JORAM GLANCED UP from the computer. “A line went dead.”
“Which one?” Fahd said.
“Lance Cabot.”
“Shit! When you say dead, you don’t mean the phone’s just been turned off?”
“No, sir. Either the battery has been removed or the line has been disconnected. It could come on again, but we have no way of knowing if or when.”
“What about the other one?”
“Billy Barnett? That line is still open, but inactive. There have been no calls on it since yesterday.”
Fahd was frustrated—it seemed as if his primary sources of vital information might be drying up.
“Did you get anything else on Stone Barrington?”
“Yes, sir. The man has so many interests that more information is coming in all the time. He is a lawyer with many irons in the fire. He is a partner with Woodman & Weld, yet he operates alone out of his own town house. He is also a member of a five-man group of lawyers who handle a few elite clients, including the President of the United States.”
“Really?”
“He owns several houses, including an English country manor, and is the owner or co-owner of a string of high-end hotels. He also owns and flies his own jet plane.”
“What kind?”
“I’m researching that now. But he keeps it at the airfield in Teterboro, New Jersey.”
Fahd snatched up the phone and called his contact in New York. “Is your man staking out Stone Barrington’s house?”
“Yes, he is. So far there’s been no movement.”
“Stone Barrington owns a jet. It’s at Teterboro airport. Keep monitoring flight reservations, but be advised our quarry may head for Teterboro.”
“Do you want him stopped there?”
“No, just confirm the takeoff. We’ll pick him up in Paris.”
Fahd slammed down the phone and turned to the techie at the computer. “Still dead?”
Joram, wearing headphones, wasn’t sure what he’d been asked. It barely registered that Fahd was talking to him. “Sir?”
“Lance Cabot’s line. Is it still dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fahd snatched up the phone again and called his contact in D.C. “We have a problem with your agent.”
“What about her?”
“I think her cover may be blown.”