Shoot Him If He Runs

by Stuart Woods

  Teddy did not believe that he would be caught or have his identity discovered by anyone, let alone the clown, duBois, whom he knew Croft had distrusted. Croft had been the kind of man who preferred his subordinates to be loyal but only marginally competent, and duBois fit that mold perfectly; he was the other viper in the nest of the St. Marks police, and Teddy wished he had eliminated him, too. Maybe he still would.

  Nevertheless, he would make preparations. He got a small sledge and a chisel and began to cut into the concrete floor along a line only he would have noticed. Soon, he had freed a piece of plywood that had been concealed by an inch of concrete. He pulled it back to reveal a compartment that contained equipment, much of which he considered important and some of which he considered essential to his continued survival.

  He removed a small, hard-shelled leather suitcase, dialed in the combinations of both locks and opened it. He chose a blade in his Swiss Army knife and carefully pried up the false bottom. Arrayed around the floor of the hidden compartment was a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills; on top of that lay eight passports, four of them American, two British and two from New Zealand. There was also a selection of flat rubber stamps for entering various visas and entry and departure markings. Finally, there was a Colt government.380 pistol, which looked like a tiny model 1911.45, and half a dozen loaded magazines. All of this took up a space an inch and a half deep.

  He closed the hidden compartment, set the case on his workbench and added other items: two changes of clothes, including a wash-and-wear suit, a pair of shoes and a folding felt hat. He was unaccustomed to running with such a small cache of things, but there was more in the airplane he had hangared on the island of Nevis, not so many miles away.

  He had been surprised at the speed with which the police had shut down all departures from St. Marks, but he was equipped to deal with it. He removed the charger alligator clips from the battery of his new possession and made sure everything was ready to be quickly taken outside and assembled.

  When he was satisfied that he was ready to run, if necessary, he stretched out on a cot and fell quickly asleep. He had always been able to do that.

  DuBois rang the bell at the Pemberton house and waited impatiently for someone to answer it. No one came. “Bring me the tire iron from the car,” he called to his driver.

  The man opened the rear of the vehicle and trotted over with the tool. “Here you are, Captain.”

  DuBois was surprised at how long it took him to break into the house, and he made a mess of the door before he was finally able to open it. He walked into the living room, his pistol in hand, and looked around. It was all very ordinary. He checked the bedrooms and in the master found clothing for a man and a woman; the kitchen contained canned and frozen foods; there was no cellar. There was a fine coat of dust on everything, and it looked as if it had been weeks since anyone had been here, yet the immigration records he had checked put Pemberton, if not his wife, on the island.

  He closed the door as best he could and got back into the Land Rover. “Next house: Weatherby, farther up the mountain,” he said to the driver.

  They turned into the Weatherby driveway and stopped. This was a small house, once the guest quarters for the larger house owned by the American woman at the top of the mountain. He broke into the house, just as he had the Pemberton place.

  Teddy was wakened from his nap by a tiny beeping; someone was upstairs. He watched the blinking lights on the panel that told him someone was walking from room to room. He decided not to be cornered; he let himself out of his redoubt, closed it up and left at a trot.

  DuBois walked through the house, surprised. The house was furnished, but there was no indication that anyone had ever lived in it-no clothing, no food. He looked under the mattresses on the unmade beds: nothing. But Weatherby was supposed to be on the island, too, according to immigration records. Why was it that neither Pemberton nor Weatherby seemed to have been in his home-in the case of Pemberton, not recently; in the case of Weatherby, never?

  He went back to the Land Rover.

  “Where to, Captain?”

  “Let’s go up the mountain; there’s an American woman living there.” He didn’t bother to check the garage.

  The driver took him the few remaining yards and turned into the drive. DuBois noted an SUV and a pickup truck in the garage. He knocked on the door, and the American woman opened it.

  “Yes, officer?” she asked.

  “I am Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police,” he said politely. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, Captain,” she said. “I’m Irene Foster.” She led him into the living room, where a man was sitting in a reclining chair with a beer in his hand, watching a golf tournament on television. He picked up a remote control and pressed a button, and Tiger Woods froze in mid-drive.

  “Harold,” she said to him, “this is Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police. Captain, this is my friend Harold Pitts, who is visiting from the States.”

  Pitts stood up and offered his hand, which duBois shook. “What can we do for you, Captain?”

  “May I see your passports, please?”

  “Sure; will you get mine, honey? It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”

  “Of course,” Irene said, and left the room.

  “How long have you been in St. Marks, Mr. Pitts?” duBois asked.

  “Oh, less than a couple of weeks; I sailed down from Ft. Lauderdale in my boat.”

  “What is your work, may I ask?”

  “I’m retired; I used to have a home renovation business in Virginia,” he said. “Now I’m footloose and fancy-free.”

  “How nice for you.”

  The woman returned with the passports and handed them to him. “I’m a permanent resident,” she said. “I own this house.”

  DuBois examined the passports closely, then handed them back. “They appear to be in order,” he said. “Where were the two of you earlier in the day?”

  “I haven’t left the house all day,” she replied. “Harold went down to his boat at the English Harbour Marina, then came back.”

  “I do a little work on it almost every day,” Pitts said.

  DuBois found these people boring-elderly, retired Americans with no possible axe to grind with Croft. “Have you seen the occupants of the house next door recently?”

  “I’ve never seen them,” Irene said. “I hear their name is Weatherby, but I don’t know if they’ve ever even moved in.”

  “Thank you,” he said, rising. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  The woman showed him out, then returned.

  “That had to be about Colonel Croft,” Pitts said to her.

  “I would imagine so,” she replied. “They must be checking on all the foreigners.”

  Pitts pressed a button, and Tiger Woods finished his drive, pulling it into the rough.

  “Shit,” Pitts said.

  On his way down the mountain, duBois stopped at number 56, the Robertson place, since his file said that he owned an airplane. He found it much the same as the Pemberton house. Where were all these people?

  47

  Will Lee was nearly dressed for a state dinner honoring the prime minister of Australia when he heard running footsteps through the master bedroom. He stuck his head out of his dressing room, but she had already disappeared into hers.

  “Running just a tad late, aren’t you?” he called out.

  “Sorry,” she yelled back. “Accident on the beltway screwed everything up.”

  Will came out of his dressing room, his bow tie hanging loose. “Don’t I remember a helicopter in the CIA appropriations bill?”

  “Two helicopters,” she called back.

  He walked to the door of her dressing room and leaned against the doorjamb. He liked watching her undress, even when she was in a hurry. “And they were both down?”

  “Can you imagine what the press could do with a story that had me taking a helicopter so as not to be late for
a dinner party?”

  “Not a dinner party, a state dinner; not even nearly the same thing.”

  “Certainly not as much fun.” She stepped into a red dress and turned her back. “Shut up and zip,” she said.

  He zipped. “Now you have to tie my tie. Tit for tat.”

  “Oh, all right, come here.”

  He knew how to tie a bow tie; he just liked it when she did it. She stood close, concentrating.

  “What are you staring at?”

  “What I stare at every chance I get.”

  “That is covered by a dress.”

  “Oh, I like your face, too.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “Even when it hasn’t been washed and made up.”

  “Oh, God,” she cried, running for her bathroom. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did tell you. Just as soon as you got my tie tied.”

  There was a sound of running water and splashing. “How much time do I have?”

  Will checked his wristwatch. “Minus ten minutes.”

  “Shit! Are they down there waiting?”

  “They’re in the Oval; we’re having cocktails there.”

  “You go ahead; I’ll be there a few seconds after you.”

  “Someone on the staff has heard that Hugh English was seen having lunch with Cal Ferguson.”

  “That will have to keep until I have a face again.”

  Will went back to his dressing room, got into his waistcoat and dinner jacket, chose a white silk pocket square, put his glasses, pen and jotting pad, which contained his nuclear code card, into his inside pockets and started across the bedroom. “Minus twelve minutes,” he called out.

  “Go fuck yourself, Mr. President!”

  Will laughed all the way to the elevator.

  They were halfway through their first martini when Kate swept into the Oval Office. “I’m so sorry to be late,” she said, shaking hands with the PM and his wife. “I wish I could blame it on national security, but it was just traffic.”

  “That’s quite all right,” the PM said. “We have traffic in Australia, too.”

  Will handed her a dirty martini with an olive stuffed with an anchovy. “Inhale that and relax.”

  “It’s not like you’re late for the Queen,” the PM’s wife said. “I was once twenty minutes late for the Queen, when we were in London. She was not amused.”

  “The Duke of Edinburgh was amused,” the PM said. “I thought he would burst out laughing, until the Queen gave him that look.”

  Kate drew in a third of her martini. “Ahhhh,” she said.

  “Mr. President…” the PM began.

  “Please, we’re Will and Kate.”

  “And we’re Geoff and Sheila,” he replied.

  “Sheila is the national term for female in Australia,” Sheila said. “Makes it easy for people to remember my name.”

  “Will,” the PM began again, “when I visited the Capitol this afternoon, a senator, that ginger-haired fellow, the tall one…”

  “Senator Ferguson?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He said something odd to me; he said, ‘When you see the President tonight, ask him how Teddy is.’”

  Will shot a glance at Kate. “Oh?”

  “Was he talking about Teddy Kennedy?”

  Will shook his head. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell exactly what Senator Ferguson is talking about. You ever get any time for golf in your job?” Will asked, anxious to change the subject.

  “Every Sunday,” the PM said, “if the country’s not being invaded. I think it gives you a sort of perspective to know that there’s an activity that’s more frustrating than government.”

  Will laughed. “Exactly.”

  There was a rap on the door and the chief usher opened it. “Dinner is served, Mr. President, Prime Minister.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have more quiet time before this thing,” Will said.

  “No,” Kate said, “I’m sorry; all my fault.” She dropped back a step and took Will’s arm as they followed their guests.

  “What’s up with Ferguson?” Will asked under his breath.

  “It’s Hugh English,” she said. “He isn’t wasting any time.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “I relieved him today; Lance Cabot has the job. I thought I had contained Hugh, but apparently not.”

  “Do something painful to him,” Will said.

  “I’ll give it some thought.”

  “I don’t suppose you have an assassin over there who could deal with Ferguson?”

  “Where is Teddy Fay when we need him?” she asked, and they swept into the East Room.

  48

  Senator Calvin Ferguson, R-UT, sat across the East Room with his wife, Evelyn, who was twenty-seven years his junior, and gazed at Katharine Lee.

  “Who are you staring at, honey?” Evelyn asked him, leaning in close, so that he could look down her cleavage. That always got his attention.

  “Kate Lee,” he said. “I planted a tiny bomb this afternoon, and I want to see if it explodes tonight.”

  Evelyn, Ferguson’s former deputy press secretary, had replaced his late wife an alarmingly short time after her death; rumor had it that he had proposed to Evelyn in his wife’s hospice room. She was a smart woman, knowledgeable about the political flora and fauna inside the beltway, and she was jealous of Kate Lee, because she had a real job, while Evelyn no longer did, except to the extent that Cal Ferguson was a job. “You want to go over there and look down her dress?” she asked.

  “Certainly not,” Ferguson replied testily. He was a bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and he did not like that kind of talk-not when someone might overhear it, anyway. The Marine Band began to play some Glenn Miller. “Tell you what I do want to do,” he said, as the president and his wife led everyone to the dance floor. “I want to dance with her for a minute. How would you like to dance with the president?” He took her hand, hoisted her from her chair and shuffled a beeline across the floor toward the First Couple.

  “Evening, Cal,” Will said as they came close.

  “Good evening, Mr. President,” Ferguson said. “I wonder if we might change partners for a moment?”

  “Of course,” the president said, gracefully steering Kate into Cal’s arms while bringing Evelyn into his own.

  “Good evening, Cal,” Kate said, flashing a brilliant smile.

  “Hey, Kate. Tell me, what’s happening in the Caribbean these days?”

  “The Caribbean? Well, let’s see: I can’t think of a thing. Were you thinking of invading some place down there?”

  “I was thinking about a certain former Haitian who got his head blown off in St. Marks.”

  “St. Marks? Isn’t that in the Mediterranean somewhere?”

  Ferguson managed a chuckle. “My friend, Hugh English, tells me it’s not.”

  Kate formed her features for tragedy. “Oh, isn’t it sad about Hugh?”

  Ferguson frowned. “What?”

  “Of course, I replaced him with Lance Cabot the minute we began to suspect. Just today, in fact.”

  “Kate, you’re not telling me Hugh English is a mole, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Kate said, shocked. “The man is a patriot!”

  “Then what’s sad about him?”

  “I’m sorry, Cal, I shouldn’t have mentioned it; I thought you already knew.”

  “Knew? Knew what?”

  Kate looked around, as if to see if she might be overheard. “Cal, you have to promise me faithfully that you’ll keep this to yourself. We don’t want this to get around; we just want a happy retirement for Hugh.”

  “Of course.”

  Kate sighed. “Well, this isn’t exactly a diagnosis, but some of Hugh’s actions over the past few days have caused a number of people to feel that he is suffering the early stages of…” She shrugged and made a face.

  “Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “Why the man is as sane as
I am.”

  “That’s what I told everybody,” Kate said, “until…”

  “Until what?”

  “Well, there was an incident a couple of days ago during a staff meeting about…well, about a classified matter, and Hugh suddenly piped up and said, ‘We’ve got to get the man out, and quickly.’ That pretty much brought the proceedings to a halt, and somebody said, ‘Who, Hugh? And out of where?’”

  “And what did Hugh say?”

  “He said, ‘Nelson, of course; out of East Berlin.’”

  “But East Berlin as a political entity doesn’t exist anymore,” Ferguson said.

  “Exactly,” Kate replied, “and neither does Nelson, but at that moment, they both existed for Hugh. Someone had the presence of mind to say, ‘Right, I’ll get on it, Hugh,’ and the meeting continued, but Hugh got up and left. When I inquired about it, I was told that he had been exhibiting…memory issues and flashbacks. Someone thought it came on after his wife died.”

  Ferguson looked perplexed. “We were going to call him in to testify next week.” Ferguson was the ranking Republican on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

  “Well,” Kate said, looking sympathetic, “if there’s anything the committee wants to know about East Berlin…” She ducked under his arm, put her own around her husband’s waist and, effectively, left Evelyn Ferguson to rejoin her husband.

  “What was that all about?” Will asked.

  “It was about neutralizing Hugh English,” she said. “By tomorrow morning, no one, not even the press, is going to pay attention to anything he has to say.”

  “And how did you accomplish that?”

  “My darling, you don’t want to know.”

  49

  Stone and Holly sat in their car on Black Mountain Road as dusk fell. Holly had produced a small pair of binoculars from her handbag and was training them, alternately, on the Pemberton and Weatherby houses, which could both be partly seen from their vantage point. They had already peered through the windows of the Robertson house and seen nothing out of the ordinary.