Fast and Loose

22

Joan buzzed Stone. “Ed Rawls on one.”

Stone picked up. “Yes, Ed?”

“Stone, I think it’s time for you to meet my source at St. Clair.”

“I’m up for that.”

“His name is Charles Fox, Charley to his friends. He’s going to call you in half an hour, and I suggest that you invite him to your home for dinner, rather than meet at a restaurant, and warn him not to be followed.”

“All right. Tell me something about him.”

“He’s in his mid-thirties, a Southerner, scholarship to Yale, Rhodes Scholar, recruited to the Agency by a Yale professor. I’ve read his personnel file, and he got high marks from everyone during his training. When I was station chief in Stockholm, he was sent to me for an operation requiring an officer who was not connected to the embassy. He performed beautifully. He’ll tell you the rest, including what he wants.”

“All right, I’ll look forward to hearing from him.”

“By the way, I didn’t thank you properly for dinner and the guest room. We had a wonderful time. See ya.” Rawls hung up.

Half an hour later, Joan buzzed. “A man who won’t give his name but says you’re expecting his call.”

“Right.” Stone pressed the button. “Hello?”

“This is Ed’s friend. May we meet?”

“Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“Yes.”

Stone gave him the address. “Come here at seven, and we’ll dine in. Ed says you should be careful of a tail.”

“Right. See you then.” He hung up.

At seven on the dot, Stone picked up the phone to answer the front door. “Yes?”

“It’s Fox.”

Stone pressed the button to unlock. “Come in.” He got up and walked from his study into the living room to greet his guest.

Charles Fox was about five-ten and thickly built — maybe two hundred pounds, sandy hair, pleasant mien. He moved like a man who knew how to take care of himself.

Stone offered his hand. “I’m Stone.”

Fox shook it. “I’m Charley.”

“Come into the study,” Stone said, leading him in. “What will you drink?”

“I’m a Southerner, a bourbon man.”

Stone poured two Knob Creeks and showed him to one of a pair of chairs before the fireplace, where a small fire blazed.

“Ed speaks highly of you,” Stone said.

“I think highly of him. I thought he got a raw deal at the Agency, and I’m glad it got straightened out.”

“Tell me a little about yourself — the sixty-second bio will do.”

“Born Delano, Georgia, thirty-four years ago. Father and mother mill hands. Public schools, scholarship to Yale to study English lit, a Rhodes, spent at Oxford, then back at Yale, recruited for the Agency.”

Stone nodded. “Did you like it there?”

“I did. I actually enjoyed the training, especially the physical stuff, which a lot of my classmates shied from. I got a couple of interesting assignments right away, including one in Stockholm, under Rawls. I spent two years in the London station.”

“Who’d you work for in London?”

“Dick Stone. Ed says you were related.”

“First cousins.”

“A good man. He would have been director by now.”

“Why’d you leave the Agency?”

“I was always a poor boy, and I wanted to make some money. A friend of a friend introduced me to somebody at Goldman Sachs, and they hired me as a trainee. I spent six years there, made partner after five.”

“How’d you get to St. Clair?”

“He called me out of the blue, said a friend had suggested he talk to me. I’d heard of the man, of course, so I met him. He invited me up for a few days on his new yacht, and we got along. He gave me to understand that he needed somebody to work acquisitions, and that he wanted somebody who could rise to CEO quickly. He was backing a guy named Knott to run against Katharine Lee for President, and he told me that when his man was elected — when, not if, mind you — he’d be spending a lot of time in D.C., and if I worked out, I’d be minding the store in New York. I liked the idea. I found Goldman too regimented for me, too many committees, layers. He offered me two million a year, with a million-dollar signing bonus, and I jumped at it.”

“I should think you would have,” Stone said.

“I got there about a month before he blew himself up by opening what sounded like an Agency strong case the wrong way.”

“What did you think of St. Clair?”

“He was a charmer, but I quickly learned that he liked cutting a corner or two, and I was uncomfortable with that. There was no management tree to speak of, so when he died, the place was adrift. Erik Macher stepped into the breach.”

“And what did you think of that?”

“I stayed out of his way, until I could figure out what was going to happen. Macher didn’t even know who I was. He was based in a security company in D.C. that was St. Clair’s personal police force. He’s no businessman, and I figured that, if I could edge him aside, I might still end up running the place. I checked up on his time at the Agency, and it was clear that the man was a thug. I figured that if I stuck around St. Clair and had to work for Macher, I’d end up in jail. I started collecting information that might stand me in good stead if the FBI or the New York Attorney General’s Office came calling. There was a lot of gossip around the office, and I made notes, then I got into the company’s most secure computer network. I’ve copied a huge lot of documents, more than enough to cover me.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“I don’t have a plan yet. I just want to get out of there before the place blows. Macher is a deeply paranoid character who reacts badly when he’s crossed. He’s in league with a lawyer named Thomas Berenson, who’s corporate counsel, and during my computer searches I came up with a will for Christian St. Clair that Berenson had drawn, that pretty much handed the company to Macher. I also came up with the original will. Berenson had just substituted the new stuff for a couple of pages of the original, which had already been executed and which didn’t mention Macher at all.”

“That was pretty slick of Macher.”

“He’s a dangerous guy, in more ways than one. He had a reputation at the Agency for unnecessary violence. He’s got a guy named Jake Herman, ex-FBI, who left the Bureau under unfavorable circumstances, and he’s doing for Macher what Macher used to do for St. Clair, except out of the New York office, instead of D.C. The two of them make quite a pair.”

Stone set down his drink. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I want to make a phone call.”

“Sure.”

Stone got up and called Mike Freeman. “I’m dining with an interesting young man that you should meet. Can you join us at my house?”

“What time?”

“Now is good. We’re still on drinks.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Stone hung up and rang Fred, letting him know they’d be three for dinner.