Dirty Work (Stone Barrington 9)

She stood up, holding on to a bar to keep her balance. “You free for dinner this evening?” she asked.

“Not this evening or any evening,” Stone replied. “It’s dangerous to be around you.”

“Well, if we can make it less dangerous with this deal, maybe later.”

“Maybe later,” Stone said. But he didn’t mean it.

41

Stone went home and called Bob Cantor.

“Hey, Stone.”

“Hey, Bob. Where’s that nephew of yours?”

“Back running the photo processing equipment at the drugstore.”

“What happened to his business plans in Saint Thomas?”

“The boy is—how shall I put it?—mercurial.”

“You’re a master of understatement.”

“What’s up?”

“I want my house swept every day for a week. Can you manage the time?”

“Every day? What have you gotten yourself into?”

“Never mind. I just don’t want to be overheard while I’m doing it.”

“It’d help if I knew what sort of surveillance you’re worried about.”

“Phones, rooms, the works.”

“Who’s the opposition?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“If it’s some amateur, this is easy. If it’s a pro, or a group of pros, it’s going to be harder.”

“It’s a group of pros.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

Cantor turned up and began by checking the phone system. After an hour he came into Stone’s office, holding up something electronic-looking. “Your phones were bugged, big time,” he said, “and this is very sophisticated stuff.”

“How sophisticated?”

“They don’t have to have a van parked outside your house. This probably has a range of a mile, maybe two. They can leave a voice-activated recorder running and listen to your conversations whenever they get around to it. This device wasn’t bought at Radio Shack, or off the shelf anyplace else, come to that. This is custom-designed, custom-made, and it’s not a one-off, either. Whoever did this has quality manufacturing at his disposal. Who are these people?”

“An intelligence service.”

“Not ours, I hope. I don’t want to mess with those people.”

“It’s foreign.”

“How foreign? We’re not talking about Arabs, are we?”