“Young, Mediterranean-looking, very fit.”
“Now, don’t get all excited,” Stone said, laughing.
“Ha-ha,” she said.
“Please call Bob Cantor and ask him to put a couple of men at or near the house. Tell them not to shoot anybody, but I don’t want the house burned to the ground, either.”
“Will do. When are you coming home?”
Stone glanced at his watch: “An hour or so.”
“Do you want me to wait for Bob’s people?”
“No, go on home. All this weekend work of yours is beginning to worry me. Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“Usually, but not at the moment,” she replied, and hung up.
“You’re very fortunate to have Joan,” Willa said. “Ask her if she’d like to work in the DA’s office, will you?”
“I most certainly will not,” Stone replied. “Anyway, she’d be bored rigid down there.”
“Gee, I’m not,” Willa said.
As Stone turned into the block he saw Willie Leahy, one of Cantor’s men, on the other side of the street. He slowed and opened his window. “Any problems?” Stone asked.
“The problems have departed,” Willie replied.
“Under their own steam?” Stone inquired.
“An ambulance was not necessary,” Willie said. “We’ll see if any other problems come to take their place.”
“Thanks, Willie. Use the kitchen for your breaks.”
“How long you want us on, Stone?”
“If no one has turned up by noon tomorrow, then stand down. And don’t work straight through; make Bob send some relief.”
“You bet your ass,” Willie said, then turned back to his work.
“Do you always have armed security on tap?” Willa asked. “I saw the bulge under his arm.”
“From time to time; it’s not a regular thing, but sometimes I sleep better with Willie and his brother, Peter, around.”
Stone turned into the garage and closed the door behind him. “Stay for dinner,” he said to Willa.
“You talked me into it,” she replied.
Stone had just deposited their bags in his bedroom when the phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Cantor. Willie got photos of the two men on your house and e-mailed them to me.”
“Were you able to ID them?”
“No, but I sent them to a few people, and I just got a hit from one of them. They’re Israeli.”
“Israeli? What the hell?”
“And not just Israeli, but Mossad, their secret intelligence service. Both are attached to their UN Mission here.”
“Okay, I’m baffled.”
“Me too. Have you been making anti-Semitic remarks lately?”
Stone laughed. “Of course not; I’d have you to deal with, and you’re worse than the Mossad.”
“Just checking.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to find out why they’re here.”
“Well, we could ask them, but I don’t think they would tell us. See you later.”
“What’s that about Israelis?” Willa asked.
“The two men that were watching the house are Mossad.”
“This gets more exotic by the hour,” she said.
“Too exotic for me,” Stone replied. He dialed Pablo’s cell number.
“Yes?” Pablo said warily.
“It’s Stone.”
“I’m surprised my phone works.”
“Me too. Two men have been spotted watching my house, and a trusted source tells me they’re Mossad. You know anything about that?”
“I’ve done business with Israel many times, and on a few occasions with Mossad.”
“Have you annoyed them lately?”
“I make it a point not to annoy my customers,” Pablo replied.
“Well, they’re not looking for me,” Stone said. “I’ve never had anything to do with either Israel or the Mossad. It’s gotta be you.”
“I’ll make a couple of calls tonight and see what I can come up with,” Pablo said.
“Just in case somebody’s listening,” Stone said, “would you mention that you’re not at my house?”
Pablo laughed. “Of course.” He hung up.
So did Stone. “I’ve got some steaks in the fridge,” he said to Willa, “and I make a mean risotto. Dinner here okay?”
“More than okay,” she said, kissing him.
They were having dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. Stone got up and answered it. “Hello?”
“Mr. Stone Barrington?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Aaron Beck. I am with the Israeli UN Mission.”
“Yes?”
“I wish to apologize for the presence of our people near your house this afternoon. I realize they must have caused you some anxiety.”
“I think my friends may have caused your men some anxiety.”
“I wonder if I might invite you to lunch tomorrow to discuss this situation.”
“How good a lunch are we talking about?” Stone asked.
“Would the Four Seasons Grill suffice?”
“It would suffice very nicely,” Stone replied. “What time?”
“One o’clock?”
“See you there, Mr. Beck.” Stone hung up.
“Now what?” Willa asked.
“Now the Mossad wants to have lunch at the Four Seasons,” Stone replied.
“One thinks of the Israelis as being very economical,” Willa observed.
“Don’t worry; I’m not picking up the check,” Stone said.
FIFTY-THREE
Stone sent Willa off to work the following morning, then went down to his office.
Joan buzzed him. “Herbert Fisher on line one.”
Stone sighed. “Tell him I’m busy, to call me late this afternoon.”
“Right,” Joan said.
Stone worked through the morning, then walked up to the Sea-gram Building and entered the Four Seasons. At the top of the stairway he stopped and looked around. A man at the bar to his right got up and came toward him.
“Mr. Barrington?”
“Mr. Beck?”
They shook hands, and the maître d’ seated them between the tables of Henry Kissinger and the literary agent and attorney Morton Janklow.
“Good table,” Stone observed. “Do you come here a lot?”
“Only when the expense account allows,” Beck replied. “The table is usually occupied by our ambassador, who is away.”
“I’m surprised that the expense accounts of the Mossad extend to the Four Seasons,” Stone said.
Beck froze for half a second, then managed a small smile. “I must relate your observation to the Mossad, the next time I encounter them.”
“Come on, Mr. Beck,” Stone said, “I know who you are. This conversation will probably go better if we don’t try to bullshit each other.”
A captain came with the menus, and Stone ordered the Dover sole, his favorite fish. Beck ordered a large salad. Stone thought the sole must have used up most of the expense account for the day. Stone ordered a glass of Chardonnay; Beck stuck with the mineral water already on the table.
“I will not challenge your assumption,” Beck said after the waiter had taken their order and left them alone.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Beck?” Stone asked.
“Please call me Aaron, and may I call you Stone?”
“Of course.”
“Israelis are an informal people,” Beck said.
“If you say so,” Stone replied. “I don’t suppose I’ve met more than two or three Israelis in my life.”
“You’ve led a sheltered life,” Beck said, smiling.
“Perhaps so. What can I do for you, Aaron?”
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Beck said. “I would like to arrange a meeting with Mr. Pablo Estancia.”
“Who?”
“I thought you wished not to bullshit each other,” Beck replied.
“And why do you believe I can arrange such a meeting, Aaron?”