Stuart Woods
Wild card
1
Stone Barrington and Jamie Cox had spent an idyllic month at Stone’s estate, Windward Hall, in the south of England, on the banks of the Beaulieu River (pronounced Bewley, if you’re British). The weather had been surprisingly un-English, with only occasional showers. They woke early each morning, made love, and then, after breakfast, took horses from the stables and galloped across Stone’s acreage.
After that, Jamie went to work on her book, based on her New York Times story, in which she and her team had investigated a family-owned investment bank called H. Thomas & Son, exposing deep roots of organized crime going back generations. They had also investigated hundreds of millions of dollars in illegal wire transfers, money stolen from the international banking community by the Thomases. She was nearing the end of her final draft of the book.
Then, in the late afternoon, Stone’s friend Dino Bacchetti telephoned, and everything went to hell.
“What are you telling me?” Stone asked, trying to slow down his friend, who was the police commissioner of the City of New York.
“I’m telling you, the FBI has closed its investigation of the Thomases’ computer crimes. The explosion and resulting fire in their computer control center destroyed everything and melted fifty interlinked computers into a solid lump of metal and silicon.”
“They’re not prosecuting that guy, Rance Damien, who constructed the whole thing?”
“If you remember, their software used in the wire transfers erased all trace of itself when they were done. And that software was destroyed with the computers. Which means the FBI has zero evidence against them.”
“What about the copies of their software that Huey Horowitz, the Times’s computer whiz, downloaded onto computers in my upstairs guest room?”
“That was erased, too. All Huey had left was a blank hard drive.”
“Jesus,” Stone said, “can this get any worse?”
“It can,” Dino replied, “and it has. Rance Damien was one of the two survivors of the fire — the building was empty except for three people, and one of them died later in the hospital. We were hoping Damien had burned to a crisp. But not only is he alive, he was discharged this morning from a private clinic, after extensive work on his face. Oh, did I mention that he is very, very angry with you?”
“At me? I didn’t set the guy on fire.”
“Sources at the FBI tell me that Damien remains unconvinced of that. While he doesn’t think you set and pushed the plunger on the explosives, he does think that whoever did it works for you. Am I getting through to you?”
Stone was alarmed that Rance Damien believed this — because it was true. At least, the part about the bomber, Bob Cantor, working for him was true. However, Stone had neither ordered up the explosion nor known anything about Bob’s actions, until he saw the results on TV.
“Okay, I read you,” Stone said. “What do you propose I do about it?”
“I propose that you keep your ass out of New York,” Dino said. “That shouldn’t be too hard because, having visited your property there, I know that you are as happy as a pig in shit — and getting laid regularly.”
“I cannot deny either of those contentions,” Stone said. “So I’ll stay longer than I had planned.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” Dino said.
“But only if you and Viv get on an airplane and come visit me. Otherwise, I’m leaving for New York tomorrow.”
“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” Dino said. “Viv is due back tonight from Hong Kong, or somewhere, and I’ll run it by her.” Vivian Bacchetti was chief operating officer for the world’s second-largest private security company, Strategic Services, and traveled widely for her work.
“I want a confirmation tomorrow,” Stone said.
“Okay,” Dino replied. “But watch your ass until I can get there to watch it for you. Rance Damien knows how airplanes work, and the FBI tells me he has a passport.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stone said.
“Where is your airplane at the moment?” Dino asked.
“It’s over here,” Stone said. “Faith and her copilot are ensconced in one of the cottages on the estate.”
“Maybe we can hitch a ride on a Strategic Services flight.”
“Free is always the best choice,” Stone replied. “Call me.” He hung up.
When Jamie finished work in the little basement office Stone had arranged for her, they met in the paneled library for drinks, where her vodka and his bourbon were kept in stock. He told her the news.
Jamie was appalled. “Oh, God, just when I thought this was all over, Rance Damien rises from the dead? Did somebody forget to drive a stake through his heart?”
“I would have done it myself, if I had thought of it,” Stone replied.
“I finished the book about twenty minutes ago,” she said. “I was looking forward to getting you drunk and taking advantage of you.”
“You needn’t let bad news deprive you of either of those pleasures,” Stone said.
The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington,” Kevin, the butler, said, “Dame Felicity Devonshire is calling for you. Shall I put her through?”
“Yes, thank you,” Stone said, then waited for the click. “Felicity?”
“Yes, Stone,” she replied. “How are you?”
“I’m very well, thanks. Where are you?”
“I’ve just arrived at my house, back from dealing with the Muddle East” — which was what Felicity called any place east of the Mediterranean — “and my housekeeper told me there was a rumor that you were in residence, but keeping to yourself.”
“I am in residence,” Stone said. “My lady friend has been working feverishly on a book, but she’s just finished it, so why don’t you come for dinner?”
“I was hoping you’d ask,” Felicity said, “and I accept. I’ve been gone five weeks, and there isn’t anything in the house that’s thawed.”
“Drinks at seven?”
“Perfect, and who, may I ask, is this one?”
“Jamie Cox — I’ll introduce you.”
“I shall look forward to meeting her,” Felicity said. “May I bring someone? He owns a dinner jacket.”
“Of course. See you at the dock.” Stone hung up.
“Are we having a guest for dinner?” Jamie asked.
“Yes, does the name Dame Felicity Devonshire ring a distant bell?”
Jamie cupped a hand to her ear. “I believe I hear something. Intelligence, is it?”
“She’s director of MI6, the British foreign intelligence service.”
“Ah, yes, and how did you come to know her?”
“That memory is lost in the mists of time, but she’s my neighbor across the river. She’s bringing someone, but I forgot to ask who.”
“I love a surprise.”
“We’ll see about that. He’s probably one of her father’s contemporaries and will harrumph and bah a lot.”
“Oh, swell.”
“On the other hand, it’s black tie, and we can rely on Felicity to dress to kill, so you can have a shot at that, too.”
“I knew there was a reason I brought those dresses.”
2
Stone and Jamie met Felicity at the dock and took her lines. Her companion looked familiar, Stone thought. Jamie actually gasped when she saw him. He was a little taller and a little slimmer than Stone, and movie-star handsome. Stone hoped he wasn’t a little smarter, too. He introduced Jamie.
“Stone, Jamie, this is Craig Calvert,” Felicity said, with just a tiny note of pride in her voice.
Calvert was, of course, a British movie star, though Stone hadn’t seen him in anything. Calvert revealed spectacular dental work as he shook their hands, and his voice was a little deeper than Stone’s.