Criminal Mischief

52

Stone, Brio, and Wilcox sat on the fantail of their chartered yacht, while Wilcox typed out the document Said had demanded.

“There,” Wilcox said, turning around the laptop and handing it to Stone. “Do you wish to add or subtract anything?” he asked.

Stone read it through. “I think it’s perfect, and that it would be dangerous to change anything.”

Wilcox removed his State Department cell phone from a jacket pocket and speed-dialed a number, while pacing around the deck, conducting a conversation with someone. Finally, he hung up. “The secretary of state is on Air Force 3, having departed for Tokyo half an hour ago. The telephone and e-mail electronics aboard the aircraft are inoperable, so he will be out of touch until the airplane lands at Tokyo and he is able to travel to our embassy there. We’re talking seventeen, eighteen hours.”

“That leaves the president,” Stone said.

“It does. Ordinarily, she does not accept telephone calls from State Department personnel of my rank, except in the direst circumstances, like the bombing of an embassy, and in the absence of the secretary of state. I am not inclined to attempt to breach that barrier under these circumstances.”

“I see,” Stone said, knowing what was coming next.

“It is my understanding that you and the president are... rather, have... a close personal relationship. Is that so?”

Stone thought about it for a moment. “I have heard that rumor, too.”

“Do you think that, given the circumstances, you might communicate this letter to her directly, and ask her to sign and transmit it to both me and the secretary of state.”

Stone thought some more. “You are aware, are you not, that I have a financial interest in the successful completion of this transaction?”

Wilcox winced and sucked his teeth for a moment. “I am very much afraid that I neglected to incorporate that fact into my calculations. My apologies.”

“No apology necessary, Henry,” Stone said.

Everyone quietly sipped his cognac for a while. Then Brio spoke up, “I have been in the presence of the director of the FBI on occasions when he communicated directly with the president on Bureau business. Perhaps I can call him and ask him to call her.”

“What a good idea,” Wilcox said.

“Perhaps,” Stone said, pensively. “However...”

After a long pause, Brio said, “However what?”

“Brio,” Stone said, “the ten-million-dollar reward for Zanian is being offered by the FBI, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What is the source of those funds?”

“I was wrong. The money would come from something called FBI Emeritus, which is an organization made up of retired, high-ranking Bureau officials.”

“This is a private, nongovernmental organization?”

“Yes. It’s all very quiet. Most people at the Bureau have never heard of it.”

“Question: Where would an association of former government officials get their hands on ten million dollars?”

A dead silence ensued, for a count of about twenty.

“I don’t know,” Brio said, finally.

“Is the director currently a member of this group?”

“Yes, members are usually elected upon the achievement of the rank of assistant director, at a minimum.”

“Stone,” Wilcox said, “are you leery of accepting the reward, given its origins?”

“Certainly not!” Stone snorted. “I’ll take their money in the blink of an eye!”

“Then, what...”

“I’m leery of establishing even the slightest connection of the president with a private club, which has ready access to that kind of money. Where did they get it? What other ‘projects’ have they funded? Secret wars? Black operations? Assassinations of foreign dignitaries? The trail could lead anywhere.”

“But you don’t mind it leading to you,” Wilcox said.

“If a connection arose, I could deny all knowledge of the source of the funds. I could claim, as anyone else could, that I have no idea of the money’s origin — and I can do it without igniting an investigation by a congressional committee. The president, on the other hand, has political enemies who would enjoy nothing better than hauling her into a committee room, putting her under oath, and eventually, shipping her off to Guantánamo for a little vacation.”

“So to speak,” said Wilcox.

“Well, yes,” Stone said, “but you get the point.”

“I do.”

“Sorry,” Brio said. “Bad idea.”

“We all have them,” Stone said. “I think it would be better if the secretary of state called the president, or better yet, just signed off on it himself. After all, the only purpose of the document is to keep the United States from getting its hands on an airplane that the sultan — or rather, Said, the commanding general of the armed forces, has the hots for.”

“Well put,” Wilcox said. “The entire staff of the State Department couldn’t have said it better.”

Brio spoke up, “Henry, I don’t suppose you could just sort of give Said your word that you won’t go after the Gulfstream?”

Wilcox burst out laughing. “My dear, in the circumstances that Said is considering, my word is nothing more than a puff of hot air.”

“Let’s sleep on this,” Stone said, rising.

“Always a good idea,” Wilcox said, rising, too.

They went off to bed.