Strategic Moves

FIFTY-FOUR

Stone walked back to his office and phoned Pablo.

“Yes?”

“It’s Stone. I’ve just had lunch with one Aaron Beck of the Mossad. Do you know him?”

“I do, but under a different name: Moishe Aarons. He is quite highly placed in the organization, and I’m surprised to hear that he is in this country.”

“He may have come here to see you,” Stone said. “He knows about your conversation with Lance and his people. He may even have heard about that from Lance himself.”

“Or possibly not,” Pablo replied. “Wherever there are Jews, Mr. Aarons has sources.”

“If you say so.”

“Why do you think he might have come to the United States to see me?”

“Because he was deeply interested in having a conversation with you, along the lines and depth of the one with Lance.”

Pablo snorted. “Tell him that if he has any questions of me, Lance is in a position to answer them.”

“I like that,” Stone said. “Did you make inquiries about why the Israelis might be interested in you?”

“My inquiries, though oblique, lead me to believe they may think I have sold arms to the Palestinians.”

“Ah.”

“You may tell Mr. Aarons the following,” Pablo said. “Quote: I have never knowingly sold arms or ammunition to any person or group representing the cause of the Palestinians. Unquote.”

“ ‘Knowingly’?”

“In my business identities can be . . . flexible, but I am usually aware of with whom I am dealing.”

“I will pass that on to him,” Stone said, “along with your suggestion of asking questions of Lance.”

“I hope that will be an end to it,” Pablo said.

“I hope so, too,” Stone replied. “I’ll let him stew for a while, then call him tomorrow. Goodbye, Pablo.”

“Goodbye, Stone.”

They both hung up.

Joan buzzed him. “A Mr. Herbert Fisher to see you,” she said.

Stone sighed. “Oh, all right, send him in.”

Herbie opened the door, let himself in, and sat down. “Hey, Stone.”

Stone noticed that he was wearing a cashmere tweed jacket, a custom-made shirt, and that he had, apparently, found a barber who disdained gel. “How are you, Herbie?”

“Troubled,” Herbie replied.

“What is troubling you, Herbie?”

“My wife.”

“Well, I tried to get you to do the prenup.”

“It’s not that—not exactly.”

“Then what is it?”

“You remember, we were supposed to go on a honeymoon in the islands?”

“Yes, I recall that.”

“She won’t go now.”

“Herbie, women—especially women as bright and strong-willed as Stephanie—have minds of their own, and they often change them. You will come to have much experience of this.”

Herbie shook his head. “It’s not the changing of her mind that worries me.”

“Unburden yourself, Herbie.”

“You remember the business about the disappearing billion dollars from the Gunn company?”

“How could I forget it?” Stone replied.

“And you remember that David was suspected of that?”

“Again, my recall of those events is perfect.”

“I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t David. I’m beginning to think it was Stephanie—or maybe Stephanie and David.”

Stone regarded Herbie for a moment. He did not appear to be delusional—indeed Herbie had appeared for some weeks now to be conducting himself entirely within the bounds of rationality, a sort of extended lucid interval. “What makes you think that, Herbie?”

“I’ve overheard snippets of telephone conversations; I’ve heard travel arrangements being made; I’ve heard mention of an island in the South Pacific called Attola.”

“I’ve heard something about that place, Herbie, but I can’t remember what.”

“It’s apparently a very posh place,” Herbie said, “and very far from anywhere.”

“Well, it sounds peaceful,” Stone said.

“It also has something to do with offshore banking,” Herbie said.

“Uh-oh,” Stone replied.