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“So she got half the money when certain goals were met. Probably the explosion in Lafayette, the death of Tom Gross and cleaning up the loose ends like Sykes, Donohue and the Latinos.”
“What about Turkekul?” asked Annabelle.
“He’s a special case. At first I just thought that she had seized an opportunity that had presented itself, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I’m not getting what you mean.”
“I’m not sure I do either. We’ll just have to see how that plays out. Any way to see where the money went?”
She shook her head. “The cops have put pressure on Swiss banks to open up their records and they’ve complied. That’s pushed
a lot of the illegal transactions to the Caribbean. And the islanders have not been as compliant as the Swiss. We’ll need some more expertise to get those answers.”
“I think I might have a way to find some,” said Stone.
“But Friedman has half a billion dollars at her disposal. That will fund an excellent escape plan.”
“Yes, it will. But she has some problems.”
“Her employer?”
“She tries to run now it puts up signals they can intercept. She may think if she bides her time they’ll lose their focus on her and move on to other matters.”
“But she may also be able to finger one or more of the cartels with the assassination attempts,” replied Annabelle. “They aren’t going to let that hang out there. Now she’s become a potential witness against them.”
“She’s a very smart woman and she’s undoubtedly thought the very same thing. All the more reason for her to take it slow. And that’s only one side of the equation.”
“Meaning the cops coming after her on the other end.”
“Yes. I’m sure by now Friedman knows we’re on to her.”
As Annabelle gathered her things in preparation to leave she said, “If Alex doesn’t make it, how are we going to get on without him, Oliver?”
She looked like she was going to start crying again. Stone put his arms around her, held her tightly. He let Annabelle Conroy, possibly the most gifted con artist of her generation, but a woman with a huge heart and a rock-solid understanding of loyalty, sob quietly into his shoulder.
When she was done Stone said, “We can never get on without him, Annabelle. All we can do is just survive each day as it comes. I think you and I have a better understanding of that than most people.”
She nodded dumbly and then left. Stone watched her drive off and then went back inside his cottage.
Stone made a call to someone he’d only recently met, but with whom he’d formed a permanent alliance.
Joe Knox said hello on the other end of the phone.
“Joe, it’s Oliver Stone.”
The man’s response was classic Joe Knox. “I was wondering how long it was going to take before you called me in on this. I’ll be at your place in an hour.”
CHAPTER 90
JOE KNOX WAS A BURLY MAN who at age fifty still had the build of the college linebacker he had once been. He and Stone had spent time in a max security prison together, without having had the benefit of a trial much less a conviction. Knox had been assigned to hunt Stone down by what turned out to be a rogue superior at the CIA. But having survived the prison ordeal largely by trusting each other, Knox and Stone had developed a strong friendship.
“I’ve followed it all,” Knox told Stone as they sat across from each other in Stone’s caretaker’s cottage. “Either in the papers or else scuttlebutt, official or otherwise, at the Agency.” Alex Ford had helped Knox’s daughter find her father when he’d been kidnapped and slapped in that prison, and Knox had never forgotten that. The expression on the man’s face clearly revealed his desire to bring in the people who’d put Alex near death.
“Let’s not waste time then,” replied Stone. “Which Mexican cartel has recently moved large amounts of money in the Caribbean bank chains and then rescinded a half-billon-dollar payment?”
“It’s not good, Oliver.”
“Carlos Montoya?”
Knox nodded. “When the Russians came in they sliced up his mother and his wife and his three kids and left them in a ditch. So no love lost there. He’s based on the outskirts of Mexico City. And even though his business has shrunk by about ninety percent he still has muscle and reach all over the world.”
“That’s actually good for our purposes. Friedman will have to exercise maximum caution. Which will slow her escape down.”
Knox thought about this. “She also has another problem.”
“She needs protection.”
“Obviously, but she won’t get it from the Latinos. None of them will side with her against a man like Montoya. And American muscle will probably stay away from her. They don’t like to get mixed up in presidential assassination attempts. The penalties are too stiff and the Feds coming after you are too many. She could go to the Eastern Europeans—the Russians don’t give a damn who they take on—or else the Far East Asians maybe.”
“Which means we have to find out if, say, a half dozen of them or more have slipped into the country in the last few days. Think you can find that out?”
“Even on a bad day,” said Knox. He paused, studying his hands. “So what’s the prognosis on Alex?”
“Not great,” admitted Stone.
“He’s a first-class agent and man.”
“Yes,” said Stone, “he is.”
“Saved our butts.”
“Which means we have to finish this the right way. For him.”
Knox rose. “I’ll have something for you within six hours.”
After his friend left, Stone walked out of his cottage and strolled along the paths between the graves. He reached a bench under a sprawling oak and sat down. He had already lost one close friend. Any moment now it could become two.
He eyed one of the old tombstones. In a cemetery not too far from here Milton Farb lay under the earth. Soon Alex Ford might be occupying a similar position.
It would either be Friedman or him. Both would not survive this. Not after what the lady had done.
Either he would walk away from this. Or she would.
There was no other way it could be.
CHAPTER 91
THEY HAD SEARCHED THE WOMAN’S OFFICE and found nothing. That wasn’t surprising, since she had officially been fired and had moved out of the space. But when they went through her home in Falls Church, they found nothing there either, and she clearly hadn’t moved out from there. But it was certain she’d left in a hurry, her timetable no doubt disrupted by the fast-acting Secret Service after being tipped off by Stone.
Stone and Chapman looked around one more time through the three-level end-unit town home that had been built in the early 1980s and where Marisa Friedman had lived since the year 2000.
“Ashburn gave me an inventory of what they took from here and it was pretty minimal,” said Stone to Chapman as the latter sat down in a chair and surveyed the room. “But there isn’t one personal photo, no scrapbooks, old yearbooks, nothing to show she had a family. She’s scrubbed herself clean.”
“She’s a spy, it obviously comes with the territory.”
“Even spies have lives,” Stone said firmly. “Much of their history might be invented, but they usually have some personal items around.”
“What do we know about her background?” asked Chapman.
“She was born in San Francisco. Only child. Parents both deceased.”
“How?”
“House fire.”
