Below the Belt

by Stuart Woods

  “I expect to improve on the margins I get at the casino.”

  “Because, by your investment, you’ve stacked the odds in your favor.”

  “Barrington, you’re a lawyer, do you expect me to answer that out loud?”

  “If I were your lawyer, I’d advise you to stand on your rights under the Fifth Amendment.”

  “Consider that done.”

  “How long have you been a big political contributor, Hal?”

  “Oh, the last half-dozen elections, I guess.”

  “But you’ve lost the popular vote in five of those.”

  Ozick just glared at him. Before he could speak, Nelson and Clarice Knott joined the table.

  Stone looked at the single poached egg on Knott’s plate. “I see you’re in training,” he said.

  Knott smiled. “Always. After all, I’m on television every night.”

  “Good point,” Stone said.

  “How do you keep your weight down, Stone?” Knott asked, pointing his fork at Stone’s eggs Benedict.

  “I chose my parents carefully,” Stone replied. “They were both as skinny as rails. Oh, and I work out three or four days a week.”

  “I hate exercise,” Knott said.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Holly broke in. “Last night you said that your political philosophy is to do the right thing.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me, how do you decide what is the right thing?”

  “My folks brought me up to know the difference between right and wrong. I don’t have any trouble making that decision.”

  “When you make a decision, how many people do you have to please?”

  “Just one,” Knott replied with a grin.

  “When I’m at work, not in Maine, cruising, I go to the President just about every day for decisions on one thing or another.”

  “I expect you do.”

  “The thing is, she has to please not just herself, but her party, the Congress, the nation at large, and, occasionally,” she said, looking at Ozick, “a contributor. How are you going to handle that as President?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Knott said. “I’ll handle it. I’m good at handling it.”

  “Do you think it will be that easy when American lives depend on your decision?”

  “I take your point,” Knott said.

  “My President has one thing going for her that you don’t have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When she makes a decision, most of those people I mentioned can predict what she’ll do. That’s because she has a history, a record of making good decisions. But you don’t have that history, that record. How will the people who vote for you know which way you’ll jump?”

  “They’ll trust me,” Knott said. “I’m a wealthy man because I know how to get people to trust me.”

  The St. Clairs appeared from below, served themselves, and joined the table. “Good morning,” he said, “I hope I haven’t interrupted an interesting conversation.”

  “Just in the nick of time,” Holly said. “I was, I think, about to get a straight answer from a political candidate.”

  Everyone laughed, even Nelson Knott.

  “Holly,” he said, “if you want straight answers from me, you’re going to have to stay up late at night.”

  “Is that when you’re going to hold your campaign press conferences?” she asked.

  “Now, that’s an interesting idea,” Knott said. “The press would be exhausted, and I’d be fresh as a daisy. I’d like those odds, wouldn’t you, Hal?”

  “That would give you an edge,” Ozick admitted.

  “Well, after breakfast,” Holly said, “I’m going to want to know how you formulate policy.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell you that now,” Knott said. “I have a policy advisory committee at work right now, analyzing. There are experts in every field participating, and when I make a policy statement, it will be followed immediately by a written account.”

  “Well,” said Holly, “that would be a refreshing change in our opposition.”

  St. Clair artfully changed the subject.

  21

  STONE SAT ON THE AFTERDECK late in the morning and read the day’s Times, which a crewman had brought from ashore. They were motoring quietly, at about ten knots, southeast, toward an eventual destination of Monhegan Island. The captain had told him there was no docking there, but when the wind and tide were right, they could put a launch ashore. The skies were low, but the visibility was good ahead.

  Christian St. Clair and Nelson Knott were inside, at the far end of the saloon, talking earnestly. The other two couples and Clarice Knott were on the top deck, taking the breeze. Shortly, the two men in the saloon stood, and Knott went forward and up the stairs to the higher deck. Christian St. Clair walked aft, poured himself a cup of tea from an urn, and sat down with Stone.

  “How is your cruise going?” he asked Stone.

  “Just the way a cruise is supposed to,” Stone said, “though in greater comfort than I’m accustomed to.”

  “What do you think of your shipmates?”

  “I’m very impressed with my hosts and their yacht.”

  St. Clair smiled. “And the others?”

  “I’m enjoying annoying Hal Ozick, and Holly is having fun needling Nelson Knott.”

  St. Clair laughed. “And what do you think of Nelson?”

  “I think he’s a pretty slick article. How about you?”

  “He’s brighter than I expected him to be, and more articulate.”

  “Are you sure he’s not just glib?”

  “Fairly. He’s not kidding about his advisors, and he reads their reports constantly. I think he’s fueling up on policy for his run.”

  “He’s already decided to do it, then?”

  “Oh, yes, I think he decided years ago. He seems to have learned a lot by watching the last Republican candidate do it badly, and he’s determined to do it well.”

  “His chief talent seems to be the ability to tell people what they want to hear.”

  “That’s a very great political gift,” St. Clair said.

  “It is, if there’s an ethical basis beneath the philosophy.”

  “I think he will form that eventually. In the meantime, while he’s exploring his options, he seems to be quite malleable.”

  “I think that would interest both Hal Ozick and Clint Holder,” Stone said.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “Does it interest you, Christian?”

  “I’m always interested in furthering the national discourse.”

  “And in shaping it?”

  “It’s only worth furthering after it’s been shaped.”

  “I thought as a Democrat you were committed to Kate Lee.”

  “I think it would be a healthy thing for Kate to have an opponent who stretches her a bit.”

  “Stretches?”

  “Challenges, makes her think harder. Does Nelson interest you?”

  “In the way that a lab specimen interests a scientist,” Stone replied. “I think the man has it in him to be dangerous.”

  “In what way?”

  “Once he’s digested his position papers and decided how he’s going to go about getting what he wants, he could be a danger to Kate. If he should be elected, he might be a danger to himself and others.”

  “All the more reason to take him in hand,” St. Clair said.

  “You mean, control him?”

  Christian didn’t answer directly; he just gazed thoughtfully out across the gray-blue water.

  “Would it be like building this yacht?” Stone asked. “Starting with a vision and overseeing every detail of its design and construction?”

  “That’s an apt metaphor,” St. Clair repl
ied dreamily, still keeping his attention on the water. Suddenly, he stood and pointed: “Porpoises,” he said, smiling.

  Stone swung around and saw a pod of half a dozen skimming along the surface, diving and coming up for a breath. They moved closer to the yacht and Christian and Stone got up and went to the rail for a better view. The animals were playing around the bow, now, so clearly enjoying themselves.

  “Such lovely creatures,” St. Clair said. “They have the knack of coming within inches of the bow, and yet they never get run down by what they’re chasing.”

  “They just ride the bow wave,” Stone said. “There’s an art to that, and, maybe, a life lesson.”

  “I’ve been doing that all my life,” Christian said. “Flirting with danger but keeping just far enough away to keep from being hurt.”

  “What sort of danger?”

  Christian shrugged. “Land values, building costs, rates for borrowing and lending, pursuit of and by the competition, those sorts of things.”

  “Are you considering adding politics to the list?” Stone asked.

  “It might be fun,” Christian said, smiling a little, “but it’s the most dangerous game of all, so much at stake, so much to go wrong, so many ways that things can happen, so many variables.”

  Stone wondered what he was thinking. Then his phone rang. He glanced at it: caller’s name blocked; one of two people. “Excuse me,” he said to Christian. He walked into the saloon and answered it.

  “Good morning,” Will Lee said. “Can you talk?”

  “I can listen,” Stone said.

  “I hope you’re aboard a yacht.”

  “I am.”

  “In Penobscot Bay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somebody else’s yacht?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose?”

  “Christian St. Clair’s.”

  “Well, that’s interesting. I’m going to want to pump you about that experience. Who else is aboard?”

  “Harold Ozick, Clint Holder, and Nelson Knott. And their wives.”

  “Have they mugged you yet?”

  “Not yet. They’ve been cordial, for the most part. Except Ozick, maybe.”

  “He’s not a cordial sort.”

  “Are you tracking me?”

  “I’m tracking Holly,” Will said. “It’s easier.”

  “Yes, she’s using one of your cell phones, isn’t she?”

  “She is.”

  “Do you have a message for her?”

  “No, and I don’t want her to know I called. It would just make her think of work. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Here I am.”

  “I was going to tell you that you might run into Christian St. Clair,” Will said, “and, if you did, to watch your ass.”

  “I’ll do that. The junior senator from my home state was here, but he jumped ship when he saw who his companions were going to be.”

  “He’s a smart man, and you’d be smart to do the same.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me what you mean.”

  “Later,” Will said. “Right now I’m needed.” He hung up.

  Stone’s phone was ringing again, from the other blocked number.

  22

  STONE PRESSED THE BUTTON. “Hello, Ed.”

  “Stone, we need to talk.”

  “So talk.”

  “Not on the phone—face-to-face.”

  “I’d have a long swim,” Stone said.

  “Start now.”

  “Is it really that important?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Stone went forward to the wheelhouse, where the captain was watching the autopilot steer the boat.

  “Good morning, Mr. Barrington.”

  “Good morning, Captain, where are we?”

  The captain looked down from his stool and pointed at the large screen in front of them. “Right there,” he said, “where the little boat is.”

  “And we’re how far from Islesboro?”

  “About fifteen miles.”

  “I’m going to need a launch to take us there.”

  “You should speak to Mr. St. Clair,” the captain said. “I’ll need his permission.”

  Stone went back to the afterdeck, where St. Clair had finished his tea. “Christian, I’m sorry, but we need to leave the yacht and return to Islesboro.”

  “Sounds urgent.”

  “Some personal business I have to take care of personally.” Stone wondered what that could be. “The captain says we’re only fifteen miles out from Islesboro.”

  Christian picked up a nearby phone and pressed a button. “Captain,” he said, “please alter course for Islesboro and prepare a launch to take Mr. Barrington and Ms. Barker to his dock.” He hung up. “That’s done.”

  “I’d better pack,” Stone said, and went below. Holly had fallen back asleep.

  “Up and at ’em,” Stone said, kissing her on the ear with a loud smack.

  “Are we sinking?” she asked sleepily.

  “Ed Rawls seems to think so—so does Will Lee. They’ve both advised us to get back on dry land.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, sitting up. “Do I have time to shower and pack?”

  “Both, if you hurry.” Stone could feel the yacht making its turn.

  —

  THEY WERE DROPPED at Stone’s dock, and they went to the house. Stone unlocked the door and looked around. “Everything seems shipshape,” he said. He unlocked the door to Dick’s little office, then opened the safe. It was there, unmolested. He returned to Holly. “All seems to be well.”

  His phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you get over here, please?” Rawls asked.

  “Give us a few minutes.”

  “As few as possible.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  —

  THEY STOPPED at the gate and waited for it to open; it took a moment, then they had to wait another moment for the log to roll out of the way before driving through.

  The front door was open. “Ed?”

  “Come in,” Rawls said.

  They found him sitting in his reclining chair. CNN was on. “What’s going on?”

  “Look around you,” Ed said.

  Stone looked around and saw nothing. “What am I looking for?”

  “Someone’s been in the house.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Things have been changed, things only I would notice.”

  “What about the bookcase?” Stone asked, referring to the entrance to the former swimming pool.

  “Books have been taken down and replaced, but in the wrong order.”

  “Did they breach your archive?”

  “I don’t know—maybe, maybe not.”

  “Was anything disturbed there?”

  “If they got in, they were more careful than they were in the house.”

  “Where were you when this happened?”

  “Sleeping. I took a pill last night, an Ambien.”

  “Would that make you sleep soundly enough for them to get in without waking you?”

  “I checked the pill bottle. My dosage is five milligrams. The pills had been changed to ten milligrams. That would be enough to keep me down. Plus, I had a few drinks last evening. I’m still woozy.”

  “Well, at least you gave us an excuse to get off the yacht. I think we’d worn out our welcome with our fellow passengers.”

  “The same ones as before?”

  “Nope.” Stone told him about Ozick and Holder. “Whit Saltonstall jumped ship as we were arriving, as soon as he got out of bed and saw who was j
oining.”

  “Did you make any friends?” Ed asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Not a chance,” Holly said. “We asked too many uncomfortable questions.”

  “Will Lee called, too, just before you did, and voiced the opinion that we should get off.”

  “Maybe Kate has sent a submarine to torpedo it,” Holly said.

  “What a great idea!” Ed replied. “Stone, would you mind making me a cup of coffee? I can’t seem to get out of this chair.”

  “I’ll do it,” Holly said. “Stone hasn’t made a cup of coffee for at least a decade.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Stone said, taking a chair. “Make me one, too, will you? And yourself?”

  When Holly came back with the coffee, she had to wake up Ed. “It’s very strong.”

  “That’s how I like it,” Ed said, pressing the button on his chair that returned it to a sitting position. “Now that I think of it,” Ed said, “they probably didn’t get into the archive. If they had, I doubt if I’d be alive.”

  “Oh,” Stone said, “I forgot to mention that one Nelson Knott was aboard.”

  “Now that is interesting,” Rawls said. “I saw the news on TV about his announcement.”

  “Ozick told me that Knott had already asked him for a hundred-million-dollar donation to his PAC.”

  “Did he get it?”

  “I don’t think so, but Ozick is mulling it over, and I think he’ll come up with it. I mean, if he doesn’t want Kate to be reelected, what are his choices? Barry Goldwater is dead, and Pat Buchanan isn’t running. Knott told us he’d already loaned his campaign fifty million.”

  “He could write that check,” Rawls said. “Forbes says he’s worth fifteen billion.”

  “Holly is worried,” Stone said.

  “I am,” Holly agreed. “He’s richer and smarter than the last guy, and he’s great on TV.”

  “That’s half the ball game,” Ed said.

  “Yeah, but the other half is going to be a lot tougher,” she said.

  “Ed,” Stone said, “I think you’d better come home with us—pack a few things.”

  “I don’t want to leave here.”

  “Ed, if you didn’t believe you were in danger here, you wouldn’t have insisted we come ashore. My place is much more secure than yours, so kindly get your ass in gear. And leave your car here and ride with us.”