The Carlsson Clinic demands that an abject retraction by these publications appear in Saturday’s and Monday’s editions in the same front-page space occupied by the false report. The clinic has instructed its attorneys to immediately bring a libel action against any publication that does not meet this demand.
It was signed by Paul Carlsson.
Stone called Dr. Carlsson.
“Yes, Stone?”
“I want to compliment you on your deft handling of this Legionnaires’ nonsense. I’m confident you will get your retractions.”
“Thank you, Stone. The part about having instructed our attorneys was a little inaccurate, so I will instruct you now. If these retractions are not satisfactory or are printed anywhere else in the papers than the front page, file an immediate action for libel, slander, and anything else you can think of.”
“I acknowledge your instructions,” Stone replied.
“Thank you. We’ll all see you at dinner.”
Stone found the evening’s menu on his desk: seared foie gras, crown roast of lamb, risotto, haricots verts, and a dessert of crème brûlée with fresh Maine blueberries. He approved it, then went to his cellar with Fred and chose the wines.
Shortly after five, Ed Rawls arrived with a handsome woman of about fifty in tow, whom Ed introduced as Emma Harrison, and Stone showed them to the same bedroom, at Ed’s request.
At the stroke of seven o’clock the front doorbell rang, and Fred escorted a gaggle of Carlssons into the living room. The boys’ wives, Greta and Inge, were introduced, and Paul introduced his date for the evening, Cara Neilsen. While Stone was welcoming them, the Bacchettis arrived and Ed and Emma emerged from the elevator.
Marisa whispered to Stone, “What do you think of Papa’s new girlfriend?”
“Very nice.”
“She is the first armed woman he has ever taken out. Can you guess where her gun is?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Fred served cocktails in the living room, as the study would have been cramped with so many people, and piano music wafted over the invisible sound system.
“I like the music,” Marisa said after a few minutes. “Who is the pianist?”
“I fear it is I,” Stone replied.
“Have no fear, it’s lovely. A secret talent?”
“Fairly secret.” He warmed to the praise.
Fred came to him after a few minutes: “There is a phone call for you.”
“Who is it?”
“He won’t say, but he says it’s very urgent.”
Stone went into the study and picked up a phone. “This is Stone Barrington. Get it off your chest.”
“Mr. Barrington,” a man’s gruff voice said, “there is a bomb planted in your house that will detonate in exactly three minutes.” There was a click, and Stone could hear the ticking of a stopwatch.
Stone thought about it for about ten seconds and decided it was impossible that anyone could have planted a bomb in his house. “Please give Mr. Macher a message from me,” he said. “Tell him that if anything like that occurs, I will shoot or have him shot before tomorrow passes.” He hung up and returned to his guests.
“Anything wrong?” Marisa asked when he returned.
“Not a thing,” Stone said, looking at his watch. When a little more time had passed, he clinked his signet ring on his glass to get attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to know that I have received an anonymous phone call saying that a bomb would explode in this house in three minutes. That was five minutes ago, so you need not stop drinking.”
There was a deep silence for about five seconds, then everyone put down his drink and applauded.
“Thank you for your confidence,” he said, and they continued drinking.
THEY DINED CONVIVIALLY, and after dessert, a port, Quinta do Noval 1960, was served with Stilton and biscuits. When they were back in the living room on coffee and cognac, Dino came and sat down next to Stone.
“I could have had the bomb squad here, you know.”
“In three minutes? Just in time to pick up the pieces?”
“How did you respond to the call?”
“I told the man to tell Macher that if it went off, I’d shoot or have him shot before tomorrow is out.”
“That was an extremely stupid thing to do,” Dino said.
“If I had taken any other step it would have ruined my dinner party,” Stone said. “Nobody would have been able to relax.”
“I had a thought,” Dino said.
“Did you, now?”
“How about if I call a full-scale bomb alert at the St. Clair mansion in the middle of the night? You know, break down the door, flood the house with men in bomb suits and sniffer dogs, turn Macher out in his skivvies — like that.”
“Dino, my friend, that is a charming notion and one you should hold in reserve, in case this thing escalates.”
“It could very well escalate, you know.”
“I know, and I expect it to, until Macher really tries to hurt somebody. But we’ve taken all the proper precautions. And if we should decide to execute your excellent plan, I’d like for everybody here to be out of town when it happens.”
“Just let me know when,” Dino replied.
18
Erik Macher had just boarded what was now, effectively, his yacht when his cell phone rang.
“Macher,” he said into it. “This better be good.”
“It’s Jake,” the caller said, “and it’s not good.”
Macher listened as Jake played the recording of his telephone conversation with Stone Barrington the evening before. “Shit!” he screamed, alarming the two crew who were bringing his luggage aboard.
“This is what happens when we make empty threats,” Jake said.
“Are you saying that we’re going to have to up our offer by seventy-five percent?”
“It’s too late for that,” Jake said. “I’m informed that as of this morning, the Carlssons have accumulated about sixty-five percent of the stock in the clinic, and they’ll probably get more. And your secretary said to tell you that the board of directors has requested a meeting Monday morning at nine AM.”
Macher sat down and began taking deep breaths, trying to get his pulse and his blood pressure down.
“Erik, are you all right?”
“Not exactly,” Macher said.
“Tell me what you want to do.”
“Take out one of the Carlssons,” he said.
“Which one?”
“I don’t care, just make it look accidental.”
“Erik, they’ve got Strategic Services protection, every one of them, and I don’t have to tell you how good that outfit is. Now, I can probably get a shot at one of them, but the police will be all over us — make that all over you.”
“All right, what do you suggest?”
“I suggest we lie low for a few days, wait for them to pull their guards off, then reassess. Or maybe, a more serious shot across their bows.”
“That’s good advice, Jake. Do the second one. Have my secretary call the board members and tell them I’m out of town, and I’ll meet with them Wednesday morning at ten.”
“Got it,” Jake replied, then hung up.
One of the crewmen was standing by, looking concerned.
“Bring me a drink,” Macher said.
“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”
“A great big single malt scotch.”
“Right away, sir.” The man was back in a flash with a double old-fashioned glass filled with scotch on a silver tray and an ice bucket. “Would you like ice, sir?”