Below the Belt

by Stuart Woods

  “He was all right, I suppose. I’m uncomfortable in the presence of that kind of money.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose it’s because a lot of the wealthiest people seem to use it badly, or to promote self-serving political causes, or they’re greedy for even more.”

  “Christian seemed very relaxed and comfortable in his skin, and I like it that the man, at the most productive time of his life, would spend two years building his dream yacht, overseeing it himself. He could have just written a huge check to a big yard, but he didn’t.”

  “Maybe he’s just obsessive-compulsive,” Holly said.

  “But, unlike you, not about his work.”

  As they arrived at the back porch of the house, Stone suddenly realized that someone was sitting in a rocker on the porch.

  “Evening,” Ed Rawls said, rising.

  “Why, Ed,” Stone said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were coming. We were out to dinner.”

  “So I saw.”

  “Come in and have a drink.”

  Rawls followed them into the house and accepted a brandy. “Have you heard about Joe Adams?”

  “Yes, we watched some of the coverage on TV after dinner.”

  “This means we have a whole new timetable.”

  “Funny, I didn’t know we had an old timetable.”

  “Joe doesn’t have to be protected anymore, though Sue might need to be. After all, she knows about the strong case.”

  “As a former first lady, Sue will continue to be protected by the Secret Service,” Holly said.

  “As Joe was? Remember, somebody walked up to him in his own garden in Santa Fe. If the Secret Service had protected him, we might not be where we are today.”

  “And where the hell are we, Ed?” Stone asked, trying not to sound exasperated.

  “In trouble,” Rawls replied. “While you were supping with Christian St. Clair, two men examined your house rather slowly. I kept in the shadows, so they didn’t see me, which was good because I wouldn’t have wanted to leave a couple of corpses on your back porch.”

  “What did they look like?” Stone asked.

  “Respectable, but out of place. They were wearing suits and ties.”

  “You make that sound sinister, Ed.”

  “Don’t you find it so? On Islesboro? They would have been the only people dressed that way on the entire island—except for you, of course, in your monkey suit.”

  “My dinner host specified the dress for the evening,” Stone pointed out.

  “Ah, your dinner host, Mr. St. Clair.”

  “How did you know about him?”

  “Well, he’s been building that yacht around here for the last couple of years. Folks couldn’t wait to see it.”

  “What do you have against Christian St. Clair?” Stone asked.

  “I’m suspicious of men who have their own police forces.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he has more security people working for him than any police force between here and Portland—maybe between here and Boston.”

  “Perhaps he just has a lot to protect—he owns a lot of things.”

  “Tell, me, Stone, how did he react to the news of Joe Adams’s death?”

  “Sadly. We all did.”

  “And who were your dinner companions?”

  “Whitney Saltonstall and the publisher of Vanity Fair and an editor of the New York Times.”

  “Covering all his bases, wasn’t he?”

  “Ed, you’re becoming tiresome. Either tell me what you’re talking about, or just stick to your brandy.”

  “Just think about how much influence was gathered aboard St. Clair’s yacht,” Ed said. “Vanity Fair, for social coverage; the Times, for news and influence; and Whit Saltonstall, for power in Washington.”

  “I forgot to mention the national security advisor.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Holly said.

  “And then there’s you,” Ed said to Stone.

  “What could he possibly want from me?”

  “Your goodwill, Stone.”

  “Well, then, he bought that cheaply, for the price of a fine dinner and good company.”

  “He’ll be offering you more soon.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the sort of fellow who prefers having friends rather than enemies. He collects friends, like pearls on a string, and believe you me, he has a very long string.”

  “Who doesn’t prefer friends to enemies?” Stone asked.

  “Some of us don’t have the choice—the choice is made for us.”

  “And where do you think I fall on the friends-to-enemies arc?”

  “St. Clair hasn’t decided yet,” Rawls said. “He’s still sizing you up. He doesn’t know yet how much you know.”

  “Well, I can tell him, not very much.”

  Rawls reached into a pocket and came up with an object. “Catch,” he said, and tossed it to Stone.

  Stone caught it and looked at it; it appeared to be an oddly shaped piece of titanium. “What is it?”

  Holly spoke up. “It’s the key to the strong case,” she said.

  16

  RAWLS STOOD UP, tossed off his brandy, and set down the glass. “I’m outa here.”

  Stone walked him to the door and watched as Ed turned off the outside light, allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, then made his way to a jeep and drove away, turning the wrong way on the road.

  Stone went back inside. “I’m beat,” he said, pulling his bow tie loose and unbuttoning his collar. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Don’t you want to open the strong case?” Holly asked.

  “No, I don’t want to even think about it. Coming?”

  “Soon, I hope,” she said, joining him on the stairs.

  “I’m not sure I have it in me,” Stone said.

  “We’ll see.”

  —

  THEY SLEPT WELL, had breakfast in bed, then dozed off again. The doorbell rang. Stone looked at the bedside clock. Ten minutes past eight. He picked up the phone, which automatically connected him to the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Stone Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “FBI.”

  “You must have the wrong house.”

  “Are you Stone Barrington?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got the right house. Are you going to let us in?”

  “Wait right there.” Stone put on his nightshirt and a robe over that, then got into his slippers and walked downstairs. He had a good look at the two men through the armored glass before opening the door on its chain. “Let me see some ID.”

  The two men held up badges, close enough that Stone could read their names on the IDs, Smithson and Peters. He opened the door. “Come in.”

  He led them into the living room and pointed at chairs. “All right, what is it?”

  “Are you alone in the house?” Smithson asked.

  “None of your business,” Stone replied.

  “Mr. Barrington, I caution you that it’s a crime to lie to a federal agent.”

  “I’m not lying, it’s none of your business.”

  “It’s going to be like that, is it?”

  “Probably, unless you give me a good reason to talk to you. Your curiosity is not enough.”

  “We’re investigating the theft of a . . . piece of luggage.”

  “Thank you, but all my luggage is present and accounted for.”

  “Not your luggage.”

  “Then why are you in my house at this hour of the day?”

  “That was dictated by the ferry schedule.”

  “Doesn’t the Bureau have helicopters anymore?”

  “We do, but that s
eemed like overkill for this errand.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “I told you, we’re investigating the theft of a piece of luggage.”

  “We’ve already been through that—let’s not start again.”

  “Did you visit the home of former-President Joseph Adams in Santa Fe a few days ago?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t steal any of his luggage.”

  “What did you and President Adams talk about?”

  “We reminisced about old times. Mr. Adams appeared to confuse me with someone else.”

  “With whom did he confuse you?”

  “Someone named Tom. I didn’t get the last name.”

  “Why did you visit President Adams?”

  “To reminisce about old times.”

  “Mr. Barrington, are you hiding something from us?”

  “I’m sorry, my attorney has just advised me that I don’t have to answer that question—or any other question.”

  The two men looked around. “I don’t see an attorney,” Smithson said.

  “You’re looking at him.”

  “You’re an attorney?” Smithson asked.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know more about the people you question.”

  “He’s an attorney,” Peters said to his partner.

  “Well, at least one of you Googled me,” Stone said.

  “Mr. Barrington, if we searched your house, would we find a piece of luggage that doesn’t belong to you?”

  “I haven’t invited you to search my house, and you haven’t shown me a search warrant.”

  “We can get one.”

  “And where would you do that?” Stone asked.

  “From the nearest United States attorney.”

  “You’d go all the way to Boston to have the fun of searching my house?”

  The two men looked at each other. “Where’s the nearest U.S. attorney?” Smithson asked.

  “I don’t know,” Peters replied.

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you,” Stone said. “Anyway, if you located one you’d be obliged to show him some probable cause. Have you got any of that handy? If you can show me some, I might save you a trip to the U.S. attorney.”

  The two men said nothing.

  “That’s what I thought,” Stone said. “Gentlemen, if you hurry, you can still catch the ferry, otherwise it’s a two-hour wait, if it’s not refueling day, and then it’s a six-hour wait. And there’s not much fun to be had on the island dressed as you are.”

  Smithson looked at his watch. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to his partner. Then, to Stone: “We’ll be back.”

  “Promise?”

  “Believe me.”

  “Don’t forget your search warrant—or your probable cause.”

  He locked the door behind them.

  Holly came down the stairs. “I heard some of it from above. What the hell did they want?”

  “A missing piece of luggage. Sound familiar?”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Do you think everybody on the planet has come to know about this?”

  “A good many of them, apparently.”

  “I don’t get why the FBI is interested.”

  “Neither do I, but has it occurred to you that it might have been the FBI who visited Joe Adams in his garden? Or followed us around that day? Or prowled around this house the other night?”

  “Well, they were wearing suits and ties, weren’t they? The FBI is just about the last holdout for that particular fashion statement.”

  “You know, if I were in my office I could look into this.”

  “And what scientific equipment would you have there that would allow you to look into it that you don’t have here?”

  “You have a point,” Holly admitted.

  “Then why aren’t you looking into it?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Well, I do,” Stone said. “Where’s my cell phone?”

  “Upstairs, I guess.”

  Stone started up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.” Stone found his phone and called the White House operator. “I’d like to leave a message for President Will Lee,” he said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Stone Barrington.”

  “Would you like me to connect you?”

  “No, I’d just like to leave a message for him to phone me. He has the number.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Stone hung up and went downstairs. “Now we wait,” he said to Holly.

  17

  THEY HAD JUST FINISHED LUNCH when Stone’s phone rang. The calling number was blocked.

  Stone turned on the speaker so Holly could hear. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. You called?” Will Lee said.

  “I did. The kettle is coming to a boil around here.”

  “Are you in the north?”

  “Yes. Last night two men in suits and ties were observed taking a close interest in my house, and this morning, two such men rang my doorbell and introduced themselves as FBI agents. Do you know why the FBI would have any interest in me?”

  “No. What did they want?”

  “They said they were investigating a report of the theft of a piece of luggage, and they mentioned our friend on the mountainside and asked about our conversation.”

  “Who have you been talking to around there?”

  “Here’s a complete list—a female person of your acquaintance, a former government employee who lives here, Whit Saltonstall, the editor of the New York Times, and the publisher of Vanity Fair, all of whom I saw at dinner last evening on the yacht belonging to Christian St. Clair.”

  “What an interesting group.”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “At the dinner, did anyone inquire about the luggage?”

  “No.”

  “Did our friend’s name come up?”

  “Only when we learned of his death.”

  “Yes, we’re very sad here about that.”

  “Was there anything unusual about his death?”

  “He collapsed in his garden after breakfast yesterday. The local medical examiner said the cause of death was neurological damage associated with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Do you know if that is a typical cause of death in someone at his stage of the disease?”

  “I know it’s a neurological illness, and that eventually some, perhaps many, Alzheimer’s victims die of it.”

  “Can you think of anyone to whom our friend’s existence might have been a threat?”

  “Among politicians he had fewer enemies than most. Still . . .”

  “Does a name come to mind?”

  “Anyone, I suppose, who fears that the contents of the package might become known. Is it secure?”

  “Yes. I have obtained the means to open it. Should I?”

  “I suggest not. Your situation might become more dangerous if it were thought that you were familiar with the contents.”

  “Why didn’t you mention that at the outset?”

  “I’m very sorry, this was to have been a simple matter, and I did not anticipate the ensuing complications.”

  “Can I send it to you?”

  “Absolutely not. It would have to pass through too many layers of inspection. Also, it should not be mailed or sent by commercial shipper.”

  “Can you send someone to relieve me of it?”

  “I have no such person at my disposal.”

  “So I’m stuck with it?”

  “I’m sorry, but yes, for the time being.”

  “How about if I just dump it in Penobscot Bay?”

  “It would send out a signal that would trigger alarms.”

  “Swell.”

  “If
you will be patient, I will try to find another means of securing it. In the meantime, do not, repeat, not give it to your neighbor. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I know this is inconvenient, and I apologize for that. Goodbye.” Will hung up.

  Holly looked at him with curiosity. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell him that Ed Rawls has cached all the source materials of what’s in the strong case.”

  “At the moment, if what Ed has told us is true, you and I are the only people besides him who are aware of that.”

  “And you’re afraid Will might tell somebody else?”

  “We don’t know who else Will has talked to about this. Kate? Members of his staff? He may be taking advice from some source we’re not aware of, and anyway, I don’t see how it’s in anybody’s legitimate interest to know what Ed has in that former swimming pool.”

  “Well, it sure doesn’t seem that it’s in our interest to know about it. I wish Ed had never told us.”

  “I’d rather know it than not know it. That way, if I come to lose the strong case, at least I know there’s a backup.”

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, as Stone was reading the Times, his phone rang again. “Hello?”

  “I’ve done some checking,” Will said, “and I am reliably informed that yesterday and today there is a regional meeting of some northeastern FBI personnel taking place in Boston and that, at this moment, there is not a single FBI agent present in the state of Maine. That’s all I can tell you at the moment.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Goodbye.” They both hung up.

  “What was that?” Holly said.

  “The voice of doom.” He told her what Will had said.

  “Oh, shit,” she replied. “Maybe we should get out of here.”

  “I’m not opposed to that, I just don’t know where to go.”

  “New York?”

  “An obvious place to look for me.”

  “Your place in England or Paris?”

  “Do you have your passport?” Stone asked.

  “No.”

  “Neither do I, and I don’t particularly want to wait for it to be sent.”

  She thought for a moment. “I can think of one place we can go—it’s comfortable and, I expect, secure.”

  Stone brightened. “Christian St. Clair’s yacht?”