“It’s nice not to have Mozart breathing down my neck,” Stone admits.
Kiick laughs uneasily, looks nervously around at the passengers behind them. “Listen, Stone, you did me a good turn once”—Kiick is speaking quickly now, almost as if he wants to get it over with as soon as he can—“and I owe you one.”
Stone glances at Kiick, only mildly interested.
“It’s like this,” says Kiick. “Someone’s after your scalp. They’re putting together a dossier—they’ve got film, they’ve got tapes—of you selling NATO stuff to that Russian in the Grand Vefour.”
Stone stops in his tracks. “But you know that was an operation.”
“I have your word for it,” Kiick says, “and I believe you.” He mops his neck again. “You got the authorization in writing?”
They both know the answer; authorizations of this kind are always verbal.
“You were in on it,” says Stone, starting to walk again. “You can prove it was an operation—you can tell them what happened to the money.”
“They found the money, Stone,” Kiick says. “In Zurich. In a numbered account that’s been traced back to you.”
Over the loudspeaker system, a female voice announces in French, English and Turkish the imminent departure of Air France flight 613 to Istanbul. Stone looks at Kiick without seeing him, then turns toward the desk to present his ticket.
Kiick says, “I almost forgot why I came here. The embassy heard you were going to check out the lay of the land in Istanbul. They asked, as long as you were going, would you mind taking this along with you.” Kiick unlocks the thin gold-colored bracelet around his wrist and offers Stone the diplomatic pouch. “Save them a courier run, if you know what I mean.”
To Stone, it is suddenly just another solution. “
On my side, there are limits
An echo of his own voice comes back to mock him, to haunt him. “
You crossed. We wouldn’t
Frowning as if he has confirmed the absence of a great scheme of things, he snaps the bracelet onto his wrist and turns his back on Kiick.