Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

“The short version or the long version?”

“The long version. I’ve plenty of time.”

Stone started at the beginning and gave him every detail. When he was finished, it was nearly the cocktail hour, and the chief inspector succumbed to a scotch.

Rance Damien put down the phone and went looking for Henry Thomas, who didn’t like to wait for news. Henry’s grandson, Hank, was with him. It was the first time Damien had seen Hank since the fire.

“Come in, Rance,” Henry said.

Hank turned in his chair to look at him. “Good God, man,” he said, when he saw his cousin’s face.

“It will get better,” Damien replied, taking the indicated chair.

“You have news from England?” Henry asked.

“What’s in England?” Hank wanted to know.

“Stone Barrington,” Henry replied. “Damien sent a party to greet him.”

“I just had a call,” Damien said, trying hard to meet Henry’s gaze.

“Let’s have it.”

“First of all, Tony Farmer has been shot.”

“Was the body disposed of?” Henry asked.

“He’s not dead. He took a bullet to his backside, but he received the proper medical attention. Problem is, the immigration people have discovered that he’s in their country. We paid his way through Heathrow, but now immigration is putting all three of them on a plane to New York.”

“That’s better than being in a British jail,” Hank said.

“The Brits put them in coach. There’s going to be a lot of bitching and moaning about that, and they’ll also be met by the NYPD at the gate.”

“There are no charges against them here, are there?” Henry inquired.

“No. Anthony has an arrest record, but no convictions, and he has a good passport.”

“Then they’ll just get a ride home, won’t they?”

“Problem is: I’m not going to be able to speak to them before the police pick them up at the airport. They’re going to have to wing it, until a lawyer can see them. He’ll be waiting for them, but I think the boys in blue are going to take the opportunity to question them. I got word that Dino Bacchetti and his wife are at Barrington’s place in England, and I’m sure he’s made a call or two.”

“Is there a plan? Will they know what to say?” Hank asked.

“I’m afraid not. I hadn’t anticipated this turn of events. However, they know enough to shut up until the lawyer finds them.”

“Who do we know who can pave the way for them downtown?”

“I think we’re better off relying on their natural-born aversion to talking to the police. If we start making it easier for them, suspicions will be unnecessarily aroused.”

“I don’t like being unprepared,” Henry said.

“Neither do I,” Damien replied, “but our names will never come up.”

“Did they take weapons into the U.K.?” Hank asked.

“No, they were supplied over there, but immigration confiscated them when they were arrested.”

“If you haven’t spoken to Anthony, how did we hear about this?” Henry asked.

“The guy who supplied them with weapons and housing phoned me, but he hadn’t been able to talk to them, either. He’s staying away from the house and the weapons. There will be nothing to connect him to the guns.”

“Okay, then,” Hank said. “Once the three have been sprung, we’re back to square one, are we not?”

“That’s where we’ll be.”

“Then the good news is: We’re no worse off than we were a week ago.”

“No worse, no better.”

“We’ll have to settle for that,” Hank said, “until you have a new plan ready to go.”

“I’m already working on that,” Damien said. “We’ve had word from a friend at the newspaper that the Cox woman has finished her book. So they’ll likely be returning to New York soon, and they’ll be more easily reached here.”

“What about this copying-machine fellow, who planted the bomb?” Hank asked.

“One Robert Cantor, we think, but we can’t prove it. Nobody here can make him from photographs. We visited his home and workshop and left something of a mess. He managed to clean that up, rearm his security system, and disappear again.”

“Have you got word out on the street about him?”

“Yes, indeed, but he’s clearly holed up somewhere. He has a big van that will be hard to conceal, though.”

“No,” Hank said, “he could put it in any parking garage in the city, and we wouldn’t know.”

“We own or control nearly a hundred parking garages in the city, and we’ve circulated a description and the license plate numbers,” Damien said, “but no hits yet.”

“Why are these people always a step ahead of us?” Henry asked. “Do we have a leak in our organization?”

“We’re taking a hard look at that as we speak,” Damien replied. “I had thought that one of the receptionists, the one who let him into the building, might be a leak, but we’ve scared her witless, and she swears she doesn’t know the man.”

“What do we hear from the D.A.’s office?” Henry asked.

“Our sources there tell us that Burrows is dragging his feet, so things are going very slowly. We’ve had time to patch up our machinery here and there, and the D.A. can’t charge us for what our ancestors did.”

“Well,” Henry said, “we cleaned up H. Thomas & Son before Hank announced for the presidency, so they’re not going to get anything out of our people.”

“What have you done with the money from our contributors?” Damien asked Hank.

“We’ve completed all the paperwork for returning it to them, so they won’t have any tax problems.”

“What did that escapade cost us?” Henry asked.

“As best as I can figure it, about fifteen million dollars, but we’re in negotiations with our insurance company about the replacement value of the equipment we lost, so that figure is likely to drop below ten million.”

“Has the family of that boy who died in the fire been taken care of? And the boy who’s still in the hospital? I don’t want any lawsuits.”

“Yes, that’s all included in the fifteen million.”

“How will Barrington and the Cox girl travel back to New York?” Hank asked.

“He has an airplane that’s hangared at his place in England, and it’s being guarded.”

“Where does it live when it gets back here?”

“In the Strategic Services hangar at Teterboro,” Damien replied. “We don’t want to tangle with those people, I think you’ll agree.”

“Agreed. How long is Barrington going to be bulletproof?”

“For a while,” Damien replied, “but you know what they say: revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Bob Cantor carefully applied a Van Dyke — style mustache and goatee to his face, and pasted on eyebrows heavier than his own, then he left his bedroom in Stone Barrington’s house and took the elevator down to the garage and got into the car he had rented under another name. He drove up to P. J. Clarke’s and parked on the side street, then went inside to the bar. The girl and three of her friends were having their usual TGIF date after work. He had trailed her there the week before.

He found a spot next to them at the bar and injected himself into their conversation, while ordering them another round on him. He introduced himself as Van.

Sherry, the receptionist stationed outside the computer room at Thomas, looked happier than she had the week before.

Two of the girls left for home and husbands, and a third began gathering herself to go also. Bob pounced. “Sherry, as long as we’re here, would you join me for dinner? I have a table booked.”

She hesitated until her friend nodded. “Sure, Van, I’d like that.”