Stuart Woods 6 Stone Barrington Novels (191 page)

SANDY PETERSON
arrived at MB Electronics half an hour after Lance had dispatched him. He had been buying electronic components there for nearly a year, and the staff knew him, at least by sight. He always paid cash, and they liked that.

He parked across the street and looked at the building for a moment; it was a single-story building that covered a third of the block. On the corner was a retail electronics shop, which took up about a quarter of the building, and next to that was a corrugated steel door that could be operated with a remote control. He walked to the end of the block and a few steps farther. There was a wide alley behind the building, which had a loading dock. Across the street, he saw two men sitting in a car.

He walked back around the building, checking for windows—there were none on the side—and into the retail shop through the front door. He bought a hundred-foot reel of cat five wire and paid for it in cash, glancing at himself in the mirror behind the counter. “Is Marty in?” he asked the girl who was helping him. “I'd like to ask him about something.”

“I'll check,” she said. She went to a door, knocked and went inside, behind the mirror. A moment later she came out, followed by a stocky man in his midforties, balding, dressed in suit pants, shirtsleeves and a loosened tie.

“I'm Marty Block,” ' he said and pointed a finger at Sandy. “And you are . . . ?”

“Sandy Peterson; I've been doing business here for a while.”

“Yeah, I've seen you in the shop, didn't know your name. You don't have an account, do you?”

Sandy shook his head. “I prefer dealing in cash.”

Marty grinned. “That's okay; we take American dollars.”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sandy asked.

“Sure, what's up?”

“It's kind of confidential.”

“Come into my office,” Marty said. He lifted the counter barrier, let Sandy through, then led him through the door into a large, comfortably furnished office with a six-foot-tall safe against one wall. “Take a seat.”

Sandy sat down. “I've got a particular job to do for a client, and I need something custom.”

“Tell me about your business,” Marty said.

“I got started putting in alarms for people, and I did good work, so my business grew, and once in a while, a client would ask me to do some special work—personal stuff, usually—guy suspected his wife of screwing around, suspected his business partner of stealing, stuff like that.”

“I know the kind of thing,” Marty said. He held up his hands. “Not that I'd ever do anything illegal.”

“Yeah, of course. It's like this . . .”

Marty held up a hand and came around the desk. “Before we have this conversation, I'm going to have to frisk you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sandy said, standing up and holding his arms away from his body.

Marty proceeded to not just frisk him, but to do a body search more thorough than any Sandy had seen since he had finished his training at the Farm. He started with a normal search, looking for a
recorder, then he went over Sandy's clothing in a minute way that would have detected a hidden microphone. He took Sandy's cell phone and set it on his desk, then he unbuckled Sandy's belt, inspected it and handed it back to him.

“Let me see your shoes,” Marty said.

Sandy shucked them off and handed them over.

Marty inspected the soles, the insoles and the laces. He handed them back, then ran his fingers through Sandy's hair and checked his wristwatch. After several minutes of this, he waved him back to his chair.

Marty picked up the cell phone, removed the back and the battery, then took a small screwdriver from his desk drawer and partially disassembled the phone. Satisfied, he reassembled it and handed it to Sandy.

“Sorry about that,” Marty said. “I can't be too careful.”

“It's perfectly okay,” Sandy said. “Believe me, I understand. Can I speak freely now?”

“Go ahead; what do you need?”

“I've got a client who's in the middle of a big divorce. He wants me to bug his own house—he's moved out. He wants a mike in every room—just audio, no cameras. My problem is, his wife rarely goes out for more than a few minutes. The most time I'm going to get inside without being disturbed is, maybe, thirty minutes. You think you could put something together that would work for me?”

“Sure, but it ain't going to be cheap.”

“How long would it take you to get it together?”

“How about ten minutes?” Marty said.

Sandy grinned. “Ten minutes would be good.”

Marty went to a large safe in the corner, worked the combination with his body between Sandy and the safe, and opened it. He removed a plastic box, and as he turned to close the door of the safe Sandy was able to get a glimpse of the inside. It was filled with
electronic components, what appeared to be a considerable amount of cash and two handguns on the top shelf. Marty locked the safe and returned to his desk.

“You recognize this?” he asked, opening the plastic box and handing Sandy a black, plastic object.

“Looks like a standard domestic circuit breaker,” Sandy replied, turning it over in his hand.

“How about this?” Marty asked, handing him a plastic object about two inches long and half an inch wide. It was hinged lengthwise, and short spikes protruded from the back.

“You got me,” Sandy said. “Never seen anything like it.” In fact, he had seen something exactly like it. Marty was copying things that the Technical Services Department at the Agency had been making for years.

“Well,” Marty said, sounding very pleased with himself, “here's what you do with your client's house. You go to the main breaker box and replace one of the breakers with mine. Then you go into each room of the house you want to bug, unscrew a power receptacle and crimp the other little thing so that the spikes penetrate both the positive and negative wires. Then you go outside and find an outdoor power receptacle and plug this into it.” He handed Sandy a small, black box with a short antenna attached. “What you've done is turned the whole house's wiring grid into a receiver system that's picked up and retransmitted by the box with the antenna. I'll sell you a receiver with a dedicated, off-the-books frequency, and you'll be able to hear and, if you want to, record everything that's said in the house. You can even make it voice activated.”

“Wow,” Sandy said, pretending to be impressed. “How much?”

“The circuit breaker is eight grand, the crimpers are two hundred each and the retransmitter is two grand. Your receiver is a grand.”

“Well, it's not like
I'm
the one paying for it,” Sandy said. “The client will pick up the tab.”

“How many crimpers you want?”

Sandy counted on his fingers. “Eighteen.”

Marty turned to a calculator on his desk and began tapping in numbers. “That comes to fourteen thousand six hundred bucks,” he said. “Call it fourteen thousand even, and with cash, no tax.”

“Done,” Sandy said. “I'll need to make a run to get the cash; that's more than I walk around with.”

“Sure; I'll have everything packed up and ready for you in half an hour; you can pick it up anytime today.”

Sandy stood up to go. “You must have a great workshop here,” he said.

“I do. You want a gander?”

“God, yes, please!”

Marty walked him through another door and into a large, beautifully equipped workshop where four men were hunched over worktables, wiring and soldering. “There you go. I can build you just about anything you want in here.”

“This is really something,” Sandy said. “I mean, I'm working out of my basement, you know?”

“Listen, I used to work out of my basement,” Marty said.

“You've got a lot of building here,” Sandy said. “What do you do with the rest of it?”

Marty walked him through another door into a storeroom filled with components and wiring, then into a large garage. Sandy counted four unmarked vans and half a dozen cars. “I keep larger equipment and my vans in here, and my employees park here, too. That's about as big a draw as health insurance. You got any idea what it costs to park in this city these days?”

“Tell me about it,” Sandy said. He turned and saw a staircase going up to a windowed office in the high-ceilinged garage. “More work space?” He noted that blinds were pulled down over the windows.

“Nah, just storage,” Marty said, steering him back toward the retail shop.

“I'll be back in a little later with your fourteen grand,” Sandy said.

“You do that,” Marty said, turning back toward his office. “Bye-bye. Nice doing business with you.”

Sandy picked up his wire in the shop, then walked back to his car. He got out his cell phone and called Lance.

“Yes?”

“It's Sandy. Martin Block gave me the ten-cent tour. He's got four vans that the lady could be moved in, and there's a room I didn't get to see, up a flight of stairs in the garage. If Block has her, that's where she'll be. By the way, there are two cops in a Crown Vic sitting near the building, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts.”

“Good work, Sandy.”

“Oh, one more thing, Lance.”

“What?”

“I'm going to need fourteen thousand dollars.”

“What?”

STONE'S CELL PHONE RANG,
and he picked it up. “Yes?”

“It's Lance. My man is back; he's cased the building, and there's one room where Arrington is probably being held. Part of the building is a garage, and the room is up a flight of stairs. It's the only logical place they would keep her.”

“Then let's get in there.”

“No, I don't think so. Billy Bob is supposed to call you midafternoon, right?”

“Right.”

“Billy Bob will give you some complicated routing to meet him at some place or other. They'll track your movement, then, at some stage, either exchange you for Arrington or keep you both.”

“That had occurred to me.”

“They'll move her in one of Block's vans—he's got four. We'll raid the place as they're leaving—they won't be ready for us then.”

“And what if Arrington isn't there?”

“Then we'll sequester everybody on the premises, so they can't call Billy Bob, and you'll have to go through with the meet. If Arrington isn't at Block's business now, it seems likely that they'll take you or both of you back there, and we'll be ready for them.”

“And if Billy Bob doesn't have Arrington there now, and if he doesn't take her back there, what?”

“We'll be on your tail. We'll plant a transmitter on you, and we'll have a chopper on the job. When he gets wherever he's going, we'll be right on top of him.”

“It sounds good, except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“Suppose he just shoots us both and dumps our bodies.”

“Well,” Lance drawled, “there is that. We can't cover
every
contingency, can we? The upside is, we'll at least take Billy Bob, and we'll roll up Block's operation.”

“I'm sure that will be very comforting to me when I'm dead. How is Peter?”

“He's a sensible lad; he's curious about your and his mother's whereabouts, but Corey is handling him well, and he seems happy enough.”

“Bring him back to the city, will you? When we've got Arrington back, I want to reunite them immediately.”

Lance was silent for a moment.

“Take him to my house; I'm going there myself.”

“Is there another way in besides the front door and your office door?”

Stone explained how to get into the common garden behind the houses and to his back door.”

“All right, I'll have him there in two hours. Where's Dino?”

“He's right here.”

“Tell him Sandy spotted two of his men, sitting outside Block's in a Crown Victoria, eating doughnuts. Tell him to pull them off before Block spots them. I've already got a team in the neighborhood.”

“Right.” Stone hung up. “Lance's man made your two guys outside Block's. You see what I mean?”

“How does he know they're mine?” Dino asked.

“They're in a Crown Vic, eating doughnuts, how else?”

“Shit,” Dino said. He got on the phone and ordered the two men back to the precinct. “And when you get there,” he said to them, “you'd better not be wearing black shoes and white socks.”

“I'm going back to my place,” Stone said, standing up.

“You think that's safe?”

“Billy Bob won't expect me to be there, and anyway, he thinks he's going to grab me later this afternoon.”

“I'll come with you,” Dino said.

STONE AND DINO
drove back to his house and parked in the garage, while Dino's car and driver followed.

“Call your driver and tell him not to park in my block,” Stone said. “I don't want anybody to make the car, if we're being watched.”

“Oh, all right,” Dino said and made the call.

As they approached the house, Stone took Dino's shoulder. “Get down in the footwell. If they're watching, I want them to think I'm alone.”

Dino grumbled but followed instructions.

When they were inside the garage and the door was closed, Stone said, “All right, we're in. You can get up.”

Stone looked at his watch. “One o'clock,” he said. He led Dino upstairs to his bedroom and began unpacking the guns and ammo he had taken with him. He handed Dino the box containing Lance's Keltec. “Take a look at that.”

Dino opened the box. “Jesus, it looks like a toy.”

“It's a three-eighty-caliber, and it weighs ten ounces, loaded.”

Dino handled the little gun. “Billy Bob is going to tell you to come unarmed,” he said.

“I suppose so.”

“Then go armed. Wear something on your belt. You got an ankle holster?”

“No.”

Dino pulled up his right trouser leg and undid the Velcro fastening of his own, which held a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 special. “You can take mine.”

“What's the point?” Stone said. “He's going to search me thoroughly.”

“You still got that Thunderwear I gave you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“For Christmas, dummy, the Thunderwear.”

“Christ, I'd forgotten about that.” Stone went into his dressing room and rooted around in the bottom drawer of his dresser. “Here it is.”

“Put it on.”

“Dino . . .”

“Just do it.”

Stone took off his trousers and boxer shorts and put on the Thunderwear. Dino screwed the silencer into the Keltec, shoved a magazine into the butt, racked the slide and handed it to Stone. “See if it will fit with the silencer.”

Stone took the gun and slipped it into the pouch in the undershorts. “Too long.”

“Take the silencer off and try again.”

Stone unscrewed the silencer and stuck the gun into the Thunderwear, then inserted the silencer next to it. “Fits nicely.”

“Put your pants back on, you're embarrassing me,” Dino said.

Stone put his pants back on.

“You've got a three-eighty or two, haven't you?”

“In the gun safe.”

“Put on a three-eighty holster and a double-magazine pouch.”

Stone did so and stuck his Walther PPKS into the holster.

“Now put the two spare Keltec magazines into the pouch. When they search you, they'll take the Walther, but probably not the ammo.”

Stone did so.

Dino handed him the ankle holster with the S&W. “Now put this on.”

Stone wrapped the Velcro around his ankle and secured it.

“Now, when they search you, they'll find the Walther and the snub-nose—your piece and backup piece—but guys don't like to feel around other guys' crotches, so they'll probably miss the Keltec.”

“It's worth a try,” Stone said.

“You bet your ass it is,” Dino replied.