Put a Lid on It (11 page)

“It's dealt with,” Jeffords insisted. “Your part is dealt with.”

“Tell.”

Jeffords sighed, and then was rescued temporarily by a waiter, bringing their drinks. These two were also clear liquid and ice cubes in short thick glasses, but instead of the page of lime skin they contained a gold sword-shaped toothpick impaling two big green olives. “Ahh,” said Goldfarb to her drink, so Meehan smiled at his, waiting for the waiter to go away.

Which he did, to be immediately followed by another one, bringing them menus the size of placemats, then hanging around to tell them tonight's specials, which involved a whole lot of words to let them know that tonight they could also have tuna, salmon, or lamb chops. Finally, he went away, and Meehan said, “Tell.”

“Wait till we order, Francis,” Jeffords said. “Or we'll just be interrupted a lot.”

“Okay, fine.”

Goldfarb lifted her glass. “Success,” she said.

Jeffords lifted his. “Cheers,” he said.

Meehan lifted his, finding it surprisingly heavy. “Evil to our enemies,” he said.

“
I'll
drink to that,” Jeffords said, and they all did, Meehan learning to his surprise that he seemed to have ordered gasoline diluted with olive oil.

“You know, Francis,” Jeffords said, “it's too bad you didn't have that nice jacket and tie when we were first traveling together.”

“I'm sorry if I was an embarrassment,” Meehan said.

“No, that's not what I meant,” Jeffords said, and waiter number two came back to take their order.

Meehan wanted to know why the lamb chops were so special tonight, so that's what he asked for, and when Goldfarb wanted a nice mesclun salad to start he decided he did, too.

“And the wine list,” Jeffords said. “This will only take a minute,” he assured Meehan.

A little longer, not much. Waiter number one came back, with a leather-bound book, larger than the menus, that looked as though you should say Mass out of it, and Jeffords paged through it awhile, the waiter hovering, then said, “I think bin two-seventy-one,” and the waiter said, “A very nice choice,” and went away.

“Do we have to wait for the tasting,” Meehan asked, “and the pouring, and the food arriving, and more water in the water glasses, and the drinks glasses being taken away, and some more wine pouring, and—”

“All right,” Jeffords said. “All right, you're right. You remember our first flight down to Norfolk.”

“Sure.”

“There were two people with us on the plane. Howie Briggs, remember?”

“I remember Cindy better,” Meehan said, “but sure.”

“Howie Briggs thought you looked a little strange to be on that plane,” Jeffords said, “which is why it's unfortunate you weren't dressed then as you are now. When he saw the plane's owner at Hilton Head—”

“Arthur,” Meehan said. “Briggs didn't mention a last name.”

“Very good,” Jeffords said. “Yes, Arthur.” His mouth turned down. “Arthur is a very large contributor to the president's campaign,” he said, “which gives him close access to much of what we're doing. We now learn—Yes, that's it,” he told the wine bottle next to his face, and held one finger up for Meehan to wait.

When next he could speak, he said, “We now learn that Arthur, through various multinational business connections, has, what shall I say, divided loyalties. Conflicts of interest. There are other elements, offshore, about which he feels as strongly as he feels about the reelection of the president. Perhaps more strongly.” He looked uncomfortable, fiddled with his wineglass, said, “It seems there's a combined Egyptian-Israeli intelligence task force in this country at the moment, attempting to influence the election. Been here for months. Spending money.”

Goldfarb said, “Foreign power brokers always try to horn in on our elections, guarantee themselves a piece of the pie. It's like lobbying.”

Jeffords nodded. “Yes, exactly. When Howie Briggs described Francis to Arthur, wondering why such scruffy people should get nice rides on Arthur's private jet, Arthur made inquiries.”

“Because you weren't controlling the situation,” Meehan said. “As I already pointed out.”

“Yes, I know,” Jeffords agreed, “you told me so, you're absolutely right. Well, we're learning as we go in this operation.”

“Are we,” Meehan said.

Jeffords ignored that, saying, “Thank God the people Arthur talked to don't know
what
it is that's out there, but now Arthur's other friends do know something's there. Something exists.”

Goldfarb said, “Do they want to get it so they can release it?”

“No,” Jeffords said. “They would merely like our president to be deeply in debt to them. Let's say, even more deeply in debt.”

Meehan said, “So what happened today, and what's gonna happen tomorrow?”

“After I got your call,” Jeffords said, “Bruce and I did some of our own inquiries, and it didn't take long to learn that two or three people had been indiscreet around Arthur.” Again he sighed. “It's so hard to maintain security,” he told them, “in an organization so full of passionate amateurs and true believers. Some of those people will tell anybody anything, because after all, aren't we all on the same side? Don't we represent beauty and truth?”

“Security breached,” Meehan said, dredging that phrase up from some spy novel somewhere. “Now what?”

“Fortunately,” Jeffords said, “we do have some hotheads on call when intimidation is needed, Cuban and Serbian mostly, more recently super-American citizens, and I believe even now”—with a look at his watch—“a few of them are increasing Arthur's cleaning bills, down there at Hilton Head.”

“That's not gonna keep—” Meehan stopped and frowned. “Wait a minute. Did you say combined Egyptian and Israeli
intelligence?
I mean, I heard you, but the penny didn't drop. How are you gonna shut
them
down?”

Jeffords said, “We can make it very clear to them, Francis, through various channels, that we know what they know, we know what they were trying to do, and we would be very displeased to hear they were still trying to do it.
Or
let the Other Side know, accidentally or by design, that we know something's up. The only sure way to stop an intelligence operation is to shine a light on it, and that's what you and we have done.”

Meehan looked at Goldfarb. “Does that fly?”

“Probably,” she said. “Not necessarily.”

“Almost guaranteed,” Jeffords said.

“Great,” Meehan said. “Well, I tell you what, Mr. Jeffords. You tell your guy Arthur and his friends, if these Mostafas and Yehudis come sniffing around any more, I know some Cuban Serbs myself. And they don't use channels. They mostly use cement.”

The lamb chops, it turned out, were really very good. You could say special.

When he got back to the room the telephone's message light was blinking again, and this time it was Woody's recorded voice he heard: “Nine in the morning, at the curb outside your place.”

Okay. We're moving.

24

“
L
ET'S HAVE LUNCH
first,” Woody said, he being the one driving his cousin's car, a gray Volvo station wagon with the rear third converted to a cage, which Meehan had initially assumed was for inmates, until he got his first, but not last, whiff of dog.

“Sure,” Meehan said. By now, he'd grown used to the smell of dog, barely noticed it at all, had not the slightest trouble thinking about food. So they drove on by the turnoff to Spring Road, continuing on up US Route 7 to Sheffield, where they found lunch.

Saturday, October 16, clear pale sky, crisp dry air; they weren't the only people in New York City to decide to drive to New England today, which is why it had taken them three hours to get here. Lunchtime.

Coming back down, Spring Road was on their right, two-lane blacktop heading westward into thick forest, evergreens and maples and a lot of shrubbery, angling upward along the flank of Mount Washington, named for another president, set like a huge shaggy green dunce cap to mark the conjunction of three states. They drove slowly along, the road shrouded by trees, hard to see anything to either side, and after a couple miles there was a car ahead of them, going the same way.

“Traffic,” Meehan said.

Looking in the mirror, Woody said, “Somebody behind us, too.”

“You wouldn't expect a lot of traffic here,” Meehan commented. “Not good news.”

Up ahead, the car preceding them signaled for a left. When it then went ahead and made the left, it revealed a guy standing in the middle of Spring Road, wearing a blue blazer, red pants, and a white straw hat. This guy waved for Woody to also turn left.

“The guy behind me,” Woody said, “is signaling a left.”

“I think we go with the flow,” Meehan said.

So they turned left, following the first car, followed by the third. There'd been a sign on a wooden post beside the road where they turned, reading BURNSTONE TRAIL, but it wasn't like a Highway Department sign, the letters being burnt into a rectangle of wood.

Burnstone Trail was thickly flanked by trees, not in a formal planting but obviously groomed and cared for. They also sported red-white-and-blue bunting looped along both sides from tree to tree. Between the trees, stuck into the ground on thin metal feet, were posters in combinations of red and white and blue for several people whose first name seemed to be Re-elect.

The car up ahead signaled for another left. “Something,” Woody said.

There was a clear space between trees along here, un-festooned by bunting and signs, and behind that space was an open grassy field, tilted a bit uphill toward Mount Washington. About thirty cars were parked in that field, in neat rows, with two guys in white straw hats, blue blazers and red pants ushering each arrival into place. And yes, when the car in front made the turn, there was another similar guy standing in the road, waving them to follow.

They did what all the waving guys suggested, with Meehan noticing that the people getting out of the other cars were all dressed pretty good, but not great, so he and Woody would fit in. He himself was wearing his shirt from last night, and the other new pants, and the new shoes, and his regular zippered cotton jacket that he'd worn into and out of the MCC. Woody was dressed at the same socioeconomic level, so they'd both be all right.

“I don't think there's any point locking,” Woody said, as they got out.

When people left their cars, they walked up the gradual slope to the end of the field, where there were more red-white-and-blue people, some of these girls, driving electric golf carts, with one seat beside the driver and two more behind, facing backward.

“You know what this is,” Woody said. “This is a political rally. Three weeks before the election, Saturday, no rain, it's a political rally.”

“Gets us onto the property,” Meehan said.

They rode backward in the cart, along a dirt trail in the woods, which was exactly like life, in that you never knew what was coming, and when they got off at the other end they turned around and there was the house.

Hell of a house. Big and sprawling, it was three stories high, plus attics, all white clapboard, dark green awnings and trim, big porch across the front, big curving porch on the left side. A blacktop road that was no doubt the continuation of Burnstone Trail curled in from the right past the front of the house and continued on into woods on the left, where other structures could just barely be made out.

“Our stuff is gonna be over there,” Meehan muttered, as they walked toward the house.

“We shouldn't have had lunch,” Woody said.

He was right. Ahead of them, before the road, under tents without sides, were long counters where you could get for free hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken legs, cole slaw, ice cream, soft drinks, wine, and beer. Every one of these counters carried a sign saying what business had donated them, so a whole lot of people were going to have little tax discounts in their future after this day.

It was an outdoor party, that was clear enough, even to the portable toilets discreetly to one side in among the trees. So the area in front of the house was already pretty full of families and couples, everybody trying to deal with a paper plate full of food, a paper napkin, and something to drink, all at once. Some of them were doing this while holding the hand of a child who wanted to go in a different direction.

“Maybe I'll have a hot dog,” Woody said, so they both did.

With just a hot dog and a can of beer, and with the paper napkin in your shirt pocket, it wasn't that hard to operate. Meehan and Woody ambled through the people, trending generally leftward, toward where those other structures had been glimpsed off in the woods, and Meehan said, “I don't think with this crowd we could—”

“Is this on?”

“Yes!” came a ragged cry from several people.

Woody tapped Meehan's arm and made a head gesture meaning, Let's get farther away from that. So they did.

“Folks. I'm glad to see this turnout today, and I know Mr. Burnstone is just as glad as I am, and really sorry he couldn't get here for this occasion….”

They were far enough away now that they didn't actually have to listen if they didn't want to, though some words did creep into their brains unbidden. Meehan said, “All's I know is the stuff isn't in the main house. Looked like there were two, three buildings over this way.”

“—to restore the confidence of the people—”

They were on the road now, most of the milling partygoers on the grass to their left, the house looming to their right, the speaker some distance behind them up on the front porch, with a lectern in front of him covered with an American flag, the gooseneck microphone on top of that.

“Be nice if we could look in a couple windows,” Woody said.

“—too long in the grip of people playing fast and loose—”

A bunch of red-white-blue guys on the side porch were un-limbering musical instruments. That they included banjo and clarinet suggested some Dixieland was headed their way. Some saints would soon be marching in.

Beyond the house, Burnstone Trail curved gently rightward among maple and pine trees. At least two buildings were visible back there, one a pocket version of the big house, also in white clapboard, probably a guest house, the other barn-red, therefore a barn. And there might be other structures as well, farther back.