, until I heard from this woman, Tweed, to whom you gave my private number.”
“It occurred to me that a DCI’s pension might do with an occasional bolstering.”
“Are you trying to sound British, old chap?”
“Hearing your voice brings it out in me. Are you taking the job, or did you tell her to get stuffed?”
“Who is this woman?”
“She’s one of Britain’s most famous fashion designers, actually—just the sort of person you would never have heard of.”
“Is she mad?”
“In the British sense of the word? No. But she is angry—her business is being attacked.”
“So she said. Probably some disaffected clerk making a few quid on the side.”
“That was my first thought, too.”
“Can she pay?”
“In addition to being very famous, she is very successful.”
“Ah, then it might not be entirely a waste of my time if I went to see her.”
“It might not.”
“What are you doing with yourself? I haven’t seen you since you somehow poked your nose into that explosion at the American Embassy last year.”
“I’m trying not to poke my nose into things like that,” Stone
said. “I’m just a quiet-living, respectable attorney-at-law these days, dabbling in my clients’ businesses from time to time.”
“I’m sure you’re making ungodly amounts of money. That’s what Americans do, isn’t it?”
“Every chance we get. Now here’s your chance to stuff your bank account by putting all those recently unused police skills to work in the private sector.”
“Ah, yes, the private sector—never had much to do with that.”
“Try it, you’ll like it.”
“What should I charge her?”
“To make that sort of suggestion would be a conflict of interest for me, since I have an interest in the lady. Let’s just say that good businesspeople understand that people with skills must be reasonably well paid, and they expect to get what they pay for.”
“Mmm, as much as that, eh?”
“Negotiate,” Stone said.
“All right, I’ll give her a go.”
“‘It,’ not ‘her.’”
“Quite. Good day.” Throckmorton hung up.
So did Stone.
Shortly before lunch, Joan buzzed. “Two gentlemen with badges to see you,” she said.
Stone sighed. “Send them in.”
They were not cops; that was obvious from their neatly cut and pressed suits and regimental-stripe neckties. The larger of the two men held up a wallet with a badge pinned to it. “United States Secret Service,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Willard, this is Special Agent Griggs.”
Stone thought Griggs looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
Willard removed a plastic envelope containing a bank note from his jacket pocket and handed it to Stone. “Do you recognize this?” he asked.
Stone looked at the money and handed it back. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a United States hundred-dollar bill.”
Griggs laughed; Willard didn’t.
“Do you recognize this particular bill?” he asked, handing it back to Stone.
“Well, I don’t recognize the serial number, if that’s what you mean. Otherwise, it looks just like every other hundred-dollar bill I’ve ever seen.”
Willard handed him another hundred-dollar bill. “Compare it to this one, and tell me what you see.”
Stone looked at the second bill, then again at the one in the plastic bag. “Slightly different portraits,” he said, “but they’re both Benjamin Franklin.”
“Do you see the red seal on the one in the bag?” Willard asked.
Stone looked again. “Hard to miss,” he said, “since it’s red. Aren’t you fellows trained in currency recognition? Why do you need my help?”
“Of course we’re trained in currency recognition.”
“Is it counterfeit?” Stone asked.
“No, it’s perfectly genuine, it’s just old.”
“Agent Willis—”
“Willard.”
“Willard. Is it legal tender?”
“Yes.”
“Then what is it you want? I’m trying to help, but so far, I’m at a loss.”
“This bill,” Willard said, holding up the plastic bag, “was deposited in your bank account the day before yesterday, by a woman I suspect is your secretary.”
Stone buzzed Joan. “Can you come in for a moment, please?”
Joan came and leaned on the doorjamb. “Yes, Mr. Barrington?”
“These gentlemen work for the United States Treasury Department, and they would like to know if you deposited this”—he took the bag from Willard and handed it to her—“in my bank account the day before yesterday.”
“Well,” Joan said, “I did make a cash deposit the day before yesterday, but I don’t recognize this particular bill. I hardly knew the ones I deposited.”
“Thank you, Joan.” She left, and Stone handed back the bill to Willard. “Anything else?” he asked.
“Mr. Barrington, where did you get the bill?”
“I expect I received it as payment for legal services,” he said, “which is what we offer around here.”
“Who paid you with this bill?”
“Neither I nor my secretary recognize this particular bill,” Stone said. “I thought we both made that clear.”
It was Willard’s turn to sigh. “Mr. Barrington, can you recall receiving cash for payment during the last week or so?”
Stone stared at the ceiling for a moment and pretended to think. He was thinking about having Dover sole for lunch.
“Yes,” he said, finally.
“And who made that payment?”
“Gentlemen,” Stone said, sounding as patient as he could, “I am under the impression that, in addition to currency recognition, agents of your service receive some training in the law?”
“That is correct.”
“Then you are aware of something called ‘client-attorney confidentiality’?”
“So you decline to tell us who paid you with this note?”
“I decline to disclose the name or names of my clients,” Stone said.
“We believe this bill to have been stolen,” Willard said.
Stone frowned. “How recently? You did say it was old.”
“Yes, it was part of the 1966 series of hundred-dollar bills, and we believe it was part of the loot in a robbery committed twenty-five years ago.”
“And are you investigating that event?”
“We are.”
“Sadly, gentlemen, you are wasting your time. The statute of limitations would have expired five years after the robbery; therefore, the money you hold in that plastic bag is an innocent hundred-dollar bill.”
“Mr. Barrington, there is no such thing as an innocent hundred-dollar bill.”
“Well, I suppose you presume it to be guilty, since you have arrested it, but that hundred-dollar bill is entitled to the presumption of innocence. If it was once guilty, it has been pardoned by the statute of limitations. Now, if you took it from my bank account, please put it back, and leave it alone. I have bills to pay.”
Griggs was having a hard time suppressing laughter, but Willard plowed on. “Mr. Barrington—”
Stone stood up. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure meeting you, but I don’t see how I can be of further help. I wish you and that poor hundred-dollar bill a good day.”
The agents got to their feet.
“Agent Griggs,” Stone said, “you look familiar. Have we met?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Griggs replied. “I was on the presidential detail last year when you visited the White House.”
“Of course, that would be it. Good to see you again.”
The two men filed out of the office, and Stone heard the front door close behind them. Joan came in. “You knew that was going to happen, didn’t you? When you sent me to the bank?”
“I said you probably wouldn’t be arrested,” Stone said, “and I have probably kept my word.”