The Monkey Handlers
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The brave, the proud, the damned... Sara Rosen: Dark, impulsive beauty-- her radical acts on behalf of animal rights land her in terrible danger.... Michael Stone: He kept the tools of his former trade closed up in a trunk. Now he must open his SEAL war chest-- to strike at the heart of international terrorism. Al Rajul: He's never been photographed or identified. Now he has the weapon he's been looking for-- to spread horror and death through the heart of the United States... in The Monkey Handlers by G. Gordon Liddy.
G. Gordon Liddy
G. Gordon Liddy is the host of the G. Gordon Liddy Show, which is broadcast in more than two hundred fifty markets. He is the author of books including the #1 New York Times bestseller Will: The Autobiography of G. Gordon Liddy and, most recently, The New York Times bestseller When I Was a Kid, This Was a Free Country. He lives in the Washington, D.C., area.
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- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Fast-paced plot loaded - sometimes subtly, sometimes not - with the G-man's world views about what the SEALS should still be, the value of animal testing, the dangers of foreign terrorists, and the realities of relationships.
Book preview
The Monkey Handlers - G. Gordon Liddy
1
The jarring ring of the telephone snapped Michael Stone awake, adrenaline pumping. Before he moved a muscle, he forced himself to be sure of exactly where he was: at home, in bed, no apparent danger.
The phone rang again, and he brought it to his ear. Stone moved no other portion of his body, nor did he switch on the lamp. From long habit, he sought to preserve his night vision.
Yes?
he said into the speaker. His voice was low, strong, controlled. There was not a hint that he had been sound asleep a moment before.
Michael Stone?
It was a woman’s voice—youthful, anxious.
Speaking.
The lawyer?
Stone cocked his left wrist. A black rubberized watertight digital watch was on it. All Stone could see were the numbers glowing softly out of the dark: 0423:12.
Yes. But I don’t usually practice at four A.M. The office is open at eight-thirty. Call then for an appointment. Good night.
"Please! Please don’t hang up! I’m sorry to wake you, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t come to see you because I’m in jail. They’ve got me charged with burglary! I wasn’t trying to steal any—"
Wait,
Stone commanded. Hold it right there. I don’t know who gave you my name, but you’ve got bad information. I don’t practice criminal law. I specialize in real estate. If you’ve been busted for burglary, I’m the last person you want. Get a hold of the public defender. He’ll give you the names of some heavy hitters in the criminal bar. I’m sorry I—
No! I can’t trust them. I can’t trust anyone in this town. Except you.
You don’t even know me.
My brother said I could.
Who’s your brother?
Barry Rosen.
Stone paused to search his memory. I don’t think I…
He changed his name to—
Saul,
Stone supplied. Saul Rosen.
Yes.
All right. Where are you, Mohawk County Jail?
Yes.
Have you been before a magistrate? Any bail set, anything like that?
"No. I’m supposed to go to city court at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. I mean this morning."
All right, tell anyone who asks that I’m representing you. At least for now. Has anyone tried to question you?
No. Down the Riegar plant, when I was arrested? They read me my rights. I said I wanted to call a lawyer.
Good girl. Don’t—
I’m a woman.
"Right. Good woman. Don’t discuss this with anyone. Not just the police, anyone—other prisoners, chaplains, I don’t care who. Keep it to yourself. Anyone tries to talk to you, just keep telling them you want to see your lawyer."
I thought you said you weren’t a criminal lawyer?
I’m not. I watch a lot of television. Good ni … Hey! What’s your name?
"Sara—without the h—Rosen."
Stone felt for the cradle and hung up the phone. You never told me you had a sister, Saul, he mused. But, then, Saul never really told anybody much of anything.
Stone checked his watch again: almost 4:30 A.M. No chance of going back to sleep now. For too many years, his day had begun at zero-dark-early. Only within the past year had life afforded him the luxury of sleeping in until six, and he still felt guilty about it.
Michael Stone felt guilty about a lot of things. Now he could add to the list this Rosen girl. Either way he decided about representing her, he would have felt guilt. Viewed objectively, he had no business representing Sara Rosen. It had been years since he had passed the bar exam and had even that tenuous claim to expertise in criminal law. While it was quite legal for Stone to represent her, he couldn’t help feeling that it was hardly moral. On the other hand, the woman had invoked a powerful emotional claim upon him from his former life, the military. Saul Rosen had cross-trained with Stone’s outfit and once, in combat, taken a wound in order to warn Stone and his men of an ambush. How could anyone with a shred of honor walk away from a debt like that?
Shit,
Stone said quietly, into the night. He raised both legs simultaneously and kicked back the covers, then swung up to sit on the side of his bed. What was done was done. He was due in city court in three hours.
Part of Michael Stone’s clinging to the past was his voluntary continuation of a formerly mandatory program of two hours of killer PT
every morning, six days a week. He wasn’t all that much under forty, and he was fighting it every inch of the way. Today was running. He left the light off. There was enough fog-filtered street light coming through the window for him to find his running gear laid out on the chair the night before. He went to the bathroom down the hall, took a towel and wrapped it around his neck, stuffing the loose ends into the front of his T-shirt, then slipped quietly downstairs to the vestibule, where he stretched.
Feeling sufficiently warmed up and loose, Stone slipped out the door and began running easily down the darkened streets of the city of Rhinekill, seat of the government of Mohawk County, New York.
Rhinekill sat on the east bank of the Hudson River, about midway between New York City and the state capital at Albany. Even at 4:45 A.M., the streets, though in immediate pre-dawn darkness, were not deserted. The midnight-to-eight shift of the city of Rhinekill police department, the Mohawk County Sheriff’s office, and the nearby barracks of the New York State Police had patrol cars out. Early-morning delivery trucks moved. An ambulance took an emergency patient to St. Martin’s Hospital.
At a corner, Stone elected to run through a puddle rather than break his stride to avoid it. The cool splash of water against his shins refreshed him. Another puddle, this one of light from an ancient street lamp, loomed ahead. As he ran through the yellow glow, Stone checked the timer function on his digital watch. He was moving much faster than usual, without the slightest labor to his breathing. Then it dawned on him why; he had been running almost entirely downhill. Down the Riegar plant…
Sara Rosen had given as the site of her arrest. Unconsciously, Stone had been heading for it. Rhinekill and its suburbs ran steeply uphill from the valley through which the Hudson flowed. The Riegar plant, once the century-old Hudson Drug Company, was located at the lowest and oldest point in the city, on the bank of the river. Now by default the city’s main employer, it had been taken over by West Germany’s giant Riegar Farmakologie, GmbH.
At a decrepit, potholed street overlooking the railroad tracks that ran north and south along the river’s edge, Stone turned left toward the plant. He wasn’t far from it now, but the dark and the fog rolling off the river obscured it from his view. Stone knew what it would look like. A citizen’s group, seeking to save the plant from being gobbled up by foreigners
had successfully petitioned to have the hideous nineteenth-century red-brick building declared an architectural landmark for historical preservation. It did them little good. The practical Germans, noting that the building was only slightly less solid than the pyramids, simply gutted it, left the facade, and added an eighteen-story tower. Then they filled the inside with the Medusa-like monster-scale nest of pipes and retorts that make up a modern drug research and manufacturing plant.
Stone heard and smelled the place before he could see it. The strange odors rose out of the fog and spread down the dirty old streets. Great machines rumbled and hissed in the night. The first thing he could see was the glow of lights, diffused through the smelly mist. Then the outlines of the building could be made out: huge, looming out of the dark. Catwalks, twelve stories high, dully lit. So oppressive was the place that Stone, without thinking about it, slowed his pace to a jog in instinctive caution lest he play the fool, rushing in where a prudent angel would pause.
A sudden noise, like a combination of the sound of escaping steam or a released air brake and a high-speed electric motor, drew Stone’s attention down and to his right. There, railroad tracks glistened dully and bifurcated to form a series of sidings between the plant and a shipping dock that disappeared into the blackness of the river. One of the sidings appeared to run right up against the near wall of the plant, which formed part of the foundation of the tower. The wall seemed to split open, and the crack, straight up and down, glowed with light as it grew.
A small switch-engine diesel barked to life, then moved slowly toward the lighted opening. As the two great steel doors completed their electrically driven run and the opening was complete, the light coming from within the bowels of the building glowed so intensely it reminded Stone of the door to a furnace. The small diesel murmured forward into the maw of the furnace and out of sight. There was a clanking and hissing. Moments later, the switch engine emerged pulling a black tanker car. Even as it did so, the huge hangarlike doors started to close. The timing was perfect. The doors whined shut just after the rear of the tanker cleared them. It was as if the diesel and its load had just barely escaped great jaws trying to snap shut upon them.
Stone cut left again to run along the front of the plant. At the building side of the sidewalk, a six-foot wrought-iron picket fence guarded a thirty-foot perimeter lawn that ran up to the side of the building. Whether from the foggy light or the chemicals in the air attacking it, the grass looked to be dying. He gazed up at the tower, which disappeared into the night and fog. What in God’s name would Sara Rosen be doing down here? he thought, then leaned forward to start the long running climb back to his home.
* * *
Not long before Michael Stone asked himself the question about Sara Rosen, an inquiry into that very question had begun in an expansive office at the top of the tower he had just passed. Inside it, behind a broad Danish Modern desk, sat a thickset middle-aged man with eyebrows so dark and dense, one didn’t notice he was nearly bald. His shirt and tie looked as if he had worn them yesterday and hastily thrown them back on. His name was Georg Kramer, and he was trying to control his anger long enough to get all the information he could from the frightened young uniformed security guard who stood before him.
Let me see if I have this correctly,
Kramer said, leaning forward and glaring at the guard. At two o’clock in the morning—
One fifty-eight, sir,
the guard interrupted, taking refuge in useless precision.
Kramer rolled his eyes heavenward. One fifty-eight,
he repeated in exasperation, "you detected a person having no employee identification of any kind lock a bicycle to the perimeter fence, use it to climb up and go over the fence onto company grounds, then run to the lobby downstairs, where you were posted, and from which you have seen all this, and who then sends you on a wild-goose chase…"
It was a cat, sir. She said it was a cat…
"All right, then! A wild-cat chase! The point is, you were distracted long enough for her to disappear for more than twenty minutes before you found her again, in a most sensitive area, with a camera. Am I correct so far?"
Yes, sir,
replied the hapless guard.
"Whereupon you detain her, ask her nothing about what she was doing here, just called the police and promptly delivered her, and her camera and bicycle, to them, and then, then and only then, do you call me!"
Sir
—the guard tried to defend himself—I figured she was one of them outside agitators. I mean she was young an’ all, and like on a bicycle an’ all, you know? And she kept yellin’ about how the scientists are torturin’ all the animals in the labs downstairs doin’ all them experiments, an’ she goes, ‘You’re not gonna do that to my cat!’ An’ with all the trouble we been havin’ with the agitators and all, I just figured—
But you didn’t figure, did you,
Kramer replied icily, "that if she was an agitator and she took pictures in the labs, we’d be seeing the pictures, poster-size, in the hands of the pickets tomorrow? And you didn’t figure that it might be a good idea to retain that film? Or that she might be using all this antivivisection nonsense as a ruse to cover that she was really from a competitor seeking proprietary secrets? That that’s what she might have been filming? And that there was plenty of time to turn her over to the police, and I might want to question her first?"
But, sir, it was a Polaroid camera. An’ ya have to give suspects in custody their Miranda warnings—
Kramer exploded. You’re not the police!
The futility of further discussion overwhelmed Kramer. He sank bank in his chair and waved his hand at the guard. Get back to your post. Go on!
The guard gone, Kramer glanced at his wall clock and made a quick time-zone calculation, then picked up a telephone. He punched in two digits, then spoke: Overseas operator, please.
What country, sir?
West Germany.
You can dial that country directly, sir.
Kramer wasn’t used to placing his own calls, but with no secretary available at this early hour, he had no choice. Irritably, he asked, Can’t I give you the number and be connected?
Yes, sir, but you can save—
Just connect me,
Kramer snapped, and read off the number.
Moments later, a secretary answered the phone in German. Kramer spoke to her in English, which she understood perfectly, and asked to speak to Walter Hoess, chairman of Riegar. Hoess recognized that it was the middle of the night in the eastern United States and his top man there wouldn’t be calling at this hour if something wasn’t wrong. He was sharply attentive.
Yes, Kramer. What is it?
There has been a penetration, sir. Middle of the night. Person with a camera.
The explanation?
Unknown at this point, sir. Unfortunately, the guard made an assumption it was connected to the animal-rights protesters and delivered the person, a woman, to local police. They have the camera and, presumably, the film. In any event, we were fortunate in that there were no subjects in the apparatus at the time. The last series of tests had been concluded, and the new series not yet begun, awaiting new subjects—
But a knowledgeable person, seeing the apparatus, might…
Yes, sir. I am sure we can regain any photographs from the police on a claim of proprietary intellectual property. The city government is cooperative. It will be handled.
It had better be. What of the product?
Still unsatisfactory. The latest batch and the contaminated test subjects had been disposed of in the usual way prior to the entry. Security will be increased substantially before the new tests begin.
I want this matter resolved promptly. We have a deadline for development of the new product. It is urgent, you understand? Now, I want to know who was responsible for this incident, what they were after, what was photographed and why. And I want them discouraged permanently from any repetition of such conduct.
Yes, sir. But it may well be just those animal fanatics. They can be embarrassing, but I doubt that they’re intelligent enough to be dangerous—
Now you’re thinking like your guard! The stakes are too high to make any assumptions but the worst. I’ll send Metz over on the next plane. You are to cooperate with him fully. Keep me advised until he arrives; after that, Metz will communicate with me directly. Good day, Kramer.
Hoess hung up. Kramer noticed that his hand holding the now-dead telephone was wet with sweat. The last thing he wanted was Metz. Chief of security for Riegar worldwide, Metz would have felt right at home in his native land fifty years ago.
* * *
As Stone was running and Kramer was on the phone with Hoess, Sara Rosen was yawning. Out of habit, she tried to stifle it by putting a hand over her mouth. She was prevented from doing so by the handcuff chain looped inside a belly chain around her waist. She was yawning because she had not slept all night. As she had been led back to the women’s detention pen from the matron’s office at the conclusion of her telephone call to Stone, the female deputy sheriff guarding her said, Don’t get too comfy, sweetie. Chow for court cases is five o’clock.
What happens then?
Sara asked.
R&D. Where you processed in at. Receivin’ an’ Discharge. You gets your own clothes back to wear to court. Then, when ever’body ready, you takes the van to court.
How about a bath first?
Bath?
The deputy laughed. This the jailhouse, sweetie. Ain’ got no bath here. Shower, maybe. But you only been here one night. You gets to shower ever’ third day like ever’body else.
Swell, Sara thought. When I meet my lawyer for the first time, not only do I look like drek, I get to smell like it, too. Well, why not. The closer she got to the holding tank for women, the more she realized that the whole place stank of it. And urine. And sweat. And floating over it all was a powerful disinfectant odor, intended to mask the others, but that only added to the general stink. The combination smelled to Sara like … hopelessness.
When she entered the tank itself and the barred door clanged shut behind her, her sense of smell was assaulted anew. The drunk in the corner on the tile floor had vomited all over herself and everything else in range. But before Sara had a chance to react, a different female deputy called to her through the bars. Rosen.
Sara turned. Yes.
The guard opened the door. C’mon.
Where are we going?
R&D to get yer shit. You going for a ride.
But court’s not until seven-thirty. And I’m hungry.
I only work here, lady. Let’s go.
* * *
The city court of the city of Rhinekill was located upstairs on the second floor of the two-story building at the corner of First Avenue and Main Street. The first floor housed Klein’s Retail Wine & Liquor. Apart from affording drunks given suspended sentences a convenient place to resupply themselves downstairs—thus guaranteeing another appearance upstairs—the location was convenient to the lawyers and the police. The county courthouse was on the opposite street corner; the police station across the street.
Michael Stone skipped breakfast to arrive early at 7:15. He climbed the stairs and slipped into a seat at the rear. The place looked as much like a storefront church as it did a court. A high but crude wooden bench held the center of the front of the room. To the left and right of the bench, at a slightly lower elevation, were two matching boxed-in enclosures. One served as a witness box, the other as a workplace for the stenographer. In front of all was a fencelike low wooden railing. Everything was stained a deep brown by a combination of varnish and years of accumulated dirt.
Six feet back from the railing, pews taken from an old church ran to the rear of the room. An aisle separated the rows of pews. Once upon a time, the floor had been stained. Years of footsteps of people who had rejected society, or been rejected by it, had long since worn the flooring into raw wood.
Along the right wall, prisoners sat on benches under the watchful eye of a police sergeant. Lawyers sat in the front pews, but Stone didn’t know that. The police sergeant noticed Stone and recognized him as a lawyer—it was his business to know who was who in his small city. The sergeant spoke to the court clerk. We got a newcomer, sittin’ in the back, observin’.
The sergeant chuckled. Maybe he’s gonna run for your job.
The clerk, also a lawyer, glanced back at Stone. The lawyer sitting next to the clerk caught the motion and glanced back. He was an assistant district attorney: very young; the lowest in seniority or he would not have been there. Next to him were another young lawyer, an old-timer who had never made it, and at the far end, keeping her distance from the DA’s representative, a woman in her early thirties from the public defender’s office. Together, they composed the bar of the city court.
The whispers started.
Who is he?
Don’t know.
Yes you do. He was at the bar association dinner in September. Stone. Old Harry’s nephew. Took over his real estate practice, such as it was. All he does.
Must have some kind of service pension or something. Can’t be earning much.
He’s some kind of aging, frustrated jock. Always exercising down at the athletic center.
The old-timer broke in, Watch who you call aging, kid. That guy doesn’t look forty. Dry behind the ears means aging to you?
All rise,
interrupted the bailiff.
Stone searched the prisoner bench. There was only one woman. She was black. He waited as the court processed the prisoners, one after another. Mostly they were Discon—disorderly conduct; D&D—drunk and disorderly; Possession—of misdemeanor amounts of a controlled substance. Then there were the arraignments on serious charges that could not be heard by a court of such lowly jurisdiction: Assault Two—assault in the second degree; Burglary One—burglary in the first degree.
For these defendants, the proceedings consisted of advising them of the charges against them, seeing to it that they were represented by counsel, and, when on occasion they were, scheduling a hearing for the judge to determine whether there was enough evidence in the hands of the state to bind the defendant over for the grand jury.
Defendants represented by counsel usually demanded the hearing at the earliest possible date so they could learn something of the prosecution’s case. The assistant district attorney always tried to have the hearing put off as far as possible. It was the official start of a race. If the grand jury, whose proceedings were secret, could hand down an indictment before the date set for the preliminary hearing in city court, the hearing was rendered moot and the defendant effectively precluded from learning anything about the state’s case against him. The result was known among criminal lawyers as trial by ambush.
As Sara Rosen failed to appear, Stone grew more and more uneasy. By the time the court started to try petty civil disputes, it was clear to him that something was wrong. He made his way up the center aisle to meet the assistant public defender. She was on her way to the stairs to leave. Stone stuck out his right hand. He knew the woman’s name from listening to her being addressed during the proceedings.
Miss Hannigan, Mike Stone. Could I take a few minutes of your time?
Ms.,
she corrected, automatically. Sure, counselor. What brings you to the awesome chambers of city court?
Stephanie Hannigan was a short, shapely honey blonde whose fashionable horn-rimmed glasses emphasized eyes that reflected an elfin wit.
Good question,
said Stone. I’ve never been here before, and I’m not eager to come back, but I’m trying to do a favor for an old service buddy whose sister got picked up last night, apparently trespassing on the grounds of the Riegar plant. She told me she was due in city court at seven-thirty this morning, but she never showed.
Hannigan frowned. If she was out on her own recognizance and didn’t show when she was supposed to, they’ll issue an warrant for her arrest and—
She wasn’t out. She was in custody. This was to be her first appearance before a magistrate.
Hannigan combed her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, Hmmmm. Come to think of it, they would have called her name. They didn’t. It could be one thing, but I doubt it.
What?
"Well, as you probably read in the paper, some animal-rights group has targeted Riegar—picketing, blocking the gate, and so on, just generally making a pain in the ass of themselves because Riegar, like every other drug manufacturer, tests out new stuff on animals. It’s the law, you know. FDA. They have to, before they can get permission to try it out on humans. The cops busted a bunch of them last week, but they were all let out on their own recog because most were from the area, and we’re talking like a twenty-five-dollar fine here. They’ll probably not even have to pay that. They want a trial so they can try out a screwball application of the necessity defense. They want the publicity. But the city fathers aren’t going to give it to them. Riegar’s about the only real tax base left in this town. The major employer. The council’s not about to blow it for a bunch of guinea pigs. Is your client their leader?"
Stone moved aside to let some people pass them. I don’t know, but I don’t think so. Why?
Well,
said Hannigan, if she was, they might be pulling something the cops and the DAs do from time to time to harass a defendant they’re pissed at and to try to get information. They ‘put ’em on the bus.’ A police car, actually. Take them from the sheriff’s to the city PD to the state police barracks, et cetera, on the pretext that each of those jurisdictions needs to question the defendant about uncleared crimes, so they can get all the charges together and present them to the grand jury in one fell swoop. For efficiency. It’s bullshit, of course.
Hannigan looked directly at Stone. A good defense lawyer wouldn’t let them get away with that.
Stone looked back at Hannigan with eyes that went suddenly hard. "I do real estate. Searches and closings, mostly. But I don’t like being fucked around. I really don’t like it when someone I’m supposed to be taking care of is being fucked around. Where should I start? The sheriff’s office?"
No. You don’t play that sucker’s game. No matter how fast you drive from one place to another, they’ve got radios. She’ll be long gone before you get there.
So what do I do?
Look,
said Hannigan, "if it gets known you’re helping these wackos, you’re gonna get some heat. If it gets known that I’m helping you, I’m gonna get some heat. But what they’re doing is wrong. So I tell you what. Go to that park down the street there, and read the paper for a bit. I’ve gotta hit the office or they’re gonna wonder where I am. I’ll see you in a few minutes."
Stephanie Hannigan turned and loped across the street to the public defender’s office. Stone, eager to find his client and chafing at the delay, reluctantly put thirty-five cents into a street-corner vending machine for a paper and pulled up on the handle. It jammed. Consistent with my day so far,
he mumbled to himself, then struck the side of the machine a sharp blow. That freed the handle, and he retrieved the paper, tucked it under his arm, and walked to the park. He was about to sit when he noticed that the benches were all covered by pigeon droppings. Standing, he checked out the news.
The front page was full of the latest from the Mideast. Libyan leader Muammar Qaddafi was once again beside himself with rage. Months ago, Israeli bombers had taken out the Libyan chemical-warfare manufacturing facility at Rabta. Claiming that it could not have been done without the aid of photo intelligence from a U.S. KH spy satellite, Colonel Qaddafi had hurled threats of vengeance against the United States as well as Israel at the time, but, so far as was known, had not followed through. Now the Libyan colonel had suffered another blow, and the U.S. role was not a matter of conjecture.
The Soviet Union had provided Qaddafi with a dozen new Sukhoi Su-24 swing-wing fighter bombers, each capable of carrying up to 24,250 pounds of bombs. Even stationed at the air base at Bumbah, on the eastern seacoast of Libya, their 805-mile operational radius was insufficient to reach Israel. The Soviets, however, had mischievously provided Quaddafi with two Ilyushin I1–76 air-to-air refueling tankers. Using them, the Su-24s could reach London, let alone Israel.
Qaddafi had apparently tried for Israel. A flight of six Su-24 Fencers
had intruded on Israeli airspace. Three had been shot down immediately by Israeli fighters. The other three had jettisoned their bombs and fled west to link up with the two Ilyushin tankers, Israelis hot on their tails. The Ilyushin pilots, hearing all this going on over their radios and knowing the Israeli fighters had over twice the speed of their 500-mph tankers, panicked, made a 180-degree turn, and tried to escape.
The Israelis ignored the tankers and went after the Fencers,
who ran out of fuel and ditched at sea. The frightened Ilyushins ignored several warnings from a U.S. guided-missile frigate protecting the carrier U.S.S. John F. Kennedy that they should change course. The four-engine Ilyushins had the same radar signature as bombers. The U.S. frigate launched missiles and shot them down. Qaddafi had now lost half his Su-24 fleet and, more importantly, any long-range capability. He was certain the United States had done it purposely and promised a strike against the United States that would change history and avenge the honor of the Libyan people.
The Department of State discounted the threat as rhetoric for internal consumption but noted that U.S. antiterrorist forces had been placed on heightened alert.
Stone looked further through the paper, all the way to the back page. Nothing about the arrest of his client. Nothing about any protests at the Riegar plant. He was just folding up the newspaper when Stephanie Hannigan walked up.
Lemme see your paper,
she said.
Stone handed it over. Inartfully, Stone noted, Hannigan slipped some papers into the newspaper, pretended to look at it for a few moments, then handed it back to Stone.
What you do,
said Hannigan, is you go storming noisily into county court with a writ of habeas corpus laying out the facts and demanding access to your client immediately, followed by a hearing before a magistrate. Threaten to go to supreme court if the county court doesn’t order it done yesterday. What you have in the paper is a Xerox of our petition the last time they tried to pull that shit on the public defender. The court built the DA a new ass. Good luck.
Hannigan paused. Is she pretty?
I don’t know,
Stone said, I haven’t met her yet.
Hannigan looked up at Stone. Her eyes sparkled.
Congratulations, counselor,
she said, you’ve got the makings of a real criminal lawyer.
2
The slender hispanic male in his late twenties sat on a bench just inside the international terminal at John F. Kennedy airport in New York looking carefully over the top of an opened copy of The Wall Street Journal. His clothes were elegant. Everything, including the gleaming black leather shoes, was of Italian cut and manufacture. The man’s wristwatch was the epitome of taste, a Patek Philippe with a leather strap. No knowledgeable person would have questioned his presence in the lobby of the most exclusive hotel—except, perhaps, hotel security, to whom, unfortunately, he had recently become a bit too well known. The Patek had come from the wrist of a Swiss businessman checking into the Waldorf Towers.
Angel Garcia was a master pickpocket. A gypsy, he had been studying his craft since the age of six. He was a cannon.
He took but did not hold,
passing off almost instantly to an accomplice anything he had lifted with his extraordinarily skilled right hand.
This morning, his accomplice was an attractive gypsy woman of nineteen, her hair colored blond at one of Manhattan’s finest salons so as to look gloriously natural. A seductively cut dress that would distract the eye of any male not in a coma enabled her to do more than merely receive a handoff from her partner. The two of them knew a number of short routines, like plays out of a football coach’s playbook, to distract, decoy, or upset someone for just a moment—and a moment was all it took for Angel Garcia to work his magic.
Garcia checked the Patek. He had in his head the arrival schedule and had already clocked how long it took the first-class passengers, the first off the plane, to emerge from customs, immigration, and out the door into the general-population area of the terminal. Next up was British Airways’ Concorde supersonic transport direct from London.
Garcia preened. As effective as his partner, Magdalena, was at distracting men, Angel Garcia prided himself as being equally effective with women. He wasn’t, but he’d never have believed that, even from his mother, who was a gypsy princess.
Right on time, the doors from immigration burst open and the Concorde passengers headed for the street, to waiting limousines and taxicabs. Garcia scanned them. A thickset man in his early forties with thinning sandy hair and a hard jaw strode rapidly ahead of the others, clearly determined to get the first cab. He was wearing an expensive black capeskin leather trench coat. In his left hand, he carried with ease a well-crafted