Strategic Moves

FORTY-ONE

Stone listened, entranced, as Pablo related more than thirty instances of arms sales abroad, giving dates, places, and names of buyers—all without using notes. The CIA team hardly spoke, just made furious notes.

At five o’clock, Stone held up a hand. “It’s five o’clock, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We will adjourn and reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Lance glanced through his notes. “All right, we will do so, as previously agreed.” He and his party got up and left the house, followed by the recording technicians carrying luggage with the tapes inside.

Stone showed Pablo to his library, fixed them both a drink, and sat down. “That went very, very well,” he said to Pablo. “You were right; you have a remarkable memory.”

“It’s more a gift than an acquired skill,” Pablo said.

“More of the same tomorrow?”

“Yes, I think so,” Pablo replied. He stared into his drink, then tapped his ear.

Stone produced Cantor’s device and pressed the button.

“I have a concern,” Pablo said.

“How can I help?” Stone asked.

“I don’t know that you can. This morning I walked the distance from my apartment to this house. Halfway here I became aware of a four-man team following me.”

Stone sat up straight. “Might they have been foreign?”

“I don’t think so. They were conventionally Caucasian and dressed in business clothes. One was a woman.”

“They had to be Lance’s,” Stone said. “Do you know if they saw you depart your building?”

“I don’t believe so,” Pablo replied. “I was very careful when leaving my apartment, and I saw no sign of being followed.”

“They have to belong to Lance; the four-man team is a technique they teach at the Farm, the Agency’s training facility. The NYPD also teaches it, but they would have no reason to be interested in or even aware of you.”

“That’s what I think, as well.”

“I don’t think you should return to your apartment right now,” Stone said, “but I think we can get you safely back later tonight. We’ll have dinner first.”

“All right.”

Stone pressed the button again.

They took a taxi to Elaine’s, where Dino awaited them.

“Dino,” Stone said, “this is Pablo.”

Dino shook hands. “Pablo what?”

“He doesn’t have a last name,” Stone said quickly. “You will have heard of his expertise in flying the Mercedes 550, though.”

“Ah, my congratulations,” Dino said, laughing. “How did you manage to hit that pool?”

“I did not hit it,” Pablo said. “In fact, I misjudged the distance to the shore when I departed the aircraft. I had thought the car would land in the sea, and that I would continue drifting toward the land. The wind was from the east.”

“How did you know that?” Dino asked.

“There was an indicator of wind direction and strength on the pilot’s primary flight display,” Pablo said. “I saw that on a remote unit in the trailer, on the moving map, as we were descending through ten thousand feet. However, I believe the wind strength decreased at lower altitudes. Still, I made it to dry land. Unfortunately, so did the car. I was greatly relieved to hear that it did not harm anyone.”

They ordered drinks and dinner.

“I have not been in this restaurant for many years,” Pablo said. “In fact, I had dinner here with my attorney the night before the last day of my trial.”

Elaine wandered over and sat down, and Stone introduced her to Pablo.

“I know you,” she said. “You used to come in here a couple of times a month, long time ago. Gelbhardt, right?”

“Elaine,” Pablo said, “I have an excellent memory, but you astonish me.”

“Larry Gelbhardt, the writer, was in here a lot at the time, so your name was easy to remember. Pablo, huh? I like that.”

“It’s a nickname I picked up during many years of living in Spain.”

“What brings you back to New York?” she asked.

Stone interrupted. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Whatever,” Elaine replied, then she got up and joined another table.

They had a leisurely dinner, then Elaine bought them an after-dinner drink.

“Dino,” Stone said, “we need your help.”

“Okay,” Dino replied.

“Pablo needs a ride home, but I don’t want him to be followed.”

“I’ve got a good driver right now,” Dino said. “How you want to work this?”

Stone told him, then they finished their drinks, and Stone signed for dinner.

Dino led the way out of the restaurant and got into the rear seat of his car, then slid across to the other side, leaving the door open. Stone, in the meantime, hailed a cab, which drew up behind Dino’s car. Stone got into the cab, then Pablo jumped into Dino’s rear seat and slammed the door. The car moved out.

“Stay close behind the car ahead,” Stone said.

“That a cop car?”

“It is.” He explained what he wanted the cabdriver to do.

At the next corner, Eighty-seventh Street, Dino’s car turned right and accelerated. Stone’s cab pulled into the intersection and stopped, blocking traffic that wanted to turn right.

There was a cacophony of car horns behind them, and a black SUV with darkened windows pulled alongside the cab, paused, then took off down Second Avenue, unfortunately getting caught at the next light.

Stone gave the driver his address and told him to continue downtown at his own pace. When they reached his house, he added a twenty-dollar tip to the fare, then got out of the cab.

As the taxi drove away the black SUV pulled up to where Stone stood, and the front-seat passenger window slid down. Todd Bacon sat in the car.

“That was cute,” he said.

“Following my client around wasn’t part of the deal,” Stone said. “Tell Lance that if he does that again, Pablo will develop severe memory loss.”

Bacon stared at him for a moment, then his window slid shut and the SUV drove away.

Stone let himself into the house feeling better.