by Stuart Woods
He could converse on subjects from Jane Austen to Einstein to foreign policy with experts on those subjects and hold his own, or he could produce baseball and football stats in quantity from memory. He could knock the socks off any journalist who sat down to interview him on any occasion.
Nelson had been profiled in The New Yorker and Fortune; he would soon be on 60 Minutes, taking up a whole hour, touring his properties, showing off his offices, and unhesitatingly answering any question they could come up with on any subject. When St. Clair had first met him a dozen years before, his mind had been a clean slate, and now, with Christian’s careful tutoring, it was a large, impressionist painting of an American life well lived.
The chopper settled down at the East Side Heliport, where a very large Mercedes van, with an interior like a luxurious corporate jet, awaited his bidding. Christian bade the driver to take him to the Club, in the East Sixties, where he had arranged a luncheon in a private dining room with ten of the most important but politically unaligned men in the United States. The goal was to impress them deeply but make no demands upon them. Christian would leave it to them to spread the word about this remarkable man they had met, his charm and erudition. Then, when the time came, most of them would form and endow political action committees that would reward Nelson Knott with fame and approbation and punish his enemies with ignominy and debasement.
Christian knew that Nelson had few if any enemies because he was so little known in the world he was entering, but of course he would make them as he made progress. While Nelson could be nearly all things to nearly all men, some would, inevitably, despise him for what he was or wasn’t. That was the nature of human beings.
St. Clair entered the Club, took the elevator up to the little dining room, and closely inspected the table, the china, the silverware, and the flowers. Everything had to be perfect. Nelson Knott was announced and entered the room a quarter of an hour before the other guests, as planned. Christian greeted him warmly, but avoided hugging. If he could have changed anything important about Nelson, Christian would have made him a foot shorter. As it was, when the two men stood together, the difference in their heights was stunning, even with the lifts in Christian’s shoes. He was careful never to embrace Nelson in the presence of others.
“Nelson, did you receive the briefing papers on our guests?”
“I did, Christian, and I have committed them to memory. I thank you for that courtesy.”
“There will be four courses served,” Christian said, “and you will change places between each course, so that you may speak individually with each of them.”
“I will enjoy that,” Nelson said.
“I will begin by saying a few words, and I will leave it with you to say a few words at the closing, to give them something to think about on their way back to their homes and offices.”
“That’s a good plan,” Nelson said. “I had thought I might see Stone Barrington among today’s guests,” he said. “I was looking forward to seeing him again.”
“I’m glad you liked him, Nelson, but he will not be committed to your support between now and the election; he is too close to Kate and Will Lee. After the election, though, I will see that you remake his acquaintance, because he could be useful to you over the years, perhaps as your personal attorney.”
“A good thought,” Nelson said.
Their guests began to arrive, and Christian managed the introductions.
34
WHEN CHRISTIAN ST. CLAIR REENTERED his Mercedes van in the Club’s basement, a man was waiting for him inside, by appointment. He was Erik Macher, a former FBI and intelligence agent who now operated as St. Clair’s head of security, though few people in general or among St. Clair’s many other employees had ever heard of Macher or even knew of his existence. He commanded St. Clair’s private security contingent and operated on a very generous budget.
“Good afternoon, Mr. St. Clair,” Macher said.
“Good afternoon, Erik. What do you have for me?”
“Since the disappearance of Edward Rawls we have undertaken a broad-based search for him, in this country and abroad, in countries where he served.”
“And have you found him?”
“We have not. We have, however, located what might be thought of as the most likely place he would shelter, even if he hasn’t arrived there yet.”
“And where would that be?”
“His ex-wife—”
“I told you, Erik, the woman died five months ago, and even if she were alive she would be the last person to offer him help.”
“I understand, sir, but we have uncovered an important fact about their divorce.”
“And what is that?”
“Although she sought and got the couple’s house in Virginia, quite near CIA headquarters, she was not given title, but a lifetime occupancy. That having expired with her, the house still belongs to Ed Rawls.”
“Have you checked it?”
“I placed two agents there last evening, posing as prospective buyers. The house has been on the market with a local agency since shortly after Myra Rawls’s death. They were shown through it and left the agent with the hope of an offer to come. While there they examined every room and found no signs of occupancy by Rawls or anyone else. They also checked the outbuildings, including a barn and a garage containing a 1985 Mercedes station wagon, also registered in Ed Rawls’s name, and connected to a trickle charger. There is a guest or staff flat upstairs. The place is an ideal hideout for Ed Rawls, he just hasn’t taken advantage of it—not yet anyway.”
“What are they asking for the house?”
“Two million dollars, firm.”
“Buy it.”
“Forgive me, sir, but unless you require a residence in that part of Virginia, that would be a totally unnecessary expense. It wouldn’t even prevent Rawls from using it as a hideout for quite some time, and it would put a large sum in his pocket, upon closing, which he could then use to establish himself elsewhere. He has already collected half a million dollars in insurance money for his house in Maine, so he is awash in cash already. It was wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.”
“Can we find out how much is in the account?”
“Very nearly impossible, sir. It would require millions in bribes to bank staff, and it is very likely a numbered account without his name on it.”
“The insurance company would have the number, wouldn’t they?”
“No, sir. The funds would have been wired directly to the bank, who then, by previous instruction, would have deposited them in the numbered account.”
“Is the strong case still with Stone Barrington?”
“We believe it is very likely that Rawls would have removed it from Barrington’s custody, one way or another.”
“The man’s a safecracker?”
“He is a highly trained and experienced intelligence officer. Opening a safe is not beyond his ken.”
“Anything else new, Erik?”
“Yes, sir. It appears that Rawls built a concealed storage place adjoining his Islesboro house. We believe he has stored many files there, probably associated with what is now in the strong case.”
“Was it destroyed in the fire?”
“No, sir. Apparently it contained an incendiary device that was detonated remotely. We got a look at it as soon as it cooled, and everything inside was completely destroyed beyond recovery.”
“Rawls is very smart, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir, he is, and that makes him extremely difficult to find.”
“Are police looking for him, too?”
“No, sir, he has committed no criminal act.”
“Do we have any competitor in finding him?”
“I’m quite sure the CIA would be very interested in speaking to him, if they haven’t already. Lance Cabot visited Barrington’s h
ouse while Rawls was in residence, but we don’t know if he spoke to the man. Barrington and Cabot had lunch at this club after their initial meeting at the house.”
“What, now, is your recommendation?”
“I have taken the liberty of placing two of my agents in a house within sight of Rawls’s Virginia place, with instructions that one of them must have visual contact with the house at all times. Should he arrive there, we will know.”
“If we find him there, then what?”
“It seems highly likely that Rawls will have a secure place in the house that would contain the strong case. We will find and open it. Also, it would be an ideal place to interrogate him, obviating transporting him to another location for that purpose.”
“Erik, it is extremely important that no permanent harm come to Rawls. That would only make him more interesting to the police, the Agency, or anyone else who is looking for him.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“We have already lost three of your men to this investigation, and that has been a major inconvenience to me, not to mention a major expense, what with having to pay the families large sums of money for their silence.”
“I am quite aware of that, sir, and you may rely on their silence.”
“I should bloody well hope so.”
“Sir, it would be helpful to me if I had some idea of the contents of the case.”
“It would be very helpful to me to have that, as well, Erik.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Suffice it to say that I believe it contains evidence of secret pardons, one of them that of Rawls, granted by Will Lee late in his second term, and that public knowledge of these might be an insurmountable impediment to the reelection of Katharine Lee.”
“Who was the other pardon for, sir?”
“I don’t know, but I would certainly like to. Beyond the pardons, there may be inflammatory information concerning our friend Mr. Knott.”
“Sir, I and my people have searched his background thoroughly, to the point where no one, in my view, could find anything derogatory that we have not already expunged from his various records.”
“I am aware that there are limits to what one man may learn of another, Erik. It is always possible to miss something, and I cannot afford that.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Keep me posted on Rawls.”
“Yes, sir.” Macher got out of the van and left on foot as it drove away.
35
ED RAWLS KEPT THE LOWEST possible profile for the first week. He used one light at a time, double-checking to see that the blinds were drawn, and he stayed out of the living room, which fronted the road. But then he ran short of scotch, and as an afterthought, groceries. It would take too long to get the scotch delivered, so he made plans to go to the village.
Shortly after midnight he grabbed a flashlight and made his way to the garage. He pulled the cover off the old Mercedes and disconnected the battery charger, all this without turning on a light. The car started immediately, and he let it run for a couple of minutes with the garage door open, then backed it out and pointed it at the main road, up close against the tall hedge, then he switched it off, closed the garage door, and went back into the house.
As he walked to the front steps he froze, then stood behind the big oak tree out front. A light had gone on in the house across the road, a hundred yards away, and as far as he knew, nobody lived there. It was a weekend place for the owners, and not every weekend, and tonight was not a weekend.
Keeping the oak tree between him and that house, he made his way to the driveway, then around back, letting himself in the rear door. He locked it behind him and went to lock the front door, as well. He got his binoculars from the bookcase in his study; they were high-powered, and he went to a front window and trained them on the light across the road.
The light was in a kitchen window, and a moment later a blond woman opened the refrigerator and took out something. He had caught a glimpse of her through the crack of his study door when the couple had come to look at his house. They must have liked the neighborhood, he thought.
He got his throwaway cell phone, looked up the number for the sheriff’s substation in the village, and called. As expected, he got a beep. “There are intruders in the Denton house on County Road 6,” he said into the phone. “I just passed by there and saw somebody inside. Please look into it.” He hung up and hoped the call had wakened the deputy, who would be asleep on the sofa in the squad room.
—
DEPUTY JAMES GARR woke from a light sleep and heard someone recording a message. He got up, went to the machine, and played back the message.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself. He went outside and started the patrol car, then picked up the radio microphone. “Central, this is car three. Come back.”
“What’s goin’ on, James?” a woman’s voice said.
“I’m leaving substation four. Got a call of intruders at the Dentons’ place on County Road 6.”
“You want backup?”
“Not yet. I’ll call you from my handheld if I do.”
“Sorry they woke you up, James.”
“Screw you, Suzie.” He hung up the microphone and started driving. It took him four minutes to reach the Denton house, and he drove past at thirty miles an hour, then pulled over and turned off his lights. Looking back, he could see the kitchen window, and there was a light on.
He walked back to the house and had a look in the front window; all he saw was the light from the kitchen. He unsnapped the keep on his Glock and walked quietly around the house to the kitchen window. There was an empty recycling bin at the foot of the steps to the back door, and he turned it upside down and stood on it. He took off his hat and peered through a corner of the kitchen window. There was a blond woman in a pantsuit sitting at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. There was a half-empty glass of orange juice beside her on the table.
Now, he asked himself, what would a woman be doing sitting at a kitchen table in a pin-striped suit at one o’clock in the morning? He got down from the bin, reinstalled his hat, walked up the back steps, and rapped sharply on the pane in the door with his high school class ring.
He heard something resembling a scuffle from inside, and the woman called out, “Farrell!” He rapped again. “Sheriff’s office,” he called out. “Open up, please!”
“Farrell!” she shouted again.
Garr tried the door, found it unlocked, and let himself in. “Sheriff’s office!” he called out again, and unholstered the Glock.
“What the hell is it?” a man’s voice demanded.
Garr stepped into the kitchen, the weapon at his side, and found himself staring into somebody else’s Glock. A man in a gray business suit was pointing it at him.
“Drop your weapon,” Garr said. “I’m a uniformed sheriff’s deputy, can’t you see that?”
The man didn’t drop it. “What the hell do you want?” he asked sourly.
“Drop the weapon,” Garr said. “I won’t tell you again.”
The man lowered the pistol. “What’s this about?”
Garr walked over to him, his Glock in plain view but pointed at the floor, and took the pistol from the man’s hand. “This is about you showing me some ID, both of you, and explaining what you’re doing in this house.”
The woman put a hand to her breast. “Oh, you scared me half to death,” she said.
“Both of you, put your ID on the table and step back.”
They both came up with driver’s licenses, set them down, and stepped back.
“Tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Well,” the woman said, “the owners are in the Bahamas for a couple of weeks, and they offered us the house while they were gone.”
“You have anything in writing to confirm that?” Garr asked.
“I’m afraid not,” the man said.
“What’s their cell phone number?” Garr asked.
The man began slapping his pockets. “I’ve got it somewhere,” he said.
“Then let’s have it.” He was going through his pockets now. Garr picked up the two licenses; one was New Jersey, the other, Connecticut. The names were Drake and Solberg. “Are you two married?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man said, “but not to each other.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
“It’s like that.”
“Where’s that number?”
“I appear to have left it in another suit.”
“Why are you dressed in business clothes in the middle of the night?”
“We were watching television and hadn’t got sleepy yet,” the woman said.
“You weren’t watching television,” Garr said, tapping the crossword, “and neither was he.”
“Oh, yes, I was watching the news in the living room,” the man said.
“The Dentons don’t own a TV,” Garr said. “Now, both of you grab the table, and don’t make any sudden moves.” He began patting them down. “And let me see the license for the Glock.”
“I have a Connecticut license,” the man said. “You want to see that?”
“Nope, that doesn’t work in Virginia.” Garr cuffed the man and told the woman to sit down. He pressed the PTT button on his radio. “Suzie,” he said, “I’m going to need another patrol car. I’ve got a couple of B&E’s on my hands.”
—
ED RAWLS WATCHED through his binoculars as a second sheriff’s car pulled up, and two people were stuffed into the rear seat. He would sleep better, now.
