Shakeup

by Stuart Woods

  “What do you know about Donald Clark?” Dino asked.

  Stone shrugged. “He is supposedly a successful businessman of some sort. I read in a magazine that he is worth half a billion dollars.”

  “Probably in the financial world,” Dino said. “You don’t make that kind of money manufacturing widgets.”

  “Holly selected him as her secretary of commerce, but she withdrew the nomination after the mess at the hotel, and the sex rumors.”

  “That I knew,” Dino said. He picked up his cell phone and pressed a button. “It’s Bacchetti,” he said. “I want to know everything there is to know about a Donald Clark.” He spelled it. “Yeah, that’s the one. He was going to be secretary of commerce, until he got his dick caught in his zipper. E-mail me whatever you find.” He hung up. “Let’s start treating this guy like any other suspect,” he said.

  26

  Dino got up. “I gotta run. What are you going to do with the guy on the sofa in your study?”

  “I’ll have to find him a new hotel.”

  “What’s wrong with one of your guest rooms?”

  “We’d have a Secret Service problem there. They’d have to do a major background check, and it would annoy them that he was a suspect in a murder for a few minutes.”

  “You and Holly could also trip over him on the way to bed.”

  Stone nodded. “There is that, too. And we don’t need to expand the list of who knows about our arrangement. That way lies Page Six in the Post and People magazine.

  “Everybody wants to get in the way of your getting laid,” Dino said.

  “It seems that way sometimes.”

  “Where’s Lara?”

  “Out shopping. Fred is going to meet her somewhere.”

  “What happens if—rather, when—Holly calls and says she’s on the way to New York?”

  “There are airlines between here and L.A.”

  “Suppose she doesn’t want to go?”

  “Then we’ll crate her and ship her.”

  “Whaddaya mean, ‘we’?” Dino left, and Stone went down to his office. He buzzed Joan, and she came in.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Lieutenant Jacoby is asleep on the sofa in my study. He’s had a bad experience, and we have to get him out of the Lowell and into somewhere else.”

  “When?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “I’m on it.” She went back to her office.

  Stone’s phone rang, and he glanced at the caller ID: encrypted. “Hello?”

  “Hi, there,” Holly said. “How’s tricks?”

  “Tricky.”

  “How tricky?”

  “A dead cop outside Turnbull & Asser, and another asleep in my study that I have to get transported to a hotel, to keep him out of harm’s way.”

  “Is there room for me in all that?”

  “You don’t want anything to do with all that, but there’s room where it counts.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Hang on, let me clear the joint, or the Secret Service will go nuts.”

  “What time would you like me to arrive?”

  “Do you want to dine in or out?”

  “Would it cause too much of a fuss, if we went to P.J. Clarke’s?”

  “Yes, and so much so that I don’t think your detail would allow it. We need something with the tables farther apart: How about Caravaggio?”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Can you come directly there at eight? Your driver can take your luggage to the house.”

  “Sure.”

  “See you then.”

  Stone hung up, and Fred came into the room. “Ms. Parks is back, sir.”

  “She certainly is,” Lara said, squeezing past him with her shopping bags.

  “Stand by, Fred. We’re going to need you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stone kissed Lara and pointed her at the sofa. “Have a seat and excuse me for a moment.”

  She did so, and he walked into Joan’s office.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need a one-way, first-class ticket to Los Angeles.”

  “You are flying the airlines?”

  “Lara is. Seven or eight o’clock.”

  “Okay.”

  Stone went back to his office and sat down next to Lara. “Events have occurred,” he said, “that require your relocation.”

  She blinked. “To where?”

  “L.A., unless there’s somewhere else you’d like to go.”

  “Well, if I’m being tossed out, I guess L.A. will do.”

  “There’s big trouble: a dead cop and an attempt on another, who happens to be asleep in my study.”

  “I guess that rules out a tumble on the sofa in there,” she said. “How about this one?”

  “Too much traffic.”

  Joan buzzed him, and he picked up the phone on the coffee table. “Yes?”

  “Seven-forty-five,” she said, naming an airline.

  “Print an e-ticket.” He hung up. “You’re on a flight to LAX at seven-forty-five.” He glanced at his watch. “That means rush-hour traffic. You’d better pack right now.”

  She sighed, kissed him and left the room, taking her shopping bags with her.

  He buzzed Fred. “Give Ms. Parks fifteen minutes, then go up for her bags; she’s headed to JFK, for a seven-forty-five flight.”

  Joan came in. “I got Art into the Morgan, a little farther uptown.”

  “Good. Have the Lowell pack his things and send them up there. Tell them mum’s the word.”

  “Here’s Lara’s e-ticket,” she said, handing it to him.

  “Oh, and book me a table for two at Caravaggio at eight; a quiet table. And tell them there’ll be an unnamed VIP.”

  “Practically done.”

  “And get Helene upstairs as soon as Lara clears the place, and tell her to make it look like it never happened.”

  “Of course. Do I get to know who’s coming?”

  “Holly. Tell Helene to keep the Secret Service guys fed and happy.”

  “Right. Flowers?”

  “It couldn’t hurt. Yellow roses, two dozen. Use the big vase. And get Art a car in fifteen minutes.”

  “Done.” She went back to her office.

  Stone walked upstairs and into the study. Art Jacoby was sleeping like a child. Stone shook him. “Art, wake up!”

  Art opened an eye.

  “We’re relocating you; time to go.”

  Art sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Where am I going?”

  “To another hotel: the Morgan.”

  “I’ll have to stop by the Lowell.”

  “No need. They’re packing your things and sending them to the new place. It’s just up Madison a bit.”

  Art stood up, put his jacket back on, and smoothed the fabric. “Nice,” he said.

  “You’re welcome. Come on, Joan has a car ordered for you. Fred is otherwise occupied.” He sent Art downstairs, then took the elevator to the master suite.

  Lara was tucking lacy things from a shopping bag into her suitcase.

  “Is your luggage going to hold everything?”

  “I may have to sit on it to close it, but yes.”

  Fred knocked on the door. “The car is ready, Ms. Parks.”

  Stone helped her close and latch the suitcase, and Fred took it away.

  “It’s been more than fun,” Lara said, giving him a wet kiss.

  “It sure has,” he said.

  “Call me when you come to L.A.”

  “By then, you’ll be a very big movie star and unavailable,” Stone replied.

  “I’ll be sitting home alone every night.”

  Stone walked her down to the garage and tucked her into the Bentley. A
s he walked back to his office, he could hear Helene upstairs, vacuuming.

  27

  Stone was halfway through a drink when the first Secret Service agent entered the restaurant and walked the length of the room and back, looking exactly like a Secret Service agent. Half the room was twigged, and the conversation level dropped by that much.

  Holly walked in, wearing a full-length cape with a hood that partly concealed her face, and the restaurant-goers leapt to their feet and gave her a round of applause. So much for discretion. Two agents took up places with good views of the suspect diners.

  Stone held her chair, and seated her with her back to the room. “Forgive me for not kissing you, but we would have made the papers,” she said, keeping the hood up.

  “We’re going to make the papers anyway.” Stone sighed. “I’ll bet there’s already a mob outside the front door. You may as well give them a look at that gorgeous hair.”

  She did so, and the room went, “Ahhhh.”

  “They’re repositioning the cars,” she said. “Maybe that will throw them off.”

  “I’ll give the agents a suggestion: when we’re ready to leave, I’ll have Fred pull up with the Bentley, while the photogs are camped next to your cars down the street. The cars will catch up, but it will be too late for the shutterbugs.”

  “That could work,” she said, “once.”

  “Then I’ll just have to keep being inventive.”

  “Or come to Washington now and then.”

  “Do you really think it would be any better there?”

  “Well . . . Camp David could work, if we take separate helicopters.” She laughed.

  “I’ll put that escape at the top of the list.”

  Menus arrived and, at Holly’s suggestion, Stone ordered for both of them.

  “I’ll gain ten pounds,” she said.

  “Just eat a third of it. We’ll take the rest home, so we won’t have to go out tomorrow evening.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve only got tonight,” Holly said. “Big jam-up in the Oval the morning after, and I have to direct traffic.”

  “Tell me something that you can’t tell me about,” Stone said.

  “I can’t tell you about that.”

  “Of course not, that’s the point.”

  “I’m a stickler for the rules. If I start leaking, it will become a trend.”

  “How are Ham, Ginny, and Daisy?” he asked, speaking of her father, her stepmother, and her dog. “Or are they off-limits?”

  “They’re not, as long as you don’t ask me where they are.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Visiting Ginny’s folks in Virginia. Dammit, you tricked me!”

  “You’re easy.”

  “More than you know,” she said. “Eat fast.”

  * * *

  —

  Sometime during the night he woke up, and Holly was crying. Not bawling, but he could tell.

  He kissed at her tears. “We can do this,” Stone said. “Let’s just enjoy what we can. Dinner with you is better than a dozen with Dino.”

  “I hope I’m a better lover, too,” she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of a sheet.

  “You’ll have to ask Viv about that. Is there anyone in the White House you can talk to? Anybody completely trustworthy?”

  “There’s my secretary, Anna, who came with me from State, but she’s sixty-four and turns beet-red if I mention the word sex.”

  “Then there’s just me,” he said. “There’s always the encrypted telephone.”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you: the NSA tells me the Russians are trying to break in to that.”

  “Swell. Do we know when?”

  “The Russians never rest.”

  “Go back to sleep,” he said, cuddling her.

  * * *

  —

  She was up before dawn. He could hear her singing tunelessly in the shower, then he dozed off, only to be awakened by the hair dryer.

  She came and sat on the bed. “I’m going to appoint a special committee at the National Security Council to come up with a list of secure places we can make love.”

  “How about my place in Maine? There’s nobody there in the winter.”

  “That would entail flying Air Force One to Boston, then boarding a U.S. Navy cruiser to somewhere off Southwest Harbor, then a Navy SEALs assault boat to your dock.”

  “I’ll think again,” he said.

  “You keep doing that.” She gave him a deep kiss and was gone.

  He could hear the car doors slamming downstairs.

  * * *

  —

  The bell on the dumbwaiter woke him again; breakfast was on its way up. Helene had not gotten the word; it was for two. He sent one back downstairs and took the other to the bed. He switched on the TV and the morning news showed Holly and Sam Meriwether walking past the Rose Garden and into the Oval Office, as if she had never left Washington.

  Dino called. “You’re all over Page Six again,” he said.

  “We can’t just have a quiet dinner in an Upper East Side restaurant anymore,” Stone said.

  “Next time, you should have the management take the patrons’ cell phones as they enter.”

  “It wouldn’t work,” Stone said. “A dishwasher, or somebody, would call us in for the standard fifty bucks.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “You know where Holly wanted to have dinner? P.J. Clarke’s. Can you imagine?”

  “It would have been a zoo.”

  “Worse. Somebody at a nearby table would have recorded our conversation.”

  “Are you ever going to get used to this?”

  “I doubt it,” Stone said. “Moving a president around is a big transportation challenge, and somebody will always notice. Holly suggested Camp David, if we each had a helicopter.”

  Dino laughed. “You keep trying!” He hung up.

  28

  Stone was at his desk when Dino called a second time.

  “What?”

  “Interesting news,” Dino replied.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Not that interesting. I ran Donald Clark through the system and his file was blocked, ‘For reasons of national security.’”

  “A file block for the once and never secretary of commerce?”

  “The intelligence people wield a heavy hand,” Dino replied.

  “What a shame one of us doesn’t know somebody in that world.”

  “Both of us do.” Stone was a personal adviser to Lance Cabot, the director of intelligence. “You want me to call him, or do you want to do it?” Stone asked.

  “Lance likes you better.”

  “Well, if you’re going to whine about it,” Stone said, “I’ll call him.”

  “Let me know what he refuses to tell you.” Dino hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Stone called Lance Cabot on his secure cell phone and was connected immediately. “Good morning, Stone. I trust last evening was a pleasant one.”

  “You’ve been reading the trash news,” Stone replied.

  “A rich source of intelligence,” Lance replied. “Whatever can I do for you?”

  “You think that’s why I called? So you can do something for me?”

  “You never call for any other reason, Stone.”

  “Okay . . . Dino and I are taking a look into Donald Clark, and his personal file is blocked.”

  “Blocked by whom?”

  “By you, probably.”

  “Why would I do a thing like that?” Lance asked, wounded.

  “To annoy Dino and me?”

  “While annoying you and Dino has its pleasures, it’s not happening on this occasion.”

  “Then you can get us in?”

  Lance began t
apping computer keys. “Got a pencil?”

  “I prefer ink.”

  “Whatever you like. This is a onetime pass code for the file. You may not both view it simultaneously.”

  “May one of us print it?”

  “Certainly not. It’s good for one hour.” Lance read out a thirty-six-character code of numbers and symbols, and Stone read it back to him.

  “Have fun!” Lance said, then hung up.

  Stone rang Dino.

  “Bacchetti.”

  “All right, I’ve got a onetime, one-person pass code to Clark’s file, and we can’t both view it simultaneously, so you’ll have to come over here.”

  “Why over there? Why not over here?”

  “Because here is where it works.” Stone glanced at his watch. “The pass code expires in fifty-seven minutes, so shake your ass.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please ask Helene to make lunch for Dino and me in”—he checked his watch again—“in sixty-four minutes.”

  “Your wish, et cetera, et cetera,” Joan said, and hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Dino arrived around thirty minutes later, pretending to pant. He pulled up a chair next to Stone’s. “Let’s go.”

  Stone buzzed Joan.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Please come in here with your pad and take notes.”

  “On my way.”

  Stone laboriously tapped in the thirty-six-character code. An on-screen message appeared: You screwed up. Try once more, because that’s all you get.

  “I think Lance writes the error codes himself,” Stone said.

  “Try and get it right this time,” Dino moaned.

  Stone handed him the pad with the number. “Read it aloud to me.” Joan came in and sat down, pad and pencil at the ready.

  Dino slowly read out the pass code, with Stone repeating every character as he entered it. Another on-screen message appeared: You made it. You have twenty minutes to read the file.

  The screen wiped, and a typed form filled the screen, along with an older photograph of Clark, in a Marine dress uniform, his cap too large and resting on his ears, looking very young.

  Stone began reading the file aloud, while Joan took shorthand.