by Stuart Woods
“Yes, I expect he would,” Stone said. “Did you wire it to his Islesboro, Maine, account?”
“Let me see.”
Stone could hear computer keys being tapped.
“No, not to the Maine account—one in Georgetown . . . let’s see where that is . . . Ah, it’s in someplace called the Cayman Islands.”
“Thank you, Marvin. I’ll give Mr. Rawls your message when I speak to him.” He hung up and turned to Holly. “To answer your last question, his insurance claim for his house was approved and the funds wired. He now has half a million dollars in an offshore account.”
31
STONE’S PHONE RANG AGAIN. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Will Lee said.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” Stone said.
“Our friend from Virginia has already called and brought me up to date.”
“I’m sorry about the package. It was locked in my safe.”
“You weren’t expected to have him in handcuffs. Do you have any idea where he may have gone?”
“None, I’m afraid. I had lunch with our Virginia friend today, and he convinced me not to allow our other friend to release the contents of the package. When I got home, he was gone. He has no home, now, after the fire, and the only other person I could think of that he might go to was his ex-wife, but I understand she died several months ago.”
“What do you think he will do with the package?”
“He’s had a lecture, in my presence, from our Virginia friend on the irresponsibility of circulating it.”
“Unfortunately, there are many media organs who don’t share the responsible view.”
“Perhaps it might be time for you to reveal the contents of the package. If you use the period between now and the big event to explain things, the stories might peter out by that time.”
“That would be very risky.”
“Speak with your lady about it.”
“She knows nothing of this business, and I don’t feel it’s the right time to tell her.”
“When would the right time be?”
“On my deathbed, or perhaps much later.”
“Are you coming up here soon?”
“Possibly. I’ll give you a call, and we’ll get together.”
“I’d like that.”
“Goodbye.” He hung up.
—
ED RAWLS GOT off the train and, towing his new Brooks Brothers rolling bag with the strong case strapped to it, found the street and got into a taxi. After a brief negotiation with the driver over the long ride, he settled into the rear seat with the Washington Post and read until, over an hour later, they arrived.
The house was shuttered, but neat. The lawn service had taken care of the grass and plants. Ed left the real estate sign where it was, then let himself in and locked the door behind him. The house had been built in 1774 and rebuilt several times since, and it made little creaking noises as he walked up the stairs. His late ex-wife’s clothes and personal items had been removed by the people he had hired, so he put his luggage in a cupboard in his old dressing room. He tried a lamp, and it worked; the phone did not, but he had half a dozen throwaway cell phones in a shopping bag.
He went downstairs with the strong case to his old study, which had hardly been touched. Myra had never liked it—too cave-like for her, but he felt instantly at home again, his books still on the shelves. He pressed a hidden button and a bookcase swung outward, revealing a large safe. He opened it, stowed the strong case inside, locked it, and swung the bookcase back into place. He switched on the computer and checked his mail—he had kept the e-mail address mostly to deal with the house. When they had divorced, he had given Myra lifetime occupancy, but he had retained title and had gone on paying the utility bills, insurance, lawn service, and the maid who came in twice a week. He switched on his reading lamp, found a book he hadn’t read, and started it. He knew they would be here soon.
He had not long to wait. He heard a footstep on the front porch, and he switched off his lamp and stood behind the study door, perfectly still.
“Pretty quiet,” he heard a male voice say. “You check upstairs, I’ll look around for signs of life down here.” Footsteps went up the stairs, others around the living room and kitchen. A man came and stood in the study doorway and played a flashlight around the room. Footsteps descended the stairs, and the two men stood outside in the main hall and talked for a minute.
“I called at the real estate office,” one of them said, “and got a key. They’ve had some interest in the place, but not much. Nobody at the Agency would even look at it because it was associated with Rawls.”
“You think there’s a Russian radio hidden here somewhere?”
The other laughed. “No, our people went through the place thoroughly after Rawls was arrested and again after the woman died. It’s just a house. I ought to buy it myself. It’s less than five miles from the Agency.” The two men left.
Rawls waited until he heard the car drive away, then he went back into his study, sat down, and resumed reading his book. Late in the afternoon he heard a truck in the driveway, and the clump of something being deposited on the front porch. He waited for the truck to drive away, then put down his book and went to the front door. He had ordered groceries over the phone, using a credit card from his Caymans bank, and they were here: a week’s food and two bottles of the Talisker single malt he had enjoyed at Stone’s house. He took them into the kitchen, put everything away, and made himself a drink, then returned to his study and his book. After a while he dozed off, and when he awoke it was dark outside. All the shades, blinds, and curtains were drawn, so he didn’t need to worry about light leaks. He took one of his new cell phones from his pocket and made a call.
—
STONE PICKED UP his phone; blocked call. “Hello?”
“Hello, Stone, it’s Ed.”
“I was worried about you, Ed.”
“No, you were just worried about what I’d do. That’s why I called.”
“What are you going to do, Ed?”
“I’m going to keep my mouth shut. I’ve already destroyed my archive in Islesboro.”
“And how did you do that?”
“There was an incendiary charge set in the pool room. I detonated it with a phone call and a code. It was designed to burn up everything and melt the metal cabinets. No paper would have survived.”
“And the case?”
“It’s safe, and I’ll be out of the country before midnight.”
“Everyone who’s interested will be glad to hear it. For what it’s worth, Ed, I believe it’s the right thing to do.”
“Maybe,” he acknowledged. “You’re going to get a check from my offshore bank for your services,” he said.
“Not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t want to owe anybody anything.”
“Oh, by the way, I had a call from your insurance agent. They’ve paid your claim and wired half a million dollars to your Caymans bank.”
“Good to know, thanks.”
“That was the insured value of the house. They said you could submit an additional claim for the contents.”
“Maybe I’ll get around to it.”
“I suppose you’ve already got a throwaway phone. Keep in touch. I’d like to be able to reach you, should there be further developments.”
“I’ll check in from time to time,” Ed said.
“Take care of yourself.”
“I always do.”
“You’re not the subject of a criminal investigation, Ed, so the law isn’t after you.”
“That hardly matters, since there are enough other people after me.”
“And who would that be?”
“Lance Cabot for one, the others are more shadowy.”
“I’ll see if I can cool Lan
ce down a bit.”
“You can try. Goodbye for now, Stone.”
As he hung up he heard another car pull into the driveway, and he switched off the lamp. Shortly, the front door opened and he heard voices. He had a gun in a box on a bookshelf, disguised as leather-bound volumes. He quickly retrieved the pistol and stood behind the door again.
32
THE FRONT DOOR WAS UNLOCKED and opened, and Ed heard two, maybe three voices.
“It’s really a lovely house,” a woman said. “Big rooms for the period and lots of storage space.” This, he figured, was the real estate agent.
The other two were a man and a woman, and their voices carried into the living room. Lights were switched on.
“How many square feet?” the man asked.
“About forty-five hundred in the main house. Then there’s a fifteen-hundred-foot building with a two-car garage and guest or staff quarters, furnished. The property is available furnished throughout, since the owner was a divorcée with no children. The kitchen is this way.”
Ed stood and listened to fragments of their conversation, then they came back and stood in the study doorway. The agent flipped on the overhead light. “Lots of bookcases, as you can see, and lots of books, too.”
“Do the books come with the house?” the woman asked.
“They do, but if you don’t want them I’m sure a local library would be glad to have them.”
“Would you give us a minute to talk?” the man asked.
“Of course. I’ll start turning off lights.” The agent walked away.
“This is a dead end,” the man said. “Except for cleaning, the place hasn’t been touched since Rawls’s ex died.”
“I expect you’re right,” the woman replied, “but we need to write a report, anyway.”
“I’ll bet the Agency pulled this place apart after the woman died,” the man said.
“If they did, they did a nice job of putting it back together.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Ma’am?” he called out. “We’re ready to leave now.”
The agent returned. “Do you have any interest?”
“It’s very nice,” the woman said, “but we’ll need to talk about it. What are you asking, again?”
“Two million, furnished. My instructions are that it’s a firm price.”
“That may be too steep for us,” the man said. Then the last light was turned off and the door locked. A minute later, the car drove away.
Rawls sat back in his chair, gave them five minutes, and switched his lamp back on. He checked his watch: nine-thirty; pretty late for a viewing. He went back to the kitchen and heated himself a can of soup.
—
STONE, HOLLY, and the Bacchettis were having dinner at Patroon. “So,” Stone said, “what did you and Whit Saltonstall have to talk about at lunch?”
“This and that,” Dino said.
“Come on, Dino, a politician doesn’t waste time having lunch and talking about this and that.”
“Nevertheless,” Dino said. “What did you and Lance talk about?”
“This and that,” Stone said, and the women laughed at them.
“I hear your buddy Rawls took a hike this afternoon.”
“I think he thought there was no point in hanging around here. He will have prepared a place to disappear to—it’s his nature, not to mention his training. He told me he’d be out of the country by midnight.”
Dino looked at him sharply. “And this was after lunch?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“After he lit out?”
“Yes. He called me on a throwaway.”
“From where?”
“Who knows? He had four or five hours to make himself scarce between the time he left and the time he called.”
“I’ll bet he’s still in the country.”
“He said he’d be out of it by midnight, remember?”
“Does he have any money?”
“His insurance company paid him half a million for his house today and wired it to an account in the Caymans.”
“Plus whatever he had before.”
“He lived as if he had some income, but not much.”
“How do he and his ex-wife get along?”
“They don’t. She died a while back, having not spoken to him since the divorce.”
“I doubt, then, that she would have left the house to him.”
“I doubt that, too, but I don’t care.”
“You don’t care that your client is a fugitive?”
“A fugitive from what? He’s not a criminal.”
“Maybe he burned his own house down.”
“Didn’t I mention he was having dinner with Holly and me at my house when it happened?”
“He’s tech-savvy enough to have done that with a timer.”
“Why would he do that? It was his only home.”
“That you know about.”
“Granted.”
“You know where I think he’d go?” Dino asked.
“Where?”
“Venezuela.”
“That’s not exactly the garden spot of the Americas these days, you know.”
“Maybe, but nobody could ever find him there.”
“Except the Venezuelan police. They wouldn’t be very hospitable to a retired CIA officer. I think he’s somewhere more comfortable. Ed strikes me as someone who likes his comforts.”
“Who doesn’t?” Holly asked. “By the way, you’re both lousy cops.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Dino said, looking wounded.
“You don’t have any evidence of anything, just suppositions. You can’t find a fugitive with suppositions, especially after the big supposition, the ex-wife, is out of the picture.”
“Well,” Stone said, “he has a nice wardrobe from Brooks Brothers. He wouldn’t buy that so he could disappear into the Venezuelan jungle.”
“I’ll give you that,” Dino said.
“Thank you so much.”
“Anyway, he’s not worried about the cops, and only a little worried about the Agency. He’s worried about politics.”
“Politics?” Viv asked. “What kind of politics?”
“National politics.”
“Is he running for President?”
“No, but somebody is going to run against Kate Lee, and I think Ed knows who and why, or at least he knows enough about the candidate to worry that man and his friends.”
“And who would that be?” Dino asked.
“A gentleman called Knott.”
“Not what?”
“Not not—Knott, with a k and two t’s. Nelson Knott.”
Dino shook his head. “This is all too fantastic for me.”
“It’s not as fantastic as you think. The man has already formed a party, called the Independent Patriot Party, and he’s got a couple of dozen people to put up for Senate and House seats. He wants the whole ball of wax.”
“This is making me tired,” Dino said. “I want to go home.” He raised a finger. “Check?”
33
CHRISTIAN ST. CLAIR WATCHED the chopper drift in astern of the yacht, which was moving along at ten knots, lowering the ground speed of the chopper, which set down lightly on the afterdeck roof. The yacht’s captain waved St. Clair up to the top deck and walked him to the chopper. They both ducked their heads instinctively, even though they had seven feet of clearance, eight feet for Christian.
St. Clair climbed into the rear seat of the copter, set his briefcase on the seat beside him, and put on his seat belt and headset. “Go,” he said into the attached microphone, and the machine rose and peeled away from the yacht, turning to the southwest toward New York.
As they made their way toward the city, Christian r
eflected on what an important day this was for him. He owned everything a man could want—city houses, country houses, aircraft, seacraft, many cars, and enough art to fill a small museum. There was something else he wanted, though, something that perhaps no one had ever owned: a President of the United States.
Having his own President would make him a kind of benevolent dictator, in his mind. Instead of spending millions a year on lobbyists who conducted subversive campaigns for the legislation he needed, he would simply make a phone call to his President, and his will would be done. Of course, it would still be necessary to buy congressmen and senators, but he had enough of them already to carry any vote, as long as they and the President were of the same party.
He had chosen Nelson Knott carefully and groomed him even more so. Under his tutelage, Nelson had become a man of the people, when he needed to be, and at the drop of a hat. He was also intelligent and well educated, so he mingled nicely with the elite, too. As much at home at a chamber music concert as at the Grand Ole Opry, on a golf course or a NASCAR track, he was ideally suited to command broad appeal, as long as he had Christian’s full financial backing.
Over a period of a few years, Nelson and his wife had found their lot in life becoming steadily more beautiful and luxurious. Whereas they had once stayed at good hotels, now they stayed at great ones, and in large suites. They traveled in what they thought of as their own jet, though it was owned by St. Clair, through a maze of corporations. Their children were at Groton, Mount Holyoke, Harvard, and Princeton. Before the election there would be a gorgeous new concert venue completed in New York City, named Knott Hall, and it would rival Andrew Carnegie’s best work.
Her clothes came from Paris and Milan; his from St. Clair’s own London tailor, shirtmaker, and bootmaker. They lived in four houses, one of them in Branson, Missouri, and in a Fifth Avenue apartment—all designed by leading architects, and their books and artwork were chosen by Christian and impressed all who visited. Nelson had recently become a member of old-line, prestigious clubs in New York and Washington, and he was already playing golf at Augusta National.
Nelson Knott had a quality that Christian had never seen in another human being: he could take the hand of a man, look into his eyes, and become what that man wanted him to be, whether it be hillbilly or mandarin. He could sit at table in elegant homes bought with old-money fortunes, or at the grubbiest fried chicken joint on the interstate and relate, in manner and in depth, with whoever was his dining companion.
