Below the Belt

by Stuart Woods

  “Now listen,” Alf said, and his group turned quiet.

  One of his men who faced the door put a hand on Alf’s arm and stopped him. “Don’t look now, but a man just entered the pub, and he’s casing the place. From the look of him he’s packing, and he’s a pro.”

  Alf shifted his chair so that he could get the man into his peripheral vision. “Confirmed,” he said. Then, as he watched, three black people entered the pub, one of them a boy, along with another obvious pro. “The gang’s all here,” Alf said.

  —

  ACROSS THE ROOM, one of the family’s guards kicked his partner under the table. “Group at a table next to the fireplace,” he said.

  “Got ’em,” the man replied.

  “Those guys are pros,” the first man said.

  54

  MIKE FREEMAN LISTENED CAREFULLY TO the report from his man at Windward Hall, then hung up and called Stone Barrington.

  “Yes, Mike?”

  “Two of my men accompanied the family to a nearby pub for lunch, and they spotted five men there who were obvious pros.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “Not yet. They left a man to watch from a distance and the leader of the group left in a green Range Rover. He ran the plates, and the vehicle is registered to a London company owned by Christian St. Clair.”

  “What steps have they taken?” Stone asked.

  “They’re returning the family to their cottage soon and a crew of six will be guarding them, two in the house.”

  “Do you have a recommendation?”

  “I thought of moving them to the main house, but that would be just more area to patrol. I think it’s better that they stay where they are for the moment.”

  “All right. Something you should know—Hank Parker is ex–special ops. He retired as a master sergeant. It might be good to arm him. He’d be an extra man for you.”

  “I’ll have it done. You’d better decide if you want to leave them at Windward Hall or move them to Paris or New York.”

  “Do you have a recommendation, Mike?”

  “If St. Clair could follow them to Beaulieu, he could follow them anywhere, so I don’t think moving them would help. I think they’re well enough guarded, and I’d recommend leaving them where they are for at least a few more days.”

  “All right, let’s do that.” Stone thanked Mike and hung up.

  —

  STONE THOUGHT ABOUT it for a few minutes, then called Lance Cabot.

  “Yes, Stone?”

  Stone explained what had happened and the steps he had taken.

  “I think that’s sensible.”

  “Did you discuss the situation with Will at your meeting?”

  “Yes, briefly.”

  “Did you talk about when I should have the books mailed?”

  “Yes, and the answer is not yet.”

  “I think I disagree. The safety of this family is at stake, and the sooner we go public, the sooner the pressure will be off them. Once the story is out, St. Clair can’t afford to harm them.”

  “You have a point,” Lance said.

  “What’s more, I think we should express-mail the books to the mailing list for overnight delivery.”

  “Let me make a call,” Lance said, and hung up.

  Stone waited impatiently for half an hour, then Lance called back.

  “What’s the word?”

  “I’ve had word that Nelson Knott is going to release a video announcement this afternoon, in time for the evening news shows.”

  “An announcement that he’s going to run?”

  “What else would he announce? That he’s not going to run?”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Then I think you should overnight the books. We’ll give Knott the day to do follow-up interviews, then we’ll have it in the media’s hands in time for tomorrow’s evening news. Ed’s book will make a very nice hand grenade to toss into the mix.”

  “All right. Have you made any progress with getting a DNA sample from Knott?”

  “My people are working on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “All right, you let Will know that we’re going, and I’ll let Ed Rawls know.”

  “Right.” Both men hung up.

  Stone called Ed and brought him up to date.

  “I didn’t expect an announcement this soon,” Ed said.

  “Neither did I.”

  “Still, it’s good that we’re ready to go. Are you going to tell me where the books are now?”

  “On their way to the post office, for overnight mail.”

  “Okay.”

  “Lance’s people are working on getting a DNA sample from Knott.”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Gotta run.” Stone hung up and buzzed Joan.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “We need to get the books to the post office right now, and they should be sent express mail, overnight.”

  “I’ll call and get them to pick up the books,” she said. “They’ll do that for large mailings.”

  “Great. Go!”

  Stone called Dino and told him the news. “I’m astonished that St. Clair found the family as quickly as he did.”

  “I was, too.”

  “I’ll be sure to watch the evening news,” Dino said. “Dinner afterward? Viv is back.”

  “Sure.”

  “Rȏtisserie Georgette at eight. I’ll book.”

  “You’re on.”

  Joan came into his office with an envelope. “The post office will pick up the books by noon, and they’ll be delivered by three tomorrow afternoon.” She handed him an envelope. “And the DNA profile came back from the lab.”

  Stone opened the envelope and looked at the report. “It’s Greek to me,” he said. “E-mail it to Lance Cabot, please.”

  —

  A VAN PULLED up at Nelson Knott’s Washington office shortly after lunch, and a television reporter and a crew got out and went inside. They took an elevator to the executive floor and presented themselves at the reception desk.

  “Mark Whittaker, from 60 Minutes,” the reporter said. “We have an appointment.”

  “One moment.” She made the call. “Go right in,” she said, pointing at the double doors behind her.

  Nelson Knott rose to greet them.

  Whittaker introduced himself. “Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Mr. Knott.”

  “I was expecting Martin Shawn,” Knott said.

  “Martin’s out of town. When we heard you were releasing a statement today, our executive producer thought we should try and get ahead of the game.”

  “Fine, but you can’t release this interview until after seven PM this evening.”

  “We’re good with that.” He turned to his crew. “Let’s do this with Mr. Knott behind the desk. Get set up.” He turned back to Knott. “Do you think I could have some coffee?” he asked. “My throat is a little scratchy.”

  “Of course.” Knott went to a sideboard and poured two cups. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Black is fine, thanks.”

  Knott handed Whittaker a mug and set his own on his desk. It was emblazoned with one word, “BOSS.” He sat down and sipped his coffee while the makeup man dabbed at his face, then they were ready.

  “All set,” Whittaker said.

  “Then let’s do it,” Knott said, taking the last swallow of his coffee.

  Whittaker moved Knott’s coffee mug across the desk. “Let’s get this off camera.”

  55

  DON, FROM THE FAMILY’S SECURITY TEAM, called a colleague at the cottage.

  “Beta here.”

  “This is Alpha. We’ve spotted opposition at the pub, and we’ll be heading out shortly for the cottage. We’re going to need backup
before we depart.”

  “Roger.”

  “Put two of you in a car and watch our ass on the way back. Leave the other two inside the cottage. The opposition is in a green Range Rover. We’ll make the transfer to the cottage from inside the garage. Call me when your vehicle is in place at the pub parking lot.”

  “Roger, wilco.” He hung up.

  “Okay, everybody,” Don said, then he looked up to see the five men across the room throw some money on their table and leave the pub. “We’re going to finish our lunch, then get into our car and drive back to the cottage. We’ll have other men in another car following us. Take your time.”

  Everybody went back to eating, and Don got up and had a look out the front window, then called Beta again.

  “Beta.”

  “Be advised the opposition has a second vehicle, a Toyota 4Runner, the big one.”

  “Roger.”

  Don went back to the table and made idle chatter while everyone finished lunch.

  When everybody was done, Don went outside and surveyed the parking lot and the road beyond. He saw their second vehicle waiting, then went back inside. “The vehicles in question have left,” he said, “and our second vehicle is in place. Let’s load up now and try to be quick.”

  He got the family outside and into his Land Rover, then headed back toward the cottage.

  Don’s radio crackled. “Alpha, we have a black Toyota SUV one hundred meters behind.”

  “Beta, let me know if they close on us.”

  Two minutes later they were through the gate and headed for the cottage.

  —

  ALF BRAND WATCHED from the shelter of the woods as the two cars arrived at the cottage, one entering the garage and closing the door behind them. The other car emptied, and the men all went inside.

  Alf called Erik Macher in the States.

  “Yes, Alf?”

  “Bad news,” he said. “I had a meet with my people at a local pub, and the family came in with professional protection, and they spotted us. The family are now back in their cottage, and six opposition are inside with them.”

  “Shit,” Macher said. “What’s your recommendation?”

  “We’re blown, no getting around that. The opposition is on full alert and we will not—repeat, not—be able to stage anything that looks remotely like an accident. Also, it’s likely that more opposition have been summoned. If we attempt an assault on the cottage we will have a war on our hands and the police on us in approximately four minutes.”

  “So, basically, we’re fucked.”

  “That’s an affirmative.”

  “I’ll get back to you on this number.”

  Alf hung up and leaned against a tree. St. Clair was not going to take the news well—he had worked for the man long enough to know that. If Macher came back with orders to assault the cottage, he would walk. He liked working for St. Clair, but not well enough to die for him or go to prison.

  Ten minutes later, his phone buzzed.

  “Alf here.”

  “All right, we accept your assessment of the situation. Your orders are to withdraw your team, but maintain surveillance on the cottage. If conditions change, and you feel you have an opportunity to take them without a shooting war, call me back. Otherwise, wait for my call.”

  “I understand,” Alf said. “Withdrawal is under way.” He called his number-one man.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m in the woods near the cottage. We have orders from home to withdraw—the opposition is too great to attempt an operation without a firefight. Get your men back to the pub or other nearby accommodation and wait for a call from me. Have one of your people relieve me in two hours. After that we’ll maintain visual contact with the cottage and hope for a change of circumstances. No one is to be out of contact, clear?”

  “Clear, sir. I’ll issue the orders now.”

  Alf hung up and settled down to watch and wait.

  —

  STONE REACHED INTO his jacket pocket for something and struck hard metal. He came out with the key to the strong case. He walked out to Joan’s office. “FedEx this to Ed Rawls in Virginia for earliest possible delivery, please.” He handed her the key.

  Joan looked at it closely. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” she said.

  “You don’t want to know.” He went back to his desk and sent Ed an e-mail, advising him the key was on its way.

  —

  IN ENGLAND the sun was setting. Don called his men together. “Establish a rough, square perimeter around the cottage, with one man at each corner, full body armor,” he said quietly, so the family wouldn’t hear. “We’ll be relieved in four hours by another team. At any sound of gunfire withdraw to the interior of the cottage and prepare for an assault.”

  The men did as they were instructed.

  —

  AT THREE PM, fifty-one media outlets in New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and Atlanta nearly simultaneously received a DVD from Knott Industries, together with a press release with an activation time of seven PM EST, announcing a press conference on the Capitol steps at 6:45 the following evening.

  —

  STONE WAS WATCHING the evening news when the story broke. Nelson Knott, sitting in the library of his Virginia home, made a three-minute statement announcing his candidacy for President of the United States, and the formation of the Independent Patriot Party, with offices in every state and sixty of the country’s most populous cities, which would be open for business at eight o’clock the following morning. Knott looked relaxed and comfortable in a V-necked cashmere sweater and appeared to be speaking without notes. He also announced that he fully expected the new party to have candidates on the ballot for all House and Senate seats by Labor Day. At least fifteen of these would be converts from the Republican rolls in both houses.

  Stone met the Bacchettis at eight at Rȏtisserie Georgette, and they ordered drinks. “Did you watch the news?” he asked them.

  “You bet your sweet ass,” Dino said. “Knott’s announcement was very slick. Is anybody from the administration going to comment?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Are the books on their way?”

  “They’ll all be delivered by three PM, Eastern, tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait,” Dino replied.

  56

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Ed Rawls was having breakfast in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. He felt for the small 9mm pistol in the pocket of his robe, then went to the door. A man in a Federal Express uniform stood at the door. Ed put his hand inside his robe pocket and thumbed back the hammer on the weapon, then opened the door.

  “Good morning,” the man said. “I have a delivery for you, and I need a signature.”

  Ed looked over the man’s shoulder and saw the FedEx truck. He slowly released the hammer on the pistol, then signed for the package.

  The driver handed him a stiff FedEx envelope. “Have a good day,” he said, then left.

  Ed went back to the kitchen, opened the envelope, and shook out the key to the strong case. He put it into the other pocket of his robe, got the mail from the mailbox on the porch, and went back to his breakfast. When he was done he cleaned up after himself, then went into his study, switched on the TV for Morning Joe, and started opening the mail.

  He was absorbed in a copy of his investment statement when he looked up and found a man standing in the door. What with Joe Scarborough in mid-rant, he hadn’t heard him enter the house. He thought of going for his pistol, but the man already had one in his hand, equipped with a silencer. Ed pressed the mute button on the TV remote control. “What the fuck do you want?” It occurred to him that, having published and circulated his book, there was nothing pressing remaining in his life, and it might be as good a time as any to die.

  “We want the strong case,” t
he man said. “And if you don’t give it to us without a fuss, you’re going to die here and now.”

  “Oh, all right,” Ed said. “Can I get up and get it without being shot?”

  “Go ahead, but carefully.”

  Ed got up, swung back the bookcase hiding his safe, entered the code, and opened the door.

  “Don’t reach inside,” the man said, “just step back two paces.”

  “Sure thing,” Rawls said, and followed orders.

  The man motioned to a companion behind him. “Get the thing out of the safe.” The man stepped past Rawls and retrieved the strong case.

  “We’ll say good morning to you, then,” the man with the silenced pistol said.

  “And to you,” Ed replied.

  The man turned to go.

  “Oh,” Ed said.

  The man turned. “What?”

  “It occurs to me that you might like to have the key, since the case can’t be opened without it.”

  “Where is the key?”

  “In this pocket,” Ed said, pointing at it.

  “Take it out very, very carefully,” the man said.

  Ed did so, then tossed it to him.

  The man caught the key without taking his eyes from Rawls, impressing him. “Thank you. Now sit down and don’t move for five minutes.”

  Ed sat down, picked up his investment statement, and started to read.

  The man with the silenced pistol vanished, and Ed heard the front door close softly. He picked up the remote and restored Joe Scarborough to speech in mid-rant. He was now on the subject of Nelson Knott’s announcement and its potential effect on the coming election.

  —

  STONE WAS HAVING his own breakfast in bed, watching Morning Joe, when the phone rang. “Yes?”

  “It’s Ed Rawls.”

  “Good morning, Ed.”

  “I thought you’d like to know that I received the key, and just in time.”

  “In time for what?”

  “In time for two of Christian St. Clair’s thugs to walk, armed, into my house and demand the strong case on pain of death.”