Stuart Woods: Iron Orchid

“If I can join you in the Middle East, we’ll arrange that.”

“Come ahead.”

“Really?”

“There’s a little inn; I can’t pronounce it properly, but it translates, literally, as the Hostelry of the Three Forces. I’ve no idea what that means.”

“You’re there now?”

“When you check in, a Mr. Charles Lockwood will be waiting for you, and he’ll have half a dozen houses for you to look at. When will you check in?”

“You can’t use that name!”

“I’m not using it; it’s the name of the real estate agent who’s going to show you the house.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

“And what name are you using?”

“We’ll invent one when you arrive. When will that be?”

“The sale of the house closes at ten tomorrow morning. If the airlines cooperate I can be in the Middle East by tomorrow night.”

“Perfect. Tell me, how did that little matter that so concerned your people work out?”

“It’s dead and gone, and so is the subject of the matter.”

“Really? Do they really believe that?”

“Probably not, but they would prefer to.”

“That’s almost as good as if they believed it.”

“Better. They’ll be covering their asses for the rest of their careers.”

“Is anyone going to come looking for that employee who didn’t turn in his time sheets?”

“That gentleman resigned from the service, effective last week. I turned in his resignation for him.”

“So that’s a dead issue?”

“It’s not even an issue.”

“Call me before you take off tomorrow.”

“Will do.”

TEDDY BROKE THE CONNECTION and lay back on the chaise lounge, looking up at the stars. A warm, tropical breeze wafted across his bald spot. He sighed and drifted off into a doze, dreaming of doing nothing forever.