Stuart Woods - Dirt

A uniformed maid answered the door. “Yes?”

“My name is Barrington; I have an appointment with Dr. Bernard.”

“Oh, yes, he’s expecting you; please follow me.” She led him up the stairs to the second floor, to a set of double doors on the south side of the house, and knocked briefly.

“Come!” a muffled voice cried.

She opened the door. “Dr. Bernard, your visitor is here.”

“Ah, yes; show him in, please.”

The maid admitted Stone, then closed the door behind him. He was in a good-sized library, which could not contain the books that had been stuffed into it. They were everywhere, on every surface, on chairs and on the floor. A row of high windows afforded a fine view of Washington Square Park.

“Mr. Barrington,” the old man said, rising and extending his hand.

“Dr. Bernard,” Stone said, shaking his hand. “It’s been a very long time.” About twenty years.

Bernard waved him to a chair before the fireplace, opposite his own. “Just dump those books on the floor. Yes, it has been a long time, though I’ve read of you in the papers once or twice. You were injured, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, a bullet in the knee; occupational hazard. It’s in pretty good shape now.”

“Ah, yes, the occupation you chose. I admit, I never understood it.”

“With hindsight, perhaps it wasn’t the best choice,” Stone said. “But it’s been an interesting life.”

“I see you’ve gained wisdom with age,” Bernard said, a trace of a smile crossing his plump face.

The maid entered with a tray bearing a Thermos, some cups, and a plate of cookies.

“Some coffee?” Bernard asked.

“Thank you; black, please.” He watched as his old professor poured. He hadn’t changed much; a little heavier, maybe; he still wore very fine suits, hadn’t let himself go the way many old men do. He was freshly barbered and shaved, and when he crossed his legs, his most visible foot wore a very expensive shoe.

“You left the police department, I believe.”

“Yes; I was given the boot, really, on medical grounds, with a full salary.”

“And what have you been doing since your retirement?”

“I’m of counsel to Woodman and Weld.”

“An estimable firm. I’ve known Woodman all his life. You said ‘of counsel.’ Not a partner?”

“No. I’m rather a special case there; I work out of my home, which is not far from their offices, handling cases for their clients that don’t quite fit the Woodman and Weld profile.”

“Ah, I see; dirty laundry.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Are you happy doing this work?”

“I suppose I’d rather be arguing cases before the Supreme Court, but I’m content with my lot.”

Bernard nodded. “Contentment is devoutly to be wished, perhaps more than glory.”

“Perhaps.”

“I always saw you as a very fine trial lawyer.”

“I do some trial work, but maybe not the kind you saw me doing. As a matter of fact, I recall that you saw quite a different calling for me.”

“Ah, yes. Is that what you’ve come to see me about? A little late in life for that sort of thing, isn’t it?”

“Probably so.”

“They’re in such a mess now, after that Aldrich Ames business. Makes me regret that I steered young men their way. Still, some of them have served honorably. As for the rest, well… the Company always finds somebody to do that kind of work, much as Woodman and Weld have found you.”

That stung. “Well, what you describe as Woodman and Weld’s ‘dirty laundry’ is still honorable work,” Stone replied.

“Of course, and I know you’ve conducted yourself honorably. I apologize for what must have seemed a slur.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“So, why have you come to see me?”

Stone took the ad from Vanity Fair from his pocket and handed it to Bernard. “I want to find this man,” he said, “and there’s some indication that he may have picked up certain unsavory skills while working for some federal agency.”

“This is not at all in my line,” Bernard said. “Why do you want to find him?”

“He may have been involved in some very serious criminal matters.”

“How serious?”

“He may have committed a number of burglaries in New York, including one at my house, during which I was attacked. The burglaries exhibited certain skills that are not possessed by your garden-variety burglar. He may have an accomplice, who may be his brother.”

“What else?”

“He may be implicated in the murder of a retired police officer, a man who sometimes worked for me.”

“That’s very serious indeed,” Bernard said. “What exactly is it you wish me to do?”

“If you still have contacts in place, I would be very grateful if you could make some inquiries for me. Any background information on this man would be very helpful. I don’t even know his real name.”

“What aliases has he been using?”

“Jonathan Dryer.”

Bernard burst out laughing.

“What is it?” Stone asked, puzzled.

“That is the name of a man who ran some of the training courses at a place called ‘The Farm.’ He was not terribly well liked by many of his students.”

“What did he teach, if I may ask?”

“The sort of skills that might be useful in a burglary.”

“I see.”

Bernard picked up the telephone at his side, pressed a single button, and waited. “Hello, this is Samuel Bernard,” he said. “Is he in?” He waited a moment for his party to come on the line. “Good morning, Ben,” he said. “I’d like to fax you a photograph and see if you can come up with anything on the subject. He may have had some training at The Farm; he’s been using the alias Jonathan Dryer.” He smiled. “Yes, I thought that would amuse you. I’ll send it along now, shall I? Good, see you soon, I hope.” He hung up and turned to Stone. “Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Mr. Barrington?” He rose and went into an adjoining room and, through the open door, Stone could see him using a fax machine. While it was working, he came back to the door and closed it.

Stone poured himself some more coffee and gazed idly out the window at the children in the park. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed and he had nearly dozed off when the telephone rang and was answered in another room. Then it rang again; Stone could see two lighted buttons on the instrument next to Bernard’s chair.

Another few minutes passed, and Bernard returned, holding two sheets of paper. When he had settled himself in his chair and poured himself some more coffee, he looked up at Stone. “Now. You and I must understand each other; what I am about to impart to you goes no further, and I include the police in that admonition. In fact, you may not even say to anyone that we met. Is that understood?”

“Completely.”

“Your man’s name is Thomas Bruce; he is thirty-four years old. His father was a career naval officer who rose to the rank of captain; his parents are both dead. He has an electronics engineering degree from Rennselaer Polytechnic Institute; he has a brother, Charles, thirty-three, and a sister, Lucille, thirty-seven. He was recruited out of college, probably by someone very like me, and underwent a year’s training before being assigned overseas. He served in half a dozen countries and returned to this country four years ago. He was separated from the service involuntarily during a period of cutbacks. His last known address was in northern Virginia, but that was three years ago.”

“Is there an address for his brother or sister?”

Bernard scribbled down something on a pad and handed it to Stone. “A New Jersey housewife, apparently – Mrs. Randall Burch – but that address is three years old, too.”