by Stuart Woods
“I have friends, too, Ed, some of them remarkably well informed. In a recent conversation with one of them I asked a question you might be able to answer for me.”
“What’s your question?”
“Why would you want to release or even possess information that might be harmful to Kate’s presidency? Do you have something against her and Will, or are you just ungrateful?”
“I have no intention of doing anything that would harm either of them.”
“You’re kind of slow getting around to telling me that, aren’t you?”
“I have my reasons, and I can’t explain them over the phone.”
“You were in my house for three days—you could have told me face-to-face.”
“Once you know everything, you’ll understand my reticence.”
“What, exactly, do you plan to do, Ed?”
“Not over the phone.”
“Did you watch 60 Minutes last night?”
“I did.”
“What did you think of Knott?”
“Creepy and dangerous.”
“Is there anything in your strong case that would bear on his candidacy?”
“There is something, and St. Clair’s people have done such a good job of sanitizing his past that I might be one of only two or three people left alive who know about it.”
“Were the others very old or very unlucky?”
“Very unlucky. Three, perhaps four people are dead because they knew.”
“This is beginning to sound like a conspiracy theory, Ed.”
“It isn’t a theory, and it’s spelled out, with supporting evidence, in my manuscript.”
“And what do you intend to do with it?”
“Publish it.”
“You have a publisher?”
“I’m the writer, editor, and publisher, and it’s ready to go.”
“If you’re self-publishing, you’re still going to need a printer.”
“There is new equipment that can print, bind, wrap, and put postage on a book. All I have to do is to plug a thumb drive into its computer, then walk around to the other end and collect the finished books in envelopes, already stamped.”
“How are you going to distribute it?”
“I have a mailing list of two hundred opinion makers. All I have to do is take the boxes to a post office. You’re on my list, so you’ll get a copy, so will Holly Barker.”
“And when can I expect it?”
“When I think the moment is right.”
“And how will you decide that?”
“By weighing all the factors in play. I don’t have any trouble making decisions.”
“Something else I don’t understand, Ed.”
“What’s that?”
“Why are you suddenly living openly in your own home, where anyone can walk in, kill you, and take your strong case?”
“They’ve found me three times,” Rawls said. “In Maine, at your house, and now at my house, and I’m still alive. They’re being run by a man named Erik Macher, out of his security business office in D.C. Have you ever heard of him?”
“No. Who is he?”
“He’s Christian St. Clair’s personal policeman. He’s offered me half a million dollars for the strong case, and I think I told you he has more people than a lot of police departments. Two of them showed up in the house, escorted by a real estate agent with whom I had listed the place. Another turned up yesterday, clumsily disguised as a window washer. I’m just tired of running.”
“When are you going to print the book, Ed?”
“I printed it this morning,” Rawls said. “It’s ready for mailing.”
“Do you think this Macher guy knows that?”
“No. I got it all done without being rumbled.”
“And where are the books?”
“They’re at a packing and shipping place in D.C., which is waiting for my call. I dropped them off an hour and a half ago.”
“Are you going to be able to stay alive until you can make that call?”
“I expect so. I can text them in less than a minute.”
“Ed, why did you call me?”
“To give you the phone number of the shipping place. If you hear that something has happened to me or that I’ve disappeared, I’d be grateful if you’d make the call for me. I’ve told them you could be the one to give them instructions.”
Stone didn’t say anything for a minute.
“I can hear the lawyer’s wheels turning in your head,” Rawls said. “You’re trying to figure out whether making that call might make you liable.”
“Not legally liable.”
“Liable to get killed for your trouble.”
“You swear to me that your book isn’t going to hurt Kate or Will?”
“One of the two pardons that Will made—mine—will become public knowledge, but not the other. Kate can honestly deny all knowledge of mine, and Will can offer justification.”
“What justification?”
“An old KGB hand defected to the Agency during Kate’s run for the presidency, and he spilled the whole story from the KGB point of view. It makes me out, correctly, to be a victim, not a willing collaborator. That gave Will justification for my pardon. If the story comes out, others will verify what the Russian guy spilled to the Agency. I may not end up smelling like a rose, but I won’t be thought of as a traitor anymore. And it won’t damage Kate.”
Stone sighed. “Okay, what’s the name and number of your pack-and-ship place in D.C.?”
“I’ve already texted it,” Rawls said. “It’s in your phone. If for some reason I don’t survive this, I’ll thank you now for your help, Stone. Otherwise, I’ll see you in Islesboro next summer, if not sooner.”
Rawls hung up.
Stone checked his messages; the phone number was there.
42
HOLLY CALLED FROM HOME. “I wanted to thank you for our time together,” she said. “I loved it, I really did, and Kate was right, not being in touch with the White House allowed me to reset my brain. It made me a woman again, something I had almost forgotten, instead of just a functionary.”
“I never forgot you were a woman,” Stone said.
“Thank you for that, and thank you for the proposal, however unconventional it may have been.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How long is the offer going to be open?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I can’t see into the future.”
“I guess I’ll have to accept that answer.”
“Or my proposal.”
“An important part of me wants to, and right now, but my head is getting in the way.”
“I understand that. It’s the other part I love most.”
“Thank you for that, too.”
“Have you seen 60 Minutes?”
“No, I missed it. I wasn’t here to record it. I’ve talked to a friend who saw it, so I know pretty much how it went.”
“I was impressed.”
“You were?”
“So was Will.”
“He hadn’t seen it when we talked.”
“How was the trip back?”
“Will said that Kate is looking forward to having me back, and that was a relief.”
“Did you ever doubt it?”
“I’m afraid I did, getting suddenly cut off like that. Will told me that Ed Rawls is living in his old house in Virginia.”
“And rebuilding his Maine house.”
“Sounds like he’s optimistic about the future. He thinks he might be alive to enjoy it.”
“He’s not sure about that,” Stone said.
“What happens to the strong case if he’s suddenly not around?”
“I think he’s made plans, just in case
.”
“That’s scary. Will won’t like to hear it.”
“I don’t think Will has anything to worry about, nor Kate.”
“It sounds like you and Ed have been talking.”
“He did most of the talking.”
“Can I ask you what he said?”
“Not yet, maybe later.”
“Has a new woman come scratching at your door?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll happen soon.”
“I don’t much care at the moment.”
Holly laughed. “When it happens, you’ll be responsive—you always are.”
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a condemnation.”
“Take it as a compliment, you’ll feel better.”
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try too hard. I have to go now. The pizza deliveryman is ringing the doorbell.”
“Bye-bye.”
“Bye-bye.” They hung up.
The phone rang a minute later.
“It’s Dino. Dinner at P.J. Clarke’s at seven?”
“Done.”
“See ya.” He hung up.
—
DINO, SCOTCH IN HAND, was ogling the women at the bar when Stone arrived.
“I guess Viv is out of town.”
“She is. She has an early meeting in L.A. tomorrow morning.”
Stone looked around. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Just browsing,” Dino said. “Hey, I’ve been getting a lot of questions about you.”
“From Christian St. Clair?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t know there was anything about me he doesn’t already know. I’m sure he has copies of my medical records and tax returns.”
“I’m sure he could get them if he wanted them,” Dino replied.
“Did you see 60 Minutes?”
“I did. That guy is something, isn’t he?”
“Knott or St. Clair?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Let me ask you something. Do you think St. Clair is capable of murder?”
Dino froze. “What makes you ask that?”
“Because I’ve heard he had three or four people taken out who knew stuff about Knott.”
“Jeez, I don’t know. He seems like the most civilized guy in the world.”
“Do you think he would remain civilized if somebody tried to take away something he wanted?”
Dino shrugged. “People can change in a flash.”
“I’m not sure it would represent a change,” Stone said. “I think when a man has that much money, when he’s completely in control of his own destiny, he starts wanting to be in control of other people’s destinies, too.”
“Certainly Knott seems to be entirely Christian’s creature.”
“Entirely,” Stone said. “If Christian could get him elected, then Christian would be, effectively, President of the United States.”
“He’s too short to be President,” Dino said.
“Yeah? Napoleon was too short to be emperor of France, too, and we know how that ended.”
“Well, Christian has chosen a very tall guy to be his surrogate, maybe he’s compensating that way. What do you think St. Clair would do if he had that power?”
“I think he’d make it a lot easier for him to be Christian St. Clair. When you have that much money, only government can impede your progress. That’s why the super-rich give so much money to political races.”
“I suppose so.”
“I heard just today that Christian invited ten super-rich guys to lunch at the Club to meet Nelson Knott.”
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Four of them have agreed to start PACs with a hundred million each, and two others are considering it.”
Dino choked on his scotch, and Stone pounded him on the back. He was finally able to speak. “Four hundred million in the bank, just like that?”
“Six hundred million, maybe, and that’s not counting whatever Christian is spending. Knott might be playing the game with a billion in the bank.”
“Then Kate is in trouble.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“But to go back to your original question about St. Clair, if he’s invested a couple of hundred million of his own money in Knott, then yes, I think he might kill people to protect his investment.”
“Well,” Stone said, “I don’t want to be one of them.”
43
THAT NIGHT, Stone dreamed exotic, dramatic dreams that seemed to involve Christian St. Clair and his political surrogate, but when he awoke, he could only remember fragments.
He breakfasted, showered, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs to his office. He opened his cell phone and went to Ed Rawls’s text with the information on the pack-and-ship place in D.C. and dialed the number. He had decided to take the distribution of Rawls’s books out of Ed’s hands and into his own.
“Yes?”
“My name is Stone Barrington. Do you remember that name in relation to Ed Rawls?”
“I do. I’m to accept your instructions for delivery, should you call.”
“I’m calling. Do you have a van in your business?”
“I do, and the twenty boxes will fit into it.”
“I’d like you to load all the boxes into the van and deliver them to the following address. Got a pencil?”
“I have. Give me the address.”
Stone gave him the address of his New York house.
“That’s going to be expensive, if my van has to go to New York. It might be cheaper to put the boxes into bigger boxes, then ship them by Federal Express Ground.”
“I need the boxes here today,” Stone said. “How much to deliver them?”
The man did some math and mentioned a number.
“Done,” Stone said. “How long will it take to get them here?”
“We can have the van loaded in about an hour, then four to six hours, depending on traffic.”
“I’ll give you a credit card number,” Stone said. He did, then hung up.
Joan came in with the mail. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. This afternoon, probably around three o’clock, a van is going to arrive and deliver twenty boxes. If I’m not here, I want you to secure them.”
“How big are the boxes?”
“They each hold about ten books.”
“There won’t be room enough in your safe for that many.”
“Then lock them in the wine cellar.” The wine cellar had a steel door in a steel frame, and the lock operated four bolts on each of the three sides.
“Okay. This is all very peculiar,” Joan said.
“You are quite right.”
“It will be done.” She went back to her office.
Stone riffled through the mail and found an envelope from a law office in Virginia; that struck him as odd, and he opened the letter inside.
Dear Mr. Barrington,
I am an attorney with offices in Virginia. One of my clients is Edward Rawls. I assume you will receive this letter on Tuesday; I will be in New York that day, and I would like to see you on an urgent matter as early in the day as possible. I will phone for an appointment.
Carson Rutledge
Rutledge & Rutledge
Stone buzzed Joan, and she answered. “I’m expecting a call from a Mr. Carson Rutledge, and—”
“He’s on the other line and wants an appointment.”
“Invite him to come as soon as he can.”
She went back to her call, then buzzed. “He’s on the way over here now—be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.”
—
CARSON RUTLEDGE WAS a tall, slender man in a wel
l-tailored, chalk-striped suit, with a head of thick gray hair. Stone offered him a chair and coffee. He declined the coffee, and Stone thought that a good thing, since he seemed to be pretty wired already.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said.
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Rutledge. What can I do for you?”
“Ed Rawls has asked me to deliver this package to you by hand,” he said, opening his briefcase and handing Stone a padded envelope. “It contains two copies of a book Mr. Rawls wrote and the originals of some documents that are reprinted in the book.”
Stone accepted the package and put it on the coffee table. “Is this a book that Ed has recently written?”
“It is, and I must tell you, I’m glad to have that material off my hands. I suggest that you keep it in a safe, or at least under lock and key.”
“I shall do so.”
Rutledge heaved a deep sigh. “I feel greatly relieved,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Because during the time those things have been in my possession, I have come to fear for my life, and that is not an emotion I am accustomed to.”
“And now that you have given them to me, should I fear for my life?”
“I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s my strong feeling that you should be, if anyone other than you, me, and Ed Rawls should learn about this transfer.”
“Do you have a malefactor in mind?”
“Mr. Barrington, do you have any concern that your office might be under electronic surveillance?”
“I have enough concern that I have it electronically swept at regular and close intervals.”
“Let’s just say that my suspected malefactors are a very rich man, his protégé, and his private security force.”
“I believe I get the picture.”
“I’m glad of that.” He stood. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return, posthaste, to my usual dull and uneventful existence.”
“Can I have my secretary call some transportation for you?”
“Thank you, no, I have a car and driver waiting outside, and it’s a long drive to Virginia.” They shook hands; Rutledge took his briefcase and walked out.
Stone sat down, found a small box cutter in his desk, and sliced open the package. He found two bound copies of a book entitled A Great Storm Coming, by Edward Rawls, a longtime officer in the Central Intelligence Agency.
