Naked Greed

31

Gene Ryan was frightened of coming here but more frightened of not coming. He rang the bell in the late afternoon and waited. He was greeted by a chorus of barks, large and small, from somewhere toward the rear of the house. After a count of about twenty-five, a man came to the door, dressed in green hospital scrubs and about three days of stubble. “Yeah?”

“I’m the guy Eddie sent.”

“Right, come on in.”

The walls of the reception area were plastered with photographs of kittens and puppies and the occasional potbellied pig.

“It’s a shoulder wound, right?” the veterinarian asked.

“Right.”

“Take off your jacket and your shirt.”

Gene struggled out of the clothing; his shirt was bloodstained in spite of the makeshift dressing he had applied and the change of clothes. He was directed to sit on the examination table.

The vet ripped off the bandage. “Flesh wound, in and out,” he said. “Missed the shoulder joint.”

“You should see the other guy.”

The vet laughed. “It’s a thousand, cash,” he said, “including drugs.” Gene had the money already counted out and paid him. The vet pocketed the money. “This was what, a few hours ago?”

“Last night. It took some time to locate you.”

“Okay, lie down on your right side, so I can get at this thing.”

Gene stretched out on the table, which was Great Dane — sized.

The vet came at him with a large syringe and a curved, steel pan to catch the overflow. He irrigated the wound from both the front and the back, causing Gene to writhe in pain.

“You got some infection there,” he said.

“You got any novocaine?” Gene asked testily.

“Lidocaine, sure.” He went to a cabinet and came back with a filled syringe, then injected both the entry and exit. “Give it a minute,” he said.

Gene gave it a minute, and he began to feel the pain fade a little. “Okay, it’s working.”

“Good, because I’m going to run a swab all the way through.” He did so.

“Jesus!” Gene cried. “Give the novocaine a little more time, okay?”

“I’m done torturing you,” the vet said. “All I have to do now is stitch, and you won’t feel that.” He swabbed the area with a brown fluid, then attacked both ends with a curved needle and catgut. “There, all patched up.”

Gene started to rise.

“Not yet, you’ll need an antibiotic. Are you allergic to penicillin?”

“No.”

“Good.” The vet stabbed him in the upper arm with a syringe and emptied it into him, then he applied a dressing. “You’re done. You can get dressed.”

Gene got into his shirt and jacket and was handed a plastic bottle of pills.

“More penicillin,” the vet said. “Take one every four hours. That’s the Irish wolfhound dosage,” he snickered.

“This is for dogs?”

“It’s penicillin. Change the dressing twice a day and put some antibiotic cream on the wound when you do. You can get it at any drugstore. Call me in two or three days if the infection doesn’t go away. Now, beat it, I’m late for dinner.”

Gene got out of there. A fucking veterinarian! This was one more humiliation that he held against Barrington.

Stone stared at Ambassador Abdul-Aziz. “Who recommended me to you?”

“That is confidential.”

“All right, who is this Rattle, and what do you want to sue him for?”

“He is an intelligence agent of the British government,” the man replied, “and he is responsible for the murder of five of our sultan’s subjects.”

“Is Mr. Rattle a resident of Britain?”

“Major Ian Rattle, yes.”

“That would present difficulties. Why don’t you sue him in Britain?”

“Because we have information that he is in New York as we speak. And anyway, the court system here might be more favorable for our cause.”

Stone took a jotter from his jacket pocket and uncapped his pen. “What is Major Rattle’s address in New York?”

“Ah, we have not yet determined that, but we should know soon.”

“If you don’t know where he is, how do you know he’s in New York?”

“We have very accurate information from a source who must remain anonymous.”

“All right, who are you alleging Rattle killed?”

“Our sultan’s twin sons and his nephew and two pilots of his Royal Air Force.”

“They were killed in an airplane?”

“In an airplane crash.”

“And how did Major Rattle effect this crash? Was he aboard, as well?”

“No, his hirelings, who call themselves Freedom for Dahai, fired a rocket at the aircraft as it was approaching our airport.”

“How do you know who killed them?”

“They issued a press release claiming responsibility.”

“And how do you know that Major Rattle persuaded them to commit murder?”

“Again, from a confidential informant, who is completely reliable.”

“Ambassador, it is possible in this country to bring a civil suit for a criminal action, but usually, a conviction is sought first.”

“We have read of the intricacies of your criminal justice system and the appeals process. We believe we can more quickly satisfy our aims with a civil suit.”

“And what are your aims?”

“To show the world that the British are uncivilized and to receive compensation for the families of the dead and for the cost of the airplane.”

“If you want the world to know that the British are uncivilized, why don’t you simply hold a press conference and announce it. That would be much less expensive than bringing a lawsuit.”

“We wish our denouncement of the British to have the force of law, thus the suit.”

“I see. And what damages are you seeking?”

“Five hundred million dollars — one hundred million for each family involved — and forty-five million dollars for the aircraft, a Gulfstream 450.”

“Now we come to the matter of witnesses: Did anyone see the freedom fighters shoot it down?”

“Many people saw the crash.”

“But did anyone witness these people firing the missiles?”

“Our government is tor — questioning potential witnesses as we speak.”

“I see. And was there a witness present when Major Rattle ordered the missile attack?”

“Again, we are questioning potential witnesses now.”

“Is there any scientific evidence of the crime — for instance, can you prove the missile was of British origin?”

“We have determined, from inspection of fragments, that the missile employed was of Russian origin.”

Stone made something of a display in capping his pen and returning the jotter to his pocket. “I’m afraid, Ambassador, that a lawsuit at this time is premature.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, at this moment, you have no witnesses or other evidence to connect this Major Rattle to the crime, nor to identify the perpetrators. The only facts you can place in evidence are that the victims are dead, the aircraft destroyed, and that the missile used was of Russian origin, which contradicts your other allegations.”

“But we wish to file the lawsuit immediately, to bring this horrible crime to the attention of the world.”

“If you should do so, the suit would be dismissed out of hand by the judge at the first hearing, for lack of evidence. And I must tell you, Mr. Ambassador, that should this case go to trial, I would much rather represent the defendant than the claimant.”

The ambassador sat, blinking rapidly, apparently unable to speak. Finally, he found words. “Then I must apologize for wasting your time, Mr. Barrington. Good day.” He rose and left the room.

The butler approached. “This way out, please.”