Stuart Woods_Stone Barrington 12

these people that the shooter lied about having completed the hit and that Dick is still alive and well. And you, of course, are also named Stone, and you are living in Dick’s house.”
    Stone sighed. “Are you doing anything about this?”
    â€œPeople from the London station are looking for Dick’s snitch as we speak. When they find him, they’ll work their way up the food chain until they find the people who gave the order for the hit.”
    â€œAnd what, do you estimate, are the chances of their reaching the top of the food chain?”
    â€œI think good; the Agency does not take lightly the murder of their officers and especially the murder of an officer’s family in the United States. I’ll keep you posted on developments. In the meantime, buy a shotgun and watch your ass.” Lance hung up.
    Stone called his secretary, Joan. “Hi.”
    â€œGood morning.”
    â€œI’d like you to send me some things, overnight.”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œGo up to my dressing room, find my golf shoes—they’re the ones with the plastic spikes…”
    â€œNo kidding?”
    â€œâ€¦and also a pair of brown alligator moccasins and a pair of boat shoes.”
    â€œThey’re the ones with the nonslip soles, I guess.”
    â€œDon’t be a smart-ass. Also, go into the safe in my dressing room—you have the combination—and send me that little .45 that Terry Tussey made for me, the one with the pearl handle. Send the holster next to it—make sure it fits, that it’s the right one—and the heavy gun belt that’s hanging on my belt rack. Also, send three magazines and the double-magazine holder that’s with the holster, and send me a box of .45 caliber ammo, the Federal Hydrashock. Got all that?”
    â€œIs it the shoulder holster you want or the belt holster?”
    â€œThe belt holster…. Oh, what the hell, send both.”
    Joan read back the list to him. “Anything else?”
    â€œOh, send me a couple of thousand in cash, too, just put it in an envelope and stick it in a shoe.”
    â€œThe usual denominations?”
    â€œPlenty of smaller bills.”
    â€œWill do. I’ll send along some mail, too.”
    â€œGood-bye.” Stone hung up. Now, if he could just survive until tomorrow.

17
    E D RAWLS WAS ALREADY SEATED at a corner table when Stone arrived at the little yacht club. They shook hands, and Stone sat down.
    Rawls pushed a slip of paper across the table. “Send checks in those amounts to those addresses for the yacht and golf club memberships,” he said. “You’re in.”
    â€œAlready?” Stone asked, astonished. It usually took a while to get into any club.
    â€œYou had good backers, and like I told you, your cousin, Dick, was highly regarded around here,” Rawls replied. “You met the three requisite members at lunch here yesterday. The committee met last night, and it got done.”
    â€œThank you, Ed. I’m sure I’ll enjoy using both. Who am I meeting today?”
    â€œSee the two guys standing on the dock?”
    Stone turned and saw two elderly men standing outside, one sweeping the horizon, the other looking toward shore. “What are they doing?”
    â€œJust checking. They would never go into any building without checking, especially in light of recent events.”
    The screen door to the club was bumped open by an electric invalid scooter, and its rider moved it quickly toward their table.
    â€œStone, this is Don Brown,” Rawls said. The other two men came in and sat down. “And this is Harley Davis and Mack Morris.”
    Stone shook hands all around. “Gentlemen, glad to meet you.”
    â€œWe’re a kind of club of old boys,” Rawls said. “We call ourselves the Old Farts.”
    â€œYour reputation precedes you,” Stone said.
    The three men looked wary and exchanged glances. “How’s that?” Mack Morris asked.
    â€œI told you, he knows Lance Cabot,” Rawls said. “In fact, Stone is one of Lance’s contract people. And he’s Dick Stone’s first cousin.”
    Everybody nodded, seemingly satisfied with Stone’s credentials. They all ordered sandwiches and iced tea and chatted desultorily about golf and boats for a while, then Rawls called the meeting to order, after a fashion.
    â€œMy sources are telling me somebody ordered a hit on