Strategic Moves (6 page)

Freeman took a pen from his pocket and a magazine from the coffee table for support and began filling out the form.

“Well, Stone,” Lance said, “what have you been up to?”

“Work, work, work,” Stone replied. “Not much else.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

“I’m afraid not,” Stone said. “Client confidentiality, of course.”

“Of course. I understand you’ve recently become type-rated in the Cessna Citation Mustang.”

Stone was surprised he knew. “Yes, I have. Jim Hackett arranged to have me trained in the airplane.”

“Good skill to have,” Lance said.

“A pleasant one.” He looked over at Mike to see how he was doing on the form. He appeared to be on the last page.

Freeman picked up a phone and buzzed his secretary. “Would you come in, please?”

The woman entered the room, and Mike handed her the document. “Would you fill in the relevant spaces on past employment and residences, please? It’s all in my curriculum vitae in our files.”

“Of course,” she replied, and left with the document.

Stone began to wonder if Mike’s background could stand a background check. Freeman was not who he said he was, and Stone was, perhaps, the only living person who knew that. Freeman was, in fact, British and a former member of MI6, from which he had been forced as part of a witch hunt against him some years ago. Jim Hackett had been killed because Mike’s enemies in the British government believed him to be the man they were hunting, when Mike Freeman was, in fact, that man.

“What brings you to New York, Lance, apart from visiting us?” Freeman asked.

“Nothing else,” Lance replied. “I had, in fact, intended to speak to James Hackett, but of course, his death intervened. Do you know who killed him?”

“We’re still working on that,” Freeman replied.

“Stone, how about you? You were with Hackett when he died, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but I’m unable to speak about it,” Stone replied. He did not want to tell Lance why not.

“Mmmmm,” Lance purred. “Client confidentiality?”

“Yes,” Stone replied, hoping his curiosity would stop there.

“You did some work for Felicity Devonshire at MI6 not very long ago, didn’t you?”

“If I had, I certainly couldn’t comment, could I?”

“No, I expect she asked you to sign the Official Secrets Act.”

The secretary reentered the room before Stone could reply and handed the form to Freeman, who looked it over, signed it, and handed it to Lance.

Lance looked it over, too. “May I use your fax machine?” he asked.

“Of course,” Mike replied. He led Lance over to a bookcase and opened a panel for him, revealing the machine. Lance pressed a couple of buttons and dialed a number. “Will it send both sides of the document?” he asked.

“Yes,” Freeman said, “if you select that option.”

Lance sent the document, then returned to his chair and put the form into his briefcase. “We’ll have a response shortly,” Lance said.

“Don’t you have to conduct an investigation?” Stone asked.

“Yes, but for the moment we will compare the information on the form electronically with what we already know about Mike, to be sure there are no discrepancies.”

This did not seem to worry Mike.

Lance’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said. He held the phone to his ear. “Yes?” He listened for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, and hung up. “Well, that’s done. Now we can proceed, I think.”

Lance leaned forward in his chair. “Mike, let me outline a not altogether hypothetical situation in which you might be very helpful to the Agency and to your adopted country.”

Freeman said nothing, just nodded.

“Let us say that there exists in a fairly large city of this country a financial institution which we have reason to believe has been funneling funds to an Al Qaeda subsidiary in Indonesia.”

Mike nodded again.

“This institution has a virtually foolproof safeguard against outside intrusions into its computer network.”

“I would be very interested to hear about those safeguards,”

Freeman said.

“Essentially,” Lance replied, “while they use outside connections to send data, they do not receive data except on a single connection, which has not only the latest in firewall protections, but on which every incoming request for data is vetted by a human operator before it is passed on to the central computer.”

Freeman frowned. “That sounds almost too simple,” he said.

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Oh, their ordinary office computer system accesses and downloads from the Internet, but their system for transmitting and receiving secure data is discrete from that.”

“You want us to supply you with people who can hack into their computers?” Freeman asked. “I should think the National Security Agency could better handle that.”

“Of course,” Lance replied. “Unfortunately, the bulk of their personnel are not available to us . . . on-site, let us say.”

“You mean they won’t do a black bag job for you?” Stone asked.

“To put it crudely,” Lance said drily.

Freeman spoke up. “Am I to understand that you want us to put our people
inside
this institution for the purpose of sacking their computer system?”

“At our present level of expertise, that is the fastest way for us to gain access to their secure data.”

Freeman had not stopped frowning. “You want us to carry out an illegal entry into their offices and steal their data.”

“We would, of course, provide umbrella protection from prosecution to your people,” Lance said.

Stone spoke up. “I’m sure that Richard Nixon offered the same protection to the Watergate burglars.”

Lance blinked. “Well, perhaps so.”

“I’m sure I could find personnel in our organization who would be enthusiastic about such an operation,” Freeman said, “but I am not sure I could furnish someone with a sufficient level of computer expertise to break into a secure system within a matter of a few hours, which is what you are talking about.”

“I understand,” Lance said. “That is why your people would take an NSA operative along with them.”

“I think that would make a great movie,” Stone said, “but a bad business story in the
Wall Street Journal.
I have to tell you, Mike, that you would be putting your company at great risk at a level all out of proportion to the reward to be gained.”

Lance bristled. “The reward, as you put it, Stone, is to destroy the enemies of your country.”

“By breaking the laws of my country,” Stone pointed out.

“I think I sense your position on this, Stone,” Freeman said. “Lance, I will have to discuss this matter with some of our people, then get back to you with a decision in principle, not having details of the actual operation.”

“Perfectly understandable, Mike,” Lance replied. “I’m at the Lowell, and here’s my cell number.” He handed Freeman a card.

Freeman stood up. “Thank you for coming to see us, Lance.” They shook hands and Lance left.

Stone and Freeman sat down again.

“Well, Stone, what do you
really
think?”

Stone laughed. “I think that Lance Cabot is someone who can never be completely trusted, and I would not want to see the reputation of Strategic Services in his hands.”

“Is that the only reason you’re against it? I mean, dealing Al Qaeda a serious blow is an attractive goal.”

“Mike, if this job were as easy as Lance makes it sound, he’d have his own people do it. The Agency is not short of people with the requisite skills for such an operation, so why doesn’t he use them? And I very much doubt that the president would ever put his signature to a finding on such an operation. That might very well be grounds for impeachment.”

“Good points, all,” Freeman said.

“Mike, I can see you’re attracted to this. Why?”

“For personal reasons, I suppose. I’ve always believed that the greatest benefits derive from operations with the greatest risks.”

“Then, if you were a poker player,” Stone said, “you’d always try to fill an inside straight.”

“Not always,” Freeman replied, “but sometimes.”

“If you gamble for thrills, that’s a good position to take,” Stone said. “But if you have to make a living playing poker, you’d soon find yourself on the street, broke and hungry.”

“What you say about poker is true,” Freeman replied. “But in this kind of operation you make your own odds.”

“You’d need to know everything to make your own odds, and with an operation like this you can never know everything; you’ll only know what Lance wants you to know. Also, Mike, if you undertake this, you’d be dabbling in politics, and that’s a dangerous arena for a business.”

“All valid arguments,” Freeman said, “and I’ll take them all into consideration.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t mind having Lance Cabot in my debt; that might come in useful sometime.”

“Mike, I’ve had considerable dealings with Lance, and I can tell you it can be profitable to deal with him. But you must remember that, in any situation, the safety of Lance’s ass is Lance’s most important priority, and any benefits from dealing with him will come only after Lance has first benefited, if then.”

Freeman took an envelope from his desk and handed it to Stone. “Here’s the check for your old airplane,” he said. “I trust it’s correct.”

Stone glanced at the check. “Entirely acceptable,” he said.

Freeman handed him another envelope. “These are the sales documents and the request to the FAA to keep your old tail number. The process will take a few weeks.”

Stone signed in the relevant places and handed the papers back to him. “Fly it in good health,” he said. “It’s always served me well.”

Freeman handed him another envelope. “And these need your signature for your new airplane,” he said.

 

 

Stone walked home with a spring in his step, the check burning a hole in his pocket.

Stone hired a driver and went to pick up Adele Lansdown at her apartment at 71 East Seventy-first Street. He knew that this was the side door for a more famous address, 740 Park Avenue, said to be the most prestigious in the city.

The doorman on duty called up, then directed him to the elevator. Stone knew the building because he knew a woman who lived there, in her parents’ apartment.

A houseman in a white jacket admitted him, led him to the living room, and poured him a drink. Stone spent his waiting time looking at the pictures in the room.

“Are you interested in art?” Adele’s voice said from behind him.

Stone turned to watch her come toward him. “I enjoy looking at it, but I’m not in the market at this level,” Stone said. “My mother was a painter, and we always had good pictures in our house.”

“Would I know her?”

“Perhaps. Her name was Matilda Stone.”

“I know her work very well,” Adele said. “I have standing orders at two galleries for her work, should it ever become available.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Stone said. “People who acquire her work seem to hold on to it.”

“Do you have anything of hers?”

“I have four of her oils—New York scenes.”

“I envy you those. May I see them sometime?”

“Of course,” Stone said. “They’re in my bedroom.”

Adele laughed. “And I’ve already turned down one invitation to tour that site.”

“Perfectly understandable, on short acquaintance.”

“Perhaps on my next visit to your house. Shall we go to dinner?”

“Certainly. My car is downstairs.”

“Where are we going?”

“I thought the Four Seasons would be nice.”

“Always.”

 

 

They arrived at the restaurant and were immediately seated in the Pool Room, a reference to the pool, not the game. They ordered drinks, then dinner.

“How are things in your family?” Stone asked.

“Difficult,” Adele replied.

“I understand Jack hasn’t been charged with anything.”

“That’s correct, and it’s the only thing that lets us hold our heads up around town.”

“Have the accountants finished their work?”

“Their report is due in a day or two,” she said.

“Did Jack invest your money?”

“Some of it. I put the proceeds of my husband’s estate in his hands, but I continued to manage my own funds. I started a cosmetics business years ago, and I sold it before the recession, so I have means of my own to support me.”

“An enviable position to be in,” Stone said. “Has anyone heard anything from David?”

She gazed at him over her martini glass. “You’re very well informed. What do you know about David?”

“That he’s . . . on vacation.”

“Well, yes.”

“And that he’s suspected of being the real culprit—or, at the very least, Jack’s coconspirator.”

“Suspected by whom?” she asked.

“Just about everybody, I gather.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t think Jack is capable of stealing his clients’ money. For one thing, he’s always made plenty of his own. He was a top man at Goldman Sachs; only went out on his own when he was passed over for CEO there. He left with a very large bundle, which he used to establish his own business, and that has done extraordinarily well.”

“And how do you feel about David?”

“I love the boy. He’s always been the perfect young man, you know—top of his class, everybody’s choice to succeed.” She made as if to continue, but stopped.

“But?”

“But I don’t understand his generation; they are all so different from the way we are, used to having everything so early in their adulthood.”

“You think he might have cut corners?”

“A billion dollars’ worth of corners?” she asked. “It hardly seems possible.”