by Stuart Woods
“You see,” Harry said, “that took only forty minutes. It’s not like we have to be somewhere. There’s nobody to photograph until tomorrow.”
“There’s the grounds,” Kelli said.
“Somebody else is doing that,” Harry said. “I’m not a landscapist.”
Kelli finally wilted before the wisdom of one of the world’s great photojournalists. “All right,” she said, “I’ll settle for a cold beer.”
The van moved off up the hill and finally stopped in front of the reception building. Clair Albritton was there to meet them. “Hello, Kelli, sorry about security. A warning: if you leave the grounds, you’ll have to go through all that again when you return.” She spread a map on the hood of the van and gave Kelli and Harry a briefing on the layout of the hotel.
“Where are you going to want to put the lights, Harry?” Kelli asked.
“Lights? We’re not going to need any lights that aren’t handheld. This place is too big, and there are too many people to do setups. I’m going to be working on the fly. Don’t worry about it, dear, it’s not my first time.”
Everybody got back into the van, and they followed a cart with Clair and the two bellmen down the hill to a two-story building. Clair got out and began instructing the bellmen. “Kelli, you and Harry have the two ground-floor rooms. Your assistants are upstairs in two other rooms.”
“We don’t have suites?” Kelli asked. She had become accustomed to suites.
“The suites are all reserved for the people you’ve come here to photograph and interview,” Clair said. “We could have let them all three times over.”
“It’s fine, Kelli,” Harry said. “We could be in a motel somewhere, you know.”
“What about interiors?” Kelli asked.
“Architectural Digest is already here, photographing some suites, the restaurants, and the rest of the grounds,” Clair said.
“How many other journalists are here?”
“A dozen or so. A fellow from a London paper is next door to you. Most of them are nearby.”
“Why do I feel we’re being quarantined?” Kelli asked.
Clair laughed. “Kelli, you have free run of the grounds and the public buildings. What more do you want?”
“A suite,” Kelli muttered. “Where is Stone Barrington staying?”
“He has his own house,” Clair replied. “And all the rooms are full.”
“Where is it?”
“Through the reception building, out the back door, and around the pool. But don’t go up there unless you call first—it’s next door to the presidential cottage, and the Secret Service will be all over you.” She handed Kelli a thick envelope. “Here are your hotel press passes. You and your people must wear them at all times.”
Kelli opened the envelope and found hers, with the word MEDIA emblazoned across it below her photograph. “You’re belling the cat, are you?”
“Our guests have the right to know when they’re talking to a reporter,” Clair said. “Remember, you’re to wear that, prominently displayed, at all times, otherwise we’ll have a problem.”
“Got it,” Kelli said. “Thanks for all your help, Clair.”
“Your bar is fully stocked,” Clair said, “compliments of the house.” She got into a cart and drove away. As she did, another cart came down the path, stopped, and a man got out. He was immaculately dressed and quite handsome, even if bald.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “If you’re bunking here, I take it you’re press.” He offered his hand. “I’m Hamish McCallister. I’m just next door.” He pointed at the door next to Harry’s. “Hello, Harry, how are you?”
“Good grief, Hamish, you came all this way?” They shook hands and embraced.
“Good God, I’m surrounded by Scots!” Kelli said.
“Lucky girl,” Hamish replied. “Can I buy anybody a beer?”
“Sold,” Kelli said, following the two men into Hamish’s quarters. She looked around. “It’s a fucking suite,” she said. “How’d you do that?”
“Charm,” Hamish replied.
“You didn’t think of that, did you, Kelli?” Harry asked.
Kelli peeked into the bedroom. “My word!” she said. “You travel with a steamer trunk?”
Hamish closed the bedroom door and handed her a drink. “Wardrobe is so important, don’t you think?”
Kelli took the beer. “I’d be a happy woman if I could travel with a steamer trunk,” she said.
41
Late in the afternoon, Stone and Mike were having a drink in Stone’s study, when Special Agent Steve Rifkin appeared.
“The search is still under way,” he said. “I’ve got seventy men combing every nook and cranny of this property.” He set his briefcase on the coffee table and took out a stack of paper. “One good thing: the bell captain keeps a log of every piece of luggage that his men have delivered to any suite or room. It’s meant to resolve lost luggage issues, but it’s a stroke of luck for us.”
Stone and Mike each took a sheet from the stack. “And this is accurate?”
“It is, and here’s the good news. There’s not a single piece of luggage bigger than a large suitcase, and we’ve checked every one of those so far. There are no large boxes and no trunks, and from this point on, every piece of luggage arriving here will be opened and hand-searched, and if there are any trunks, they’ll be subject to radiation checks before they’re opened. We have a very well-equipped bomb squad on site, and they’ll stay through the entire weekend.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Stone said.
Rifkin’s cell phone rang, playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” “Special Agent Rifkin.” His face drained of expression, and he hung up. “They’ve found a bomb,” he said.
Stone and Mike stood up.
“Not you, me,” Rifkin said.
“I’m in charge of hotel security,” Mike reminded him, “and Stone is a member of the board. Let’s go.”
Rifkin shrugged and led the two outside to a cart, and they were driven away.
“Where is the bomb?” Mike asked.
“In a wine and liquor storage area behind the restaurant,” he said. After another minute’s drive the cart stopped, and Rifkin led the way past a dozen agents into the building, then into a large room with wine racks on three sides and shelving on the other. Thousands of bottles of wine and spirits were in the racks and shelves, and there was a large pile of cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor, all opened. A man in a heavy, helmeted suit was examining a small suitcase on top of a stack of boxes. He did something to it, and the lid fell open, exposing a metal panel.
“Oh, shit,” Rifkin said under his breath.
The suited man reached into the case and came out with an object, then he noticed the crowd behind him. “Get the fuck out of here, all of you!” he yelled. His voice was muffled by the helmet. “We’ve got a couple of pounds of plastique here, and I want every human being at least a hundred yards from this building!”
“Turn on your radio, Jim!” Rifkin yelled, then he started hustling everybody out of the room. He, Stone, and Mike got into the cart and headed back up the hill, where they parked behind the reception building. Rifkin picked up his radio. “Jim? Do you read?”
“Yeah, I read,” Jim replied. “I’m going to need a few minutes to go over this thing and try and figure out how to deal with it.”
“Is there a timer?”
“Yeah, but it’s not running,” he replied. “If it starts running, I’m running, too. I’ll get back to you.”
The three men sat in the cart silently for a couple of minutes. Finally, Mike spoke. “This one isn’t nuclear,” he said. “Too small.”
“I agree,” Rifkin replied.
“I hope you both know what you’re talking about,” Stone said.
Rifkin spoke up. “I did a week’s intensive course on bomb making and disposal,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you exactly how this one is put together.”
“Okay, shoot,” Stone said.<
br />
“It’s pretty simple: there’s a timer attached to a detonator, like a blasting cap, which is shoved into the plastique. Somebody starts the timer, and when it hits zero, the detonator goes off, exploding the plastique. If there’s a couple of pounds of the stuff, like Jim says, it will take down that entire building and damage others nearby, and it will kill nearly everybody in the building.”
“Nearly everybody?” Stone asked.
“Somebody always gets lucky.”
The radio crackled. “Steve?”
“I’m here, Jim.”
“Okay, I’ve isolated the plastique, and the device doesn’t seem to be booby-trapped. There’s a T-shaped key with a hexagonal tip, like a drill bit, and there are three positions: up, right, and left. I can’t tell which position fires it, so I’m going to try them all.”
“Jim . . .”
“Don’t worry, it’s just a blasting cap—the plastique is across the room. Stand by.”
A moment later there was a noise like a large firecracker.
Jim came back on the radio. “I found the firing position,” he said. “You can come back in now.”
They took the cart down the hill again, got out, and went inside. Jim had taken his helmet off, and there was a large black spot covering the chest of his suit. “It’s simple,” he said, “but very professionally made.” He held up the key, then inserted it into a slot. “Neutral position, off,” he said, then he turned the key. “Right position, timer.” He tapped a keypad, and the timer started to run. Jim turned the key all the way to the left. “Left position, immediate detonation. Suicide.”
Rifkin took the key from him and examined it. “I could make this in my home shop,” he said.
“You could make the whole device in your home shop,” Jim replied. He closed the small case, picked it up, then walked to the cube of plastique and picked it up. “I want to get this back to my shop and take it apart,” he said. Then one toe of the heavy suit caught the corner of a box, and he stumbled. The plastique flew from his hand and landed on the tile floor. “Oops,” he said. “Don’t worry, guys; it needs a detonator to blow.”
“That wasn’t funny, Jim,” Rifkin said.
An agent came over. “Boss,” he said, “we’ve finished our search. The bomb was in a wooden wine crate, and we’ve opened every other crate or box in the room.”
“What about the rest of the hotel?” Rifkin asked.
“We’re done—every conceivable hiding place.”
“Okay, stand down and tell the crew to go home but to remain on call. Nobody turns off his cell phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rifkin led Stone and Mike back to the cart, and they started up the hill, then stopped at Stone’s cottage.
“Steve, can I offer you a drink?” Stone asked.
“I wish I could, Stone, but I’m not having a drink until this weekend is over and both presidents are on their respective airplanes.”
Mike spoke up. “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” he said.
“What?” Rifkin asked.
“That’s only one bomb—there could be two more.”
“Maybe,” Rifkin said, “but not in this hotel. And if another one shows up, we’ll find it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mike said. They got out of the cart, and Rifkin reached into his pocket. “Here’s a present for you,” he said, handing the bomb key to Mike, then he drove away.
“I hope he’s right, too,” Stone said.
42
Holly Barker had been working almost nonstop since her arrival in L.A., assisting Kate Lee during the security discussions with President Vargas and Mexico’s head of national intelligence. The only break she had had was drinks at Stone’s cottage on the evening of her arrival. Now everybody had initialed the draft of the security agreement, and it was being edited and translated for signing at the closing ceremony. Holly wanted out of the presidential cottage. She called Stone’s cell number.
“Yes?”
“It’s Holly.”
“How are you? I haven’t seen you since cocktails.”
“I’ve been working eighteen hours a day, and I am now experiencing an extreme case of cabin fever.”
“Sounds like what you need is a change of cabins.”
“That and at least one drink, followed by, ah, exercise.”
“Is now too soon?”
“Nope.”
“Come through the garden gate—it will be open, as will the French doors to my suite.”
Stone put down the book he had been trying to read, Chernow’s biography of George Washington, and checked the little bar for the proper ingredients, which were a bottle of Knob Creek and ice.
There was a scratch on the French doors, and Holly swept in. “Hallelujah!” she exclaimed. “Free again.” She lavished a kiss on Stone for half a minute, then broke. “Bourbon whiskey, please,” she said, kicking off her shoes.
Stone poured two and handed her one.
“To the completion of negotiations,” she said, raising her glass.
“Congratulations,” Stone replied, and they each took a large bite of bourbon. “All done?”
“It’s being prepared for signatures as we speak,” she said. “I can’t say the same for the presidents’ discussions, but I understand there are only a couple of sticking points.”
“How much time have you got?” he asked, kissing her on the neck and scratching a nipple.
“An hour and three minutes before I have to attend a video intelligence briefing from Langley with my mistress.”
“Then let’s not waste any of it,” Stone said. Seconds later they were in bed and in each other’s arms.
“I’m surprised Felicity Devonshire is over here, sniffing around,” Holly said.
“Jealousy? I like that. Don’t you like her?”
“She’s just a little too perfect,” Holly said, feeling for him. “Never a hair out of place.”
“An admirable quality,” Stone observed, growing in her hand.
“And one that I should cultivate?” Holly asked, archly.
“Nah, I like a hair out of place now and then.”
Holly rolled him onto his back and mounted him. “Aaaaah,” she breathed, “that’s where you belong.”
“No argument here,” he replied, thrusting. “Have you noticed that each of us still has a glass of bourbon in hand?”
“Then this is a first,” she said, taking a gulp.
Stone raised his head and managed to get a swallow down without spilling it. “An historic moment,” he said. Stone held his chilly glass against a breast.
“Yipe!”
“Sorry.” He raised his head again and warmed the nipple in his mouth.
“That’s better.” She reached behind her and took his testicles in her glass-chilled hand.
“Wow!” Stone said, and he felt a climax rising. “If you’re going to come with me, you’d better do it now.”
“I’m with you,” she said, then they both experienced the ecstatic paroxysms of orgasm. Finally, she leaned down and kissed him again. “And we didn’t spill a drop,” she said, polishing off the drink.
Stone finished his and they rolled sideways without separating. “This is good,” he said.
“It doesn’t get any better,” she replied. “Gone are long hours of discussing cross-border intelligence exchanges.” She contracted her abdominal muscles, squeezing him.
“Oh! Do that forty or fifty more times.”
“I’m afraid I’m spent,” she replied.
“I’m well spent,” he said. “Normally sex renders me unconscious, but I have the sneaking suspicion that more is going to be expected of me.”
“More, more, more,” she said.
“Don’t I get some recovery time?”
“As I recall, you’ve never needed much.” She squeezed him again.
“I think I’m getting the message,” he said.
“Then, like the song says, ‘Do it again.’”
An
d he did.
43
Scarcely a hundred yards away, another couple was locked in an unconscious duplication of Stone’s and Holly’s actions.
Kelli Keane and Hamish McCallister lay, panting, in his bed. After her departure from Harry, at Hamish’s whispered invitation, Kelli had returned. It had taken them less than half an hour to complete the seduction ritual before leaping into bed, and now they were entirely satisfied with each other.
“So,” Kelli said, by way of conversation, “who are you reporting for?”
“A London paper and a travel magazine, neither of which you have ever heard.”
“And they sprang for a suite?”
“You are obsessed with the idea of a suite, aren’t you?”
“I’m obsessed with the idea of not having one.”
“Well, now you have half a suite for as long as we can put up with each other. And to answer your question, I have discovered that having private means greatly augments the pleasures of reporting for peanuts.”
“A rich journalist? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“All it takes is selecting the right parents. It also helps that, when they are inevitably divorced, proper support for the issue of the marriage is cemented into the final agreement.”
“Which side of your parentage was the rich one?”
“Both of them.”
“You are just sounding luckier and luckier,” Kelli said, sighing. “Are you married?”
“Certainly not! My principles would not allow me to be in bed with you, if I were. How about you?”
“Nope. Of course, I’ve been living with a very nice man in a very nice New York apartment for a year, but he isn’t here, is he?”
“Nicely rationalized,” Hamish replied.
Kelli smiled. “It was, wasn’t it? Is there any more of the champagne?”
Hamish leaned over the side of the bed and came back with half a bottle and their two glasses. “There you are,” he said, pouring.
Kelli sipped. “Ah, yes, champagne. I can never seem to get enough of it.”
“There are two more bottles in my fridge,” Hamish said, “courtesy of the management.”
