Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

“So, I’ve got to catch him getting in or out of the car?”

“What a good idea!” Damien said.

“I’ve got to get a motorcycle, then.”

“You’re right.”

“How much are you offering for the head of Stone Barrington?”

Damien almost mentioned that he and Harod had decided that another payment would not be made, then he caught himself. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Tigner said.

“You were going to kill four people for two hundred thousand dollars,” Damien said.

“That was before you told me how difficult and dangerous it was going to be. I can’t sit in some comfortable perch and snipe at him; I have to be out on the street with no cover, and it’s hard to make an escape in those conditions. You wouldn’t want me to get caught, would you?”

“No,” Damien said. “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

“When?”

“It’s in the briefcase,” he said.

“Open it.”

Damien opened it, gave him a peek at the money, and closed it again.

“Done,” Tigner said. “But after this, we’re not going to do any business for a while.”

“I agree,” Damien replied. “It would be too dangerous for both of us. This one, however, we need done in a hurry.”

“There’s no hurrying where assassination is concerned. There’s too much planning and, in this case, on the street, too much can go wrong.”

“I see your point,” Damien said, “but...”

“I’ll try to make it happen soon,” Tigner said, “but no promises. If that doesn’t work for you, you can have your money back.” He set the briefcase in front of Damien.

Damien moved it back to him. “Do the best you can,” he said.

“I always do the best I can.”

“There was some question about your last job being incomplete.”

“The man is out of the race,” Tigner said, getting to his feet. “We won’t be meeting again for a long while.” He walked out of the restaurant carrying the briefcase.

Damien finished his drink. He had a good feeling about this one.

Joan buzzed Stone. “Dino on one.”

“Good morning,” Stone said.

“Not really,” Dino replied.

“What’s the problem?”

“Ken Burrows has become a problem.”

“Ken has always been a problem.”

“He’s backsliding on indicting the Thomases for anything. ”

“Maybe that’s not a terrible thing,” Stone said.

“How is it not a terrible thing?”

“Three ways,” Stone said. “First, the Thomases have sold up and will soon scatter to the four winds.” He paused.

“And what are the other two ways?”

“I forget,” Stone said. “But trust me, they’re no longer a problem.”

“So, you’re going to start leaving the house like a normal human being?”

“I’m not going to let the bastards turn me into a turtle.”

“Okay, how about dinner tonight?”

“Patroon, at seven-thirty?” Stone said.

“Done. Just me. Viv is somewhere in South America.”

Tigner got on the Internet, and before bedtime he had bought himself a light motorcycle and tucked it into the garage, next to the Mercedes station wagon. He would not register it, since he didn’t plan to own it for long.

The following morning, he read a long piece in the Times by Jamie Cox, the reporter who had written the original piece, and now the book about the Thomas family. She also outlined the political career of Hank Thomas, and she seemed to think he might become a candidate for president again, with Senator Joseph Box out of the way. His interest was piqued, since he was working for the Thomas family — if what Harod had told him about their employer was true, and he had no reason to think it wasn’t.

He had breakfast, then went out, found a bookstore, and bought a copy of Cox’s book about the Thomases. He went home and started reading, and didn’t stop until he had finished it, at bedtime.

After that, he went to his computer and googled Stone Barrington. He began to feel he knew the man he was reading about. The Thomases wanted him dead as revenge for taking the Tommassini files to the district attorney and the Times , all of which had caused them so much trouble.

Tigner didn’t sleep well that night. The following morning he went shopping and bought some new throwaway cell phones, then he made a phone call.

Jamie Cox rose at the Bel-Air Hotel, in Los Angeles, where she had spoken to a group the previous evening, the last stop on her book tour. She was packing her bags for the trip back to New York when her phone rang. She checked the number before answering; it was her secretary at the Times . She called back.

“Jamie Cox’s office,” she said.

“June, it’s Jamie. What’s up?”

“I went through your phone messages first thing this morning. It was the usual stuff — they loved your book, they hated your book, like that. Except for one, from somebody called Rasheed.” She spelled it.

“What did the message say?”

“I’ll play it back for you,” June said. “Hang on a sec.”

Jamie got out her recorder and pressed record when she heard the message. “Good day,” a young man’s voice said. “My name is... Well, you may call me Rasheed. I have read your book and many of your pieces in the newspaper. You seem to think your story is over now, but it is not. I have further information for you about the Thomases and their connection to a recent assassination attempt. Also, concerning your friend, Stone Barrington, who is in danger. If you wish to hear this information, go and buy a throwaway cell phone and call me on the following number.” He spoke the digits twice. “Leave a message containing your new number, and I will call you and give you the information.”

“That’s all,” June said. “Got it?”

“Yes, thank you, June.” Jamie played the message again, then used her throwaway to call Rasheed’s number. She heard only a beep. “This is Jamie Cox,” she said. “I am very much interested in your information. I am flying to New York this morning, and I will call you again after I’m in the city, late in the afternoon.” She hung up and called Stone Barrington.

“Hi, there,” Stone said. “Is your book tour over?”

“Yes, thank God. I’m leaving L.A. this morning, and I’ll be home late this afternoon.”

“I hope by ‘home’ you mean my house.”

“I accept the invitation.”

“Dinner tonight, then.”

“May we have it at home? I’ll probably be very tired.”

“Certainly.”

“By the way, I received an interesting phone message on my Times line. I’ll play it for you now. Can you record it?”

“Sure, give me a second. All right, I’m recording.”

Jamie played her message back.

“That certainly is interesting,” Stone said.

“It sounds like you’d better watch your ass,” she said.

“I’ve made a habit of that lately,” Stone replied. “Have you called him?”

“Yes, but only to leave a message that I’ll be back later today. We’ll call him together.”

“Good. See you when I see you.”

They both hung up.

Stone called Dino and played the message for him.

“That’s pretty vague,” Dino said.

“What did you think of the voice?”

“Young man, in his twenties, probably. A slight accent of some sort — educated, well-spoken.”

“I’ll buy all of that.”

“Has she returned the call?”

“She’ll do that when she’s back in New York.”

“I’d be interested to hear what he has to say.”

“I’ll record it for you,” Stone said. “Later.”