by Stuart Woods
“Thank you, Home Secretary,” the foreign minister said. “In that case, this meeting is closed, and any notes or minutes taken are to be destroyed. All questions from the press or media are to be referred to the Public Information Officer of the Foreign Office.” He closed the file before him, stood up, bowed briefly, and left the room. Before he turned down the hallway he looked back at Felicity and made a motion with his head, indicating that she should follow him.
Felicity gave the Home Secretary and Sir Trevor a polite nod, then headed down the hallway to the foreign minister’s office.
He motioned her to a chair. “Do you need a drink?” he asked.
“Thank you, no, Foreign Minister,” Felicity replied.
“Well, I do,” he replied, swiveling his chair to a cupboard and pouring himself a glass of sherry. He swiveled back to face her. “I consider that, with the help of the Home Secretary, to whom I will now be indebted for eons to come, we have dodged a bullet. I assure you, Architect, that should any other such bullets come this way, you will take them.”
“Of course, Foreign Minister. Is it your wish that I should henceforth defer to MI-5 in the matter of Jasmine Shazaz?”
“It is my wish that you should appear to defer to MI-5 in this matter, while pursuing Ms. Shazaz with all the resources at your disposal. It is this ministry that has been wounded, and I will not restrict the efforts of any member of it to put things right. I would suggest, however, that the next time a SWAT team is called for that it be provided by Special Branch, and that also extends to any bomb disposal work necessary.”
“I understand, Foreign Minister.”
“I wish you to know that I have already authorized that the full death benefit available be immediately provided to the families of the fallen officers, and I have instructed an official of this ministry to offer a generous gratuity to the surviving husband of the estate agent.”
“Thank you most kindly, Foreign Minister.”
“Please let me know if there is anything else I can do for your people.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Good day.”
She shook it. “Good day, Foreign Minister.” She left his office and took the lift down to the garage, where her car and driver awaited. She got in, rested her head on the back of her seat, and breathed slowly and deeply all the way back to the Circus. Then she got out of the car and went back to work.
—
Thirty miles up the Thames, Jasmine sat in a comfortable chair, not watching the cricket match that was on television. The rear doorbell rang, and she got up to answer it.
A look through the peephole revealed Habib standing on the back steps, and she opened the door to him.
He walked into the house wheeling a nylon suitcase behind him. “Your replacement explosive device, madam,” he said.
The president and first lady alit from Marine One at the White House helicopter pad and were escorted by a pair of uniformed Secret Service agents into the building and upstairs to the family residence. Their luggage followed shortly, and a valet unpacked for them.
“Drink?” Kate asked as they entered their living room.
“Have I ever replied in the negative to that question at this time of day?” Will asked.
“No, but a simple ‘yes’ would have gotten you a drink faster.” She poured them both one and took her time about delivering his.
“Point taken,” Will said sheepishly.
“Point scored,” she said, sitting down beside him. “I have a question.”
“Fire away,” he said, taking a gulp of his bourbon.
“May I take your sexual performance over the weekend as a harbinger of things to come during our retirement?”
“You may,” he replied, clinking glasses, then kissing her. “And you may have noticed that my enthusiasm increases when we are in Georgia.”
“I have noticed that,” she said, “which is why I haven’t insisted on a retirement residence in New York or Malibu.”
“Suppose I told you that I believe my enthusiasm in Georgia is due to the distance from Washington, rather than something in the Meriwether County water?”
“Then I would insist on an additional retirement residence.”
“In New York or Malibu?”
“Both.”
Will laughed heartily. “I’m not sure that the income from my memoirs will cover two additional houses.”
“You forget that I will be publishing my memoirs, too.”
“All right,” he said, “tell you what: I’ll buy the New York residence, and you buy Malibu.”
“T’other way ’round,” she replied. “Your memoirs will bring more than mine, and Malibu is more expensive than New York.”
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Will said. “After all, you’ve got your CIA background.”
“Most of which I can’t write about.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll buy the Malibu place.”
“Deal,” she said.
“I’m not sure how the Secret Service is going to take this news,” Will said. “I think they were counting on an easy life in the rural South.”
“I don’t think they’ll have any trouble finding volunteers for Manhattan or Malibu.”
“Good point.”
Kate’s handbag rang. She rummaged around in it for a moment, then, in frustration, emptied it onto the coffee table and found her cell phone moving across the shiny surface, vibrating.
“Yes?” she said, when she had cornered it against her compact.
“Director, it’s Holly Barker.”
“Hello, Holly. Has anyone ever put that to music?”
“No, but someone once wrote dirty lyrics to the tune of ‘Hello Dolly’ for my fortieth birthday party.”
“I suppose that was inevitable.”
“Apparently so.”
“What have you to report?”
“I have screwed the lid down a little tighter on Kelli Keane. One of our New York people has equipped James Rutledge’s apartment for video and sound.”
“Do they lead lives of quiet desperation?”
“Hardly, ma’am. You wouldn’t believe their sex life.”
Kate roared with laughter. “Be sure and copy me on the sauciest bits.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
“Has the woman spilled any beans yet?”
“Not on our tapes, but our man discovered that the place had already been bugged with audio devices before he got there. Unfortunately, we were not privy to what was heard before our equipment arrived.”
“Any way to find out?”
“We can try to find out who purchased the previous equipment.”
“Please do. I worry about the New York station having too little to do.”
“It does seem very quiet whenever I’m there,” Holly admitted.
“It occurs to me that you always seem happiest when you return from New York. Is there something there that entertains you?”
“You might say that,” Holly replied.
“It occurs to me that you might manage this particular task more easily if you were at the New York station for a time.”
“Your suggestion is my command,” Holly said. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“And we may reach you at Stone Barrington’s number?”
“Nice try, ma’am. I’ll be reachable on my cell at all times.”
“Enjoy yourself, then, and let me know if there’s any change in the position of the lid on Ms. Keane.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Holly replied. “Have a nice evening.”
Kate hung up.
“How’s that thing going?” Will asked.
“Holly appears to have a grip on the problem. So far, she’s getting video from the apartment of a lot of bedroom action.”
Will laughed. “So that’s what you were talking about: seeing the ‘saucy bits.’”
“It’ll have to do for fun, until we can have more non-D.C. sex,” she replied.
—
Holly ca
lled Stone.
“Hello, there,” Stone said. “Am I hallucinating, or did we just talk moments ago?”
“You’re not hallucinating. Think you can put up with me for another little while?”
“Funny, I was just thinking about putting up with you. How long do I get to do that?”
“I might stretch it into a week, unless something terrible happens somewhere in the world.”
“Something terrible is always happening somewhere in the world.”
“I mean somewhere in the world that requires my attention.”
“That would be right here in this house.”
“You say the nicest things.”
“I do the nicest things, too.”
“And I will look forward to that.”
“Is your trip to do with our Ms. Keane?”
“Yes, but that’s only an excuse to come.”
“Any excuse will do,” Stone said. “Let yourself in whenever you arrive, and I’ll book a table somewhere sumptuous for dinner tomorrow evening.”
“I thought I was going to be dinner.”
“You are going to be a very rich dessert.”
Herbie Fisher and Harp O’Connor were having dinner in the back room at P.J. Clarke’s, a regular hangout for them since they had met there at the bar.
“Herb,” Harp said, “how come you set me up for that sweep at Jim Rutledge’s place, then pulled me off?”
“I’m sorry. Did I mess up your day?” He began to think about lying to her.
“Just answer my question.”
Herbie made up his mind. If he started lying to her about the little stuff, it would soon spread to bigger stuff. “Stone Barrington asked me to pull you off.”
Harp chewed in silence for a moment. “Do you know why?”
“No, I don’t,” Herbie replied.
“You didn’t ask?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I find that very peculiar.”
“It’s like this, baby: there are only two or three people in the world that I trust completely, and Stone is one of them.” He almost stopped there but caught himself. “You are another.”
“I know why you trust me, Herb, but why do you trust Stone?”
“Because I have a long experience with him, and he has always been worthy of my trust.”
“Before I met you and heard you talk about him, I’d heard that he was just some kind of sleazy fixer for Woodman & Weld.”
“Stone likes to say that he handled cases for Woodman & Weld that the firm didn’t want to be seen to be handling. That doesn’t mean they were sleazy cases, just sensitive ones.”
“Well, I have to admit that he went way up in my opinion when we were in L.A. and found ourselves having drinks and dinner with the president of the United States. How’d that come about?”
“Well, I’ve never had a substantive conversation about that with Stone, but I’ve picked up fragments here and there.”
“Gimme some fragments, I love fragments. I make my living on fragments.”
“Did you meet Holly Barker at that dinner?”
“Tall, auburn hair, good body?”
“That’s the one. Holly works at the CIA, for the director. The first lady?”
“I got that. I read the papers when she got the appointment.”
“Holly got Stone and Dino involved with some CIA business or other down in the islands a few years back. I’ve never known what it was about. I think Stone met the president about that time. Then there was that thing when he and Dino went to Washington at the president’s request a year or two ago to investigate some old murders that a friend of the president’s, now dead, had been accused of.”
“Yeah, that one made the papers.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s not all that much.”
“It’s all I know,” Herbie said. “I don’t think Stone would like it if you asked him about it.”
“Okay, next time I have a couple too many, I’ll try not to ask him. What I want to know is why he wouldn’t want me to sweep Rutledge’s apartment.”
“Like I said, I trust Stone, and he asked me.”
“Maybe he—or Holly Barker—didn’t want me to find any bugs.”
“And why would they want that?”
“Maybe because the Agency planted them?”
“Jim Rutledge is an architect and interior designer, who used to be the executive art director for Architectural Digest. Why would the Agency want to bug his apartment?”
“Maybe because he lives with that Kelli Keane person, who is a journalist? We met her in L.A., too.”
“That’s right, we did. But the CIA isn’t allowed to operate domestically—that’s FBI territory.”
“And you believe the Agency sticks to that? Come on, Herb.”
“I don’t have any personal knowledge that they don’t stick to it.”
“Did something happen when we were at The Arrington that I don’t know about?”
“If you don’t know about it, it’s because I don’t know about it either.”
“So we’re both in the dark?”
“I don’t even know if there’s any dark,” Herbie said.
“In my experience, which is extensive for a woman who is as young as I am, there’s always dark.”
“You, young lady, are a cynic.”
“There’s a lot to be cynical about,” Harp replied. “Is Jim Rutledge your client?”
“Yes. I set up his business structure for him.”
“So you have attorney-client privilege with him?”
“Yes, but so far, you haven’t intruded on that.”
“Are you friends?”
“We have a cordial personal relationship.”
“Could you set up a dinner with us and him and Ms. Keane?”
“Funny you should mention that, we discussed getting together.”
“Well, let’s do it,” Harp said. “I’d like to get a closer look at Ms. Keane.”
“Okay, I’ll call him.” Herbie waved at a waiter for the check. “Maybe I’ll invite Stone, too.”
“That would be good. I’d like to get to know him better. Is he seeing somebody?”
“Always,” Herbie said.
Jasmine Shazaz sat at a desk by the window in a small waiting room at the personnel office of the United States State Department, across the street from the United States Embassy. She could see down into Upper Grosvenor Street, which ran off the south side of Grosvenor Square, where the embassy, a massive building of reinforced concrete with a giant eagle out front, sat facing the square.
From where she sat, slowly filling out a job application for a position as an interpreter, she could see down into the intersection of Upper Grosvenor Street with Burnes Street, which ran behind the embassy, crossing Culross Street, ending at Upper Brook Street.
“How are you coming with the application?” the receptionist asked.
“I want to get everything just right,” Jasmine said.
“Please be as quick as you can,” the woman said. “We close in an hour, at five, and if you don’t have your first interview before then, you’ll have to come back another day.”
“I won’t be much longer,” Jasmine replied, watching the DSL delivery van pull to a stop at Burnes Street, which was blocked by a steel security barrier.
—
The driver leaned out his window and shouted at the armed police constable at the barrier. “Hey, mate, I’ve got a delivery at the embassy, rear door. How do you want to handle this?”
“I’ll take it,” the cop said.
“It weighs over a hundred pounds,” the driver replied. “I’ll need to hand-truck it in there.”
“Who is the addressee?” the policeman asked.
The driver picked up a clipboard and flipped a page. “Bloke name of Thomas Riley, cultural attaché, from an address in Langley, Virginia, U S of A. And he has to sign for it personally.”
“Hang about,” the policeman replied. He press
ed the push-to-talk button on the microphone under the epaulet on his left shoulder. “Security, this is PC Bartlett at the Burnes Street barrier. I’ve got a DSL delivery of a heavy parcel for Mr. Thomas Riley, Cultural Affairs. Needs to come in on a hand truck, and he has to have Riley’s signature.”
“Where’s it shipped from?” a voice came back.
“A place called Langley, in Virginia, USA.”
“Stand by.”
“I’ve called it in,” he said to the driver. “They’ll get back to me.”
“I can’t block this street all day,” the driver said.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
His radio came alive. “Okay, have the man hand-truck it to the rear entrance. Mr. Riley will meet him there and sign for it.”
“Roger.” The cop turned back to the driver. “Unload it here and follow me with the hand truck,” he said. “The bomb squad will want a good look at you. Just leave the van there.”
“Whatever you say, mate.” The driver got out of the van and went to the rear. He unlocked the door and operated the power tailgate that lowered the crate to the street. He got the lip of the hand truck under an edge and rocked it back onto the wheels. By the time he got it to the barrier, the copper had slid it back enough for him to wheel it through. The officer slid it shut behind him.
“All right, follow me,” he said to the deliveryman. The copper led the way to a steel door, where he rang a bell. A long moment later the door slid open, and the deliveryman could see another barrier a few feet inside. “Bring it right in and set it down,” the copper said.
The deliveryman did as he was told, and the door slid closed behind him. “Oy,” he said. “How’m I gonna get out?”
“Wait till it’s signed for, and we’ll let you out.”
Two U.S. Marines in fatigues came toward them, preceded by an eager black Labrador retriever.
Another Marine at the next barrier picked up a phone and spoke into it, then hung up. “Riley will be right down.”
“Are you gonna need me to roll it somewhere?” the deliveryman asked.
