by Stuart Woods
“Did you take it away from her?”
“I tried.”
“Okay, I’ll have that conversation with her.”
“Somebody should. She strikes me as the sort who would use it if she felt the need.”
“She strikes me the same way.”
“And she may have the need,” Cantor said.
“You ran Kevin Keyes’s name?”
“Yep, and I came up with three arrests for incidents of domestic abuse, in one of which a gun got waved around. That was the last one, when he was living with Pat Frank.”
“Who did the waving?”
“He did.”
“Convictions?”
“None. He agreed to take an anger management course after the third one and did a few hours of community service.”
“Did they revoke his carry license?”
“Nope.”
“Figures.”
“It’s Kansas, what can I tell you?”
“Any other concerns, Bob?”
“I talked her into letting me put a really good camera covering the front door. She can check it on a screen in the entryway coat closet before she buzzes anybody in. Trouble is, an intruder could ring any of the rental apartment bells and get buzzed in, if the renter doesn’t take the time to communicate with the one buzzing, or if they’re expecting someone and assume that the one buzzing is their guest, and just buzz ’em in.”
“Maybe Pat should have screens installed in the three apartments.”
“Pat doesn’t know her renters yet, and she’s uncomfortable with asking them to have a screen installed in their apartments. She doesn’t want to frighten them. I offered to frighten them for her, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“Maybe I’ll write them a letter saying that someone has been troubling the landlord and not to admit anyone unless they know for sure who’s at the door.”
“Good idea, if you can talk her into it.”
“She’s coming over to dinner tonight. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good luck, buddy.”
Stone’s bell rang at the stroke of seven. He tapped a code into his computer, and the screen showed Pat, in color and high definition, waiting at the door. He pressed a button to start a video, then he pressed another button. “Yes? Who is it?”
“How many people could it be?” she asked.
“There are eight million stories in the naked city,” he replied. “You could be any one of them.”
“Would you rather I go home and sulk?”
“I’m in the study.” He pressed the buzzer, and she came in. A minute later, she appeared in the doorway, and he motioned her over to his desk and played the video, with sound.
“Wow,” she breathed. “Can I do that with my system?”
“If you take the trouble to read the manual. I can do that with any outside door and inside the garage, as well. And the three people who live in the house next door—my secretary, my housekeeper, and Fred—can do the same thing. You should give your renters the same equipment, or one night they’ll inadvertently buzz in somebody who’s not delivering Chinese food or pizza.”
“You’ve been talking to Bob Cantor.”
“I certainly have.” He got up from his desk and poured them both a Knob Creek.
“I just don’t want to spend the money to put the equipment in the rental apartments.”
“You’ve been given a free building, but you don’t want to spend a few grand to secure it? If you don’t, then one fine night one of your tenants will buzz in the wrong person, and all the money you’ve spent on Bob Cantor’s services will be for naught. And worse, you’ll probably end up shooting the guy, and you will not believe how much trouble you’d be in and how much it would cost you to get out of it.”
“Are you going to give me the lecture about my gun?”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy, you’re in the Emerald City, where the local powers frown on the possession of firearms.”
“And I can’t get a carry license here?”
“Nope, not unless you can demonstrate that you regularly walk around in possession of large sums of cash or a briefcase full of diamonds. I can help you get a license to take your weapon to a firing range in the city, which is also a license to have it in your apartment, but you can’t carry it anywhere, except to the range. How about that?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll have Joan get the application sent to you, but remember this: the first thing you have to learn about possessing a firearm is to never, never shoot anybody.”
“What if he’s shooting at me?”
“Maybe if he’s already hit you.”
“Oh, great!”
“All right, let’s say you shoot the guy under perfectly legal circumstances: you then call nine-one-one, ask for the police, tell them there’s been a shooting and to send two ambulances.”
“Why two?”
“One for him and one for you. You must remember that you’re going to be in terrible, terrible shape, knowing that you’ve shot another human being. Spend at least one night in the hospital getting over it. That will impress the assistant DA, who will be assigned to decide whether to prosecute you.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that.”
“And your second call will be to me. I’ll get there before the ambulance takes you away. And, in the unlikely event that the cops arrive before I do, I want you sitting down with the gun unloaded and the slide locked back and at the other end of the coffee table from you. Cops don’t really want to shoot people—not many of them, anyway—but they know that if they enter a room and see a person dead on the floor and another person holding a firearm, they can pretty much shoot first and ask questions later, and you don’t want to put armed cops in that position.”
Pat took a swig of her bourbon. “And why are you going on and on about this?”
“Because I’ve had a look at Kevin Keyes’s arrest record.”
“You mean that incident when I threw him out of the house and he objected?”
“That incident and the two before it with other women.”
She set down her glass. “What other women?”
“Does it matter? You were his third strike, and he’s still not out.”
“Good God.”
“And now, it’s time you told me all about him.”
16
STONE CLEARED AWAY the dinner plates and poured them both a glass of old Armagnac. She had been telling him the sorry details of her relationship with Kevin Keyes—his drinking, womanizing, and tendency to get physical when angry.
“Okay,” Pat said, “now you get to ask the question.”
“You mean the one about how a smart woman can get so involved with such a sorry shit?”
“That’s the one. Only he wasn’t a sorry shit all the time. We had fun together: he was smart and witty and had great charm, on his good days.”
“And I’ve already heard about the bad days. My concern is that you haven’t seen his worst days yet—those are yet to come.”
“Why do you think that?”
Stone’s cell phone rang, and he checked the caller ID before answering. “Excuse me, this is about you. Evening, Bob.”
“Sorry to call at dinnertime,” Cantor said, “but I thought you’d want to know.”
“Tell me.”
“I did a little under-the-table computer searching this evening, and Kevin Keyes is registered at a hotel in Times Square. He’s been here for three days, and he booked in for a week. He’s also got a rented Nissan Altima in the hotel’s garage.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s it for the moment. How did she take the lecture?”
“Better than I had hoped. You can go ahead and install the video equipment in the tenants’ apartments. You’d better drop th
em a note to let them know when you’re coming.”
“Will do. See ya.” Bob hung up.
“I’m sorry, you asked me a question,” Stone said.
“Why do you think Kevin’s worst days are yet to come?”
“Ah, yes, that question. Here’s your answer: old Kevin has checked into a Times Square hotel, booking in for a week, and he has a rental car at his disposal.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Exactly. Was he in the same armed pilots program as you?”
“Yes.”
“And he still has the gun.”
“He has several guns.”
“Swell.”
“Maybe he has some perfectly good reason for being in New York,” Pat suggested.
“Is that why he spent yesterday evening parked a couple of doors from your house? For some perfectly good reason?”
“Why must you put the worst possible slant on every little thing Kevin does? You don’t know him.”
“I know him better than you do,” Stone said.
“Oh? How’s that?”
“I’ve known half a dozen women with exes who didn’t like getting dumped, no matter how badly they had behaved. These men tended to think of themselves as being in the right, and the women, always, in the wrong. They thought of themselves not as husbands or boyfriends, but as owners of their women. Does that have a familiar ring?”
She said nothing.
“Do you think Kevin won’t harm you because he loves you?”
“I think that, yes.”
“Men like this, when they’re caught after harming a woman, nearly always give love as their motive. They seem to think that love is an exculpatory emotion for a serious felony, even for murder.”
“He’s completed an anger management course since I last saw him,” she said. “The judge made him. Maybe it took.”
“And you think he traveled all the way from Wichita to New York to tell you he’s not angry anymore?”
“He’s not going to tell me anything—I’m not going to see him.”
“He’s not going to give you a choice,” Stone said. “Tell me, does he have any money?”
“A tiny pension from the airline. He picks up an occasional charter flight.”
“So he’s just bought himself a week at an expensive hotel, when, more than likely, he can’t even afford the garage for his rented car. He’s probably maxed out his credit cards getting here, and I’m willing to bet he bought a one-way ticket.”
“He can’t carry a gun on an airplane,” she said.
“Yes he can, if he registers it and keeps it in his checked luggage. Or maybe he got a deadhead charter job to Teterboro. Nobody searches luggage at a general aviation airport.”
“You’re scaring me,” she said.
“Good, I’ve been trying hard to do just that. If I’m right, then he’s a man with nothing more to lose. And that makes him dangerous.”
“All right,” she said resignedly. “What do you want me to do?”
“Move in with me for a few days. I’ll have Fred, who has a carry license, take you home in the morning so you can pack a couple of bags.”
“I’ve got a new business to run,” she said.
“Have the phone company refer your calls here. We’ll dedicate a line to Pat Frank’s Flight Department. There’s even an office downstairs you can use.”
“All right, I surrender. I’ll take this seriously.”
“Hearing that is a great relief,” Stone said.
17
HOLLY FILED into the Cabinet room for her second president’s intelligence briefing. Kate Lee joined them. “Do we have anything on yesterday’s item about a terrorist infiltration?”
Lance Cabot stood. “Yes, Madam President. As you recall, we sent out requests to locate the top twenty Al Qaeda subjects. We have reports back that place seventeen of them in various broadly defined areas—south Yemen, eastern Afghanistan, northern Pakistan, and the like.”
“And the other three?”
Lance wielded a remote control and three photographs appeared on a large screen. “We apologize for the quality of these pictures, but they’re the best we have.” The names appeared under the photographs. “All of these men are active in contriving plots against us around the world. All three speak fluent English—two of them from having attended Eton College, in England, one having attended the University of California at Berkeley. As you can see, they all have full beards and are wearing the native dress of Mideast regions, so a clean shave and a change of clothing would make them substantially unidentifiable at points of entry into the United States.”
“Won’t the latest facial recognition program work?” Kate asked.
“Our software requires a distinct photograph for comparison, and as you can see, these photos are too indistinct to be useful.”
“What about photographs from their time in English and American schools?”
“We have been unable to locate any photographs of them from that or any other period,” Lance replied.
“But you believe that one of these men is our infiltrator?”
“All three certainly qualify for that distinction. Of course, that does not exclude many other male Middle Easterners, but their placement in the Al Qaeda hierarchy, their language skills, their past behavior, and the lack of any distinct photographs of them make them our three most likely suspects. Of course, all the agencies are combing their records for any other helpful information, but this is what we have now.”
“I want this to be the first matter presented at all future intelligence briefings until we have resolution,” Kate said.
—
AS THE MEETING broke up, Holly fell into step with Lance. “Will you e-mail me those three photographs and the files on these men?” she asked.
“Of course. You’ll have them by lunchtime. How are you enjoying the West Wing, Holly?”
“It’s too soon to tell,” Holly replied. She waved goodbye and left him to return to her office.
Later that morning the photos and files arrived on her computer. She called in Millie. “I have an assignment for you,” she said.
Millie turned over a leaf of her steno pad and waited to be told. Holly called up the three photographs. “One of these men may have entered the United States with the intention of carrying out a terrorist plot, probably in Washington.”
“Very bad photographs,” Millie replied.
“They’re the only ones available.” She brought Millie up to date on what they knew. “I want you to make it your first priority to track the investigation of these three until we have evidence that will help us locate them. We will be getting daily updates from all the intelligence agencies that should add to our knowledge. I can’t devote myself to this full-time, that’s why I’m devoting you to it. Their files are attached to their photographs. Get to know them as you would a new boyfriend that you suspect of being a complete shit, and keep me posted as often as you get usable intelligence.” Holly typed a few keystrokes. “Everything is now on your computer.”
“How long ago were these men at their respective schools?” Millie asked.
“I don’t know—you find out.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Millie replied, and left the room.
18
FRED FLICKER TUCKED Pat Frank into the rear seat of the Bentley and used his remote control to open the garage door. “How are you today, Ms. Frank?” he asked.
“Very well, thank you, Fred.”
“I understand you’ve had a bit of bovver wif a gentleman,” Fred said, lapsing into his native Cockney for a moment.
“Well, your boss seems to think so. Nothing’s happened yet.”
“I understand,” Fred said. “Prevention is the best cure.”
“He believes that to be so.”
“Could you
describe the gentleman for me?”
“Six-one, two-twenty, heavily muscled, thick, dark hair going gray.”
“May I ask, how did the gentleman come to be heavily muscled?”
“He was always a gym rat,” she replied, “but a couple of years ago he really got into the bodybuilding thing.”
“I see. Tell me, do you think he might have been using steroids?”
“It crossed my mind,” she said. “It all seemed to happen pretty fast. He spent an inordinate amount of time at the gym.”
“Does he use drugs?” Fred asked.
“He has, from time to time. I insisted that he stop it, if he wanted to be with me.”
“Did he use cocaine?”
“That was his drug of choice.”
“Oh, dear,” Fred muttered to himself.
“How’s that?”
“Sorry, just thinking aloud.” He stopped the car. “Please wait until I’ve had a look around before you get out,” he said. He opened the car door, stood on the sill, to make up for his short stature, and had a look down the block and at the cars parked nearby, then he opened the rear door. “Let’s get you inside,” he said.
Fred followed her to the door and waited until she had unlocked it. “Mr. Barrington has asked me to deliver security alert letters to your tenants, so with your permission, I’ll find meself a parking spot, then I’ll slip them under their doors and come back here,” he said. “Please lock yourself in.” He gave her a card with his cell phone number. “Ring, if you need me for anything at all. I’ll come back in an hour or so and help you with your luggage.”
“Have a good time, Fred,” she said, then closed the door behind her.
Fred got back into the Bentley and circled the block, taking a look at every car, but watching for a Nissan Altima, as his boss had instructed. He didn’t see one, but he found a good parking spot with a view of Ms. Frank’s door, then returned to the building to deliver the letters.
He rang the bell, and she buzzed him in, then opened her door. “Fred, can you come here for a moment, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Fred replied, and went to her. “How may I help you?”
