Choppy Water (15 page)

As Stone’s G-500 pulled up to Jet Aviation at Teterboro, a three-car line of black SUVs rolled up to the wingtip. He turned to Holly. “Does the caravan mean you’re not coming back to my house?”

“How observant you are,” she said, pinching his cheek. “It’s better if I establish a routine at the Carlyle and my transition office. Don’t worry, I’ll soon long for your touch.”

“That can’t come soon enough for me.”

The stewardess opened the airstairs door and they parted at the bottom as Stone’s luggage was loaded into the Bentley and Fred stood by. Holly was followed to the SUVs by her luggage and a large stack of cardboard cartons, looking like an attorney going to a very complicated trial. Soon, they were both on their way to the city by different routes, Holly
via the George Washington Bridge, Stone via the Lincoln Tunnel.

Stone picked up the phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. I’m back from D.C. Dinner tonight at my place? I don’t feel like a restaurant.”

“As a matter of policy, I never turn down a free meal. Promise me a really good bottle of wine, and I’ll stay the night.”

“In that case, I’ll promise you a bottle of mediocre wine. Six-thirty?”

“Done.” Dino hung up.

Dino arrived on time and accepted a glass of his favorite Scotch in Stone’s study. “So, why don’t you feel like going to a restaurant? You eat nine of ten dinners out.”

Stone sighed. “I don’t know. Holly needed to be at the Carlyle, and I guess I wanted a more attractive date than you, if I were going to a restaurant. I have my reputation to think of.”

“Which you so rarely do. Are you falling in love with Holly?”

“I think I fell in love with her at first sight, some years ago, but she has been only periodically available since that time, and I have to have a sex life to survive.”

“I’m well aware. And Holly is an irregular lover?”

“Well put.”

“Did you enjoy your stay at the White House?”

“No.”

“Was the nation inattentive to your needs?”

“I prefer being the master in my own home to being a guest in the homes of others, even if my hosts are at the presidential level. Anyway, Holly was working like a beaver on policy papers and intelligence briefings. Oh, and there was an attempt on her life.”

Dino’s eyebrows went up. “Was that news report really about her?”

“Yes, except she wasn’t wounded. The Secret Service and the FBI had a dummy built and set up in front of a window.”

“How did the dummy do?”

“She took two in the head,” Stone replied. “And that through a window I would have presumed to be bulletproof.”

“Technology fails again.”

“Well, yes. So, where most people would keep their heads down after such an experience, Holly prefers being a moving target, with somewhat more Secret Service protection.”

“As the comedian Brother Dave Gardner used to say, ‘Everybody to his own kick.’”

“I believe he did.”

“So where does that leave you? Unfucked?”

“Until Holly can’t stand it anymore and bails out of the Carlyle.”

“Well, you’ve always considered yourself a serial monogamist, Stone. Someone usually turns up when you’re in need.”

“I’m uncomfortable with that, as long as Holly and I are in the same city.”

“So now you’re geographically monogamous?”

“For lack of a better term.”

Dinner arrived and they sat down and were served by Fred.

“It bothers me,” Stone said.

“That you’re geographically monogamous?”

“Yes. It’s a new experience.”

“Well, you could always surprise Holly at the Carlyle.”

Stone shook his head. “She’d be in the middle of interviewing a candidate for secretary of defense, or some such. I’d need an appointment to see her.”

“Sort of takes the thrill out of it, huh?”

“How do you handle Viv being gone so much?”

“I save up my energy and my precious bodily fluids for her return.”

“Would she mind if you saw someone else while she’s away?”

“Only if she knew about it. The woman is armed, you know.”

“There is that.”

“Anyway, I’m content with things as they are. If she were home all the time I’d be exhausted every morning, and my weight loss would make my suits too big. I couldn’t afford the alterations.”

After dinner they took chairs by the fireplace, and Stone poured them brandy. “I’m glad you don’t smoke cigars,” he said, handing Dino a snifter.

“Right back atcha. What would you do, if you met a highly desirable woman who smoked cigars?”

“Deny her access to the house,” Stone replied without hesitation. “And my body.”

“It’s going to be interesting to see how you handle Holly’s transition period,” Dino said. “And even more interesting after she takes office.”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Stone said.

“Well, after January 20 you’ll at least have solved the geographical monogamy issue.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Stone said. “Though the resolution will not be in my favor. I have already told her that I will
not
move into the White House.”

“But you will visit, occasionally?”

Stone shrugged. “I’ll probably keep a pinstriped suit and a tuxedo there.”

“Careful, Stone, you’re edging toward commitment.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay well back from the brink.”

“Surely, there are some advantages to living in the White House.”

“Well, let’s see: I’d be awakened in the middle of the night whenever she receives a phone call about an emergency. I can’t think of any others.”

“I understand the service is pretty good.”

“It’s better at my house,” Stone said.

There was a note on Tom Blake’s desk to call Mamie Short. He did so.

“Same as before?” she asked.

“Right. Five minutes.” They hung up and he walked downstairs to her conference room and locked the door behind him. “Good morning. Did you find out about Elroy Hubbard?”

“Well, I had a dream,” she said.

“Do I look like Sigmund Freud?”

“No, no cigar. It was more of what you might call a reality dream.”

“Spit it out, Mamie.”

“Did I ever tell you I was employed at the CIA for a couple of years?”

“No, but it’s in your file. You were unhappy there, I believe.”

“It was more like they were unhappy with me,” she said. “Anyway, during my training at the Farm, there was a black guy named Leroy Collins in my class. What I remember about him was that he was good at everything he did, and also he was a good cook. He specialized in Southern cooking, which he said he’d learned from his mother, and he made dinner for a bunch of us a couple of times.”

“So you think that Leroy Collins is now Elroy Hubbard?”

“I think it’s a good enough guess for you to check it out with the Agency before I spend any more time identifying him. Don’t you?”

“I’ll get back to you,” Tom said, then went back to his office and called the director of central intelligence, Lance Cabot.

“Good morning, Tom,” Lance said.

“Good morning, Lance.”

“I’ve got a meeting in half a minute, but if this is important, I’ll hold them at bay for you.”

“Thank you. I believe you have an operative imbedded with a white-supremacist group down in Virginia, posing as a retired Navy cook.”

Lance was silent while he apparently tried and failed to figure out why Tom had this information. “Anything is possible,” he said, finally.

“In that case, I have some information you might find interesting. Are you available for lunch?”

“I am, if we do it at Langley. Anyway, we have a better chef here than you do at the Bureau.”

“We don’t have a chef,” Tom replied.

“My very point. One o’clock?”

“See you then.”

They both hung up.

Tom was waved through the gate at Langley; he had been there before. He liked visiting the Agency; it was a brighter workplace than the Hoover building, and the people seemed smarter than most of his agents.

He was issued a visitor’s pass at the reception desk, and a uniformed guard walked him to the elevator and rode up with him to the executive floor. Lance’s secretary met him and walked him to a small sitting room adjacent to Lance’s office, where a table had been set for two. She inquired if he would like a drink, and he requested iced tea. He was halfway through the glass before Lance swept in.

“So sorry to be tardy, Tom, but there is always someone wanting to save lives and needing my permission.”

“I know the feeling,” Tom replied, shaking the offered hand.

Lance waved him to a seat at the table, where a cold soup had already been served. “Tom, I don’t mind telling you that I am deeply concerned that your people have unearthed our man in Virginia.”

“Relax, Lance,” Tom said. “He isn’t exactly blown, so you needn’t be worried.”

“Just what, exactly, does ‘isn’t exactly blown’ mean?”

“Well, and what a coincidence, we have an operative inside, as well.”

“How did Collins reveal himself to this gentleman?”

“He didn’t. And I may as well tell you, the gentleman is a lady. She’s been with the Bureau for twelve years, and her cover is that she’s secretary to a deputy attorney general.”

“Well, we seem to have our Colonel Sykes boxed, don’t we?” Lance said with obvious pleasure.

“I’m not sure about that,” Tom said.

“Why not? How many more people do we need on this?”

“Because we can’t prove he’s done what he’s done. At least not yet.”

“Well, we know he did the Maine murders.”

“Knowing is not the same as proving. At the Bureau, we have to do both.”

“How about this business at the White House earlier this week?”

“There are other problems there as well,” Tom said.

“I was afraid there might be,” Lance said. He picked up his soup by the two handles on the bowl and drank it down. “Go on, enlighten me further.”

“Not surprisingly, Sykes doesn’t trust your man because he’s black.”

“Is your agent white?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Not really.”

“Now what?”

“She’s told Sykes that she’s a lesbian—to keep his hands off her. And for Sykes, that’s at about the same level as being black.”

“Oh, dear. He’s not trusting either of them, then?”

“Correct.”

“What has your agent accomplished so far?”

“Well, she managed to get word to us that the White House event was upcoming, but communications from that compound are problematical, and her message was garbled. We managed to head them off, though. We set up a dummy in a window, and they took that out.”

“Oh, good.”

“But we still can’t prove anything. We don’t even have enough for a search warrant, and now they know that Holly is still alive.”

“Has your girl made contact with Collins?”

“Yes, but they don’t know each other’s identities.”

“Well, as long as we both have people there we ought to arrange for them to work together, ought we not?”

“We ought.”

“How should we accomplish that?”

“Let’s each send a message to our respective operative, tell him or her who the other is, and ask them to have a heart-to-heart talk,” Tom said.

“What name is your operative using?” Lance asked, pen poised over his notebook.

“Bess Potts.”

“And her actual name?”

“Elizabeth Potter.”

“Consider it done,” Lance said.

“I’ll inform Elizabeth at the first opportunity.”

“All right, then.”

Lance’s secretary came into the room. “Director, I’m afraid . . .”

“Say no more,” Lance said, rising. “Tom, I’m needed. Finish your lunch at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Lance,” Tom said, rising and shaking his hand.

Lance fled.

Tom stopped at a fast-food restaurant on the way back to his office and had a burger.

Tom was still on the road back to D.C. when his phone rang.

“A.D. Blake?”

“Yes.”

“The director for you.”

“All right.”

There was a click. “Tom?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you?”

“On the way in from Langley. I had lunch with Lance Cabot, sort of.”

“The Secret Service detail for our boss-to-be has requested a meeting in New York. There’s a chopper waiting for you on the pad. It may be overnight.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll let Bill Wright know. You’re meeting at a house in Turtle Bay.” He gave the address. “It belongs to Stone Barrington, whom I think you’ve met.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A car will meet you at the East Side Heliport.”

“Thank you, sir.”

But the director had already hung up.

Tom called home and Amanda answered. “Hey, there.”

“Hi, what’s up?”

“I have to go to New York for a couple of days.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say on the phone. Will you pack me a bag, and I’ll tell you when I get there.”

“Sure. How much stuff?”

“A suit and a blazer and three of everything else. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hung up.

Amanda was standing in the driveway, next to a suitcase, when he pulled up. She tossed it into the rear seat, then got in up front. “Okay, why?”

“The Secret Service has requested a meeting on the subject of Holly Barker.”

“What else?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Well, shoot! I wanted more than that.”

“Think of it this way: you won’t have to keep any secrets.”

“I
like
knowing secrets.”

“I’ll tell you everything when I get back.”

“Oh, all right.”

He kissed her and reversed out of the driveway. A half hour later he was on a helicopter to New York.

When he landed, to Tom’s astonishment, Bill Wright was standing on the helipad, leaning on a Bentley. A minute later they were underway.

“Clearly, Bill,” Tom said, “I’m working for the wrong federal agency.”

“The car belongs to Stone Barrington, and this is his driver, Fred.”

“Hello, Fred.”

“Sir, welcome aboard,” Fred replied. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Stone and I thought it would be preferable to conduct our business at his house, rather than flock to the Carlyle, where Ms. Barker is residing.”

“Oh? From what I saw at the White House, I thought they were occupying the same bed.”

“Well, yes, when she can get away. That will all have to change after she’s inaugurated, of course. But until then, I have to employ persuasion to keep her alive.”

“I should think that’s how you’ll have to do it when she’s living in the White House, too,” Tom said.

“Perhaps I can train her a little.”

“Good luck with that.”

They drove into a garage and got out of the car. “Fred
will put your bag in your room,” Bill said. “We’re meeting in Stone’s office. This way.”

Stone looked up to see the two federal agents walk into his office. He offered them seats and coffee.

“Your meeting, Bill,” he said, when they were situated.

“Sykes is on the move,” Bill said, “and we don’t know where.”

Tom set his briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out his laptop. “Give me a moment, and I’ll tell you where they are,” he said.

“You’ve got a tracer on them?”

“One on Sykes’s Ford Explorer, another on their van.” He kept typing. “Ah, here we are,” he said. “Both vehicles are driving north on the interstate.”

“Sounds like they’re heading for New York,” Bill said.

“Well, we got here first.”

“Suppose they are headed here?” Stone said. “What’s your plan?”

“I don’t have one,” Tom said. “An hour ago, I didn’t know I was headed here. Bill, what’s
your
plan?”

“My plan is to move Peregrine back to this house.”

“Peregrine?”

“That’s our service’s temporary code name. Perhaps when she’s in office we’ll come up with something more elegant.”

“I like your plan,” Stone said. “We can put up you and Claire, too.”

“We accept with thanks,” Bill said. “Excuse me a moment.” He got out his phone and pressed a button. “Ma’am, what time will you be finished at the transition office? Very good. I’m afraid we’re going to have to move you to the Barrington house for the night—maybe more than one. Claire can pick up whatever you need from the Carlyle. I’ll explain later. Yes, ma’am.” He hung up. “She was surprisingly willing to make the move.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Stone said. “Now, what’s your plan?”

“To secure her in this house,” Bill replied. “After that it will depend on where she has to be and when. There’s no telling. Also we have to divine the intentions of Colonel Sykes.”

Tom spoke up. “I should tell you both, in the strictest confidence, that we have an operative in Sykes’s group.”

“Very good!” Wright said.

“I should also tell you that the CIA has one there, too.”

“A wealth of riches,” Stone said.

“Not exactly,” Tom said. “Communications are difficult, and I don’t even know yet if the CIA plant has been told about our agent. We have to wait to hear from one or both of them.”

“Is one of them in Sykes’s car?”

“We don’t know, but we doubt that Elroy Hubbard is. That’s the cover name for Sykes’s cook.”

“Then we’ll wait,” Stone said.