Shoot Him if He Runs (23 page)

“Can you imagine what the press could do with a story that had me taking a helicopter so as not to be late for a dinner party?”

“Not a dinner party, a state dinner; not even nearly the same thing.”

“Certainly not as much fun.” She stepped into a red dress and turned her back. “Shut up and zip,” she said.

He zipped. “Now you have to tie my tie. Tit for tat.”

“Oh, all right, come here.”

He knew how to tie a bow tie; he just liked it when she did it. She stood close, concentrating.

“What are you staring at?”

“What I stare at every chance I get.”

“That is covered by a dress.”

“Oh, I like your face, too.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Even when it hasn’t been washed and made up.”

“Oh, God,” she cried, running for her bathroom. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. Just as soon as you got my tie tied.”

There was a sound of running water and splashing. “How much time do I have?”

Will checked his wristwatch. “Minus ten minutes.”

“Shit! Are they down there waiting?”

“They’re in the Oval; we’re having cocktails there.”

“You go ahead; I’ll be there a few seconds after you.”

“Someone on the staff has heard that Hugh English was seen having lunch with Cal Ferguson.”

“That will have to keep until I have a face again.”

Will went back to his dressing room, got into his waistcoat and dinner jacket, chose a white silk pocket square, put his glasses, pen and jotting pad, which contained his nuclear code card, into his inside pockets and started across the bedroom. “Minus twelve minutes,” he called out.

“Go fuck yourself, Mr. President!”

Will laughed all the way to the elevator.

T
hey were halfway through their first martini when Kate swept into the Oval Office. “I’m so sorry to be late,” she said, shaking hands with the PM and his wife. “I wish I could blame it on national security, but it was just traffic.”

“That’s quite all right,” the PM said. “We have traffic in Australia, too.”

Will handed her a dirty martini with an olive stuffed with an anchovy. “Inhale that and relax.”

“It’s not like you’re late for the Queen,” the PM’s wife said. “I was once twenty minutes late for the Queen, when we were in London. She was not amused.”

“The Duke of Edinburgh was amused,” the PM said. “I thought he would burst out laughing, until the Queen gave him that
look
.”

Kate drew in a third of her martini. “Ahhhh,” she said.

“Mr. President…” the PM began.

“Please, we’re Will and Kate.”

“And we’re Geoff and Sheila,” he replied.

“Sheila is the national term for female in Australia,” Sheila said. “Makes it easy for people to remember my name.”

“Will,” the PM began again, “when I visited the Capitol this afternoon, a senator, that ginger-haired fellow, the tall one…”

“Senator Ferguson?”

“That’s the one.”

“He said something odd to me; he said, ‘When you see the President tonight, ask him how Teddy is.’”

Will shot a glance at Kate. “Oh?”

“Was he talking about Teddy Kennedy?”

Will shook his head. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell exactly what Senator Ferguson is talking about. You ever get any time for golf in your job?” Will asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Every Sunday,” the PM said, “if the country’s not being invaded. I think it gives you a sort of perspective to know that there’s an activity that’s more frustrating than government.”

Will laughed. “Exactly.”

There was a rap on the door and the chief usher opened it. “Dinner is served, Mr. President, Prime Minister.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t have more quiet time before this thing,” Will said.

“No,” Kate said, “
I’m
sorry; all my fault.” She dropped back a step and took Will’s arm as they followed their guests.

“What’s up with Ferguson?” Will asked under his breath.

“It’s Hugh English,” she said. “He isn’t wasting any time.”

“I’m confused.”

“I relieved him today; Lance Cabot has the job. I thought I had contained Hugh, but apparently not.”

“Do something painful to him,” Will said.

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“I don’t suppose you have an assassin over there who could deal with Ferguson?”

“Where is Teddy Fay when we need him?” she asked, and they swept into the East Room.

48

S
enator Calvin Ferguson, R-UT, sat across the East Room with his wife, Evelyn, who was twenty-seven years his junior, and gazed at Katharine Lee.

“Who are you staring at, honey?” Evelyn asked him, leaning in close, so that he could look down her cleavage. That always got his attention.

“Kate Lee,” he said. “I planted a tiny bomb this afternoon, and I want to see if it explodes tonight.”

Evelyn, Ferguson’s former deputy press secretary, had replaced his late wife an alarmingly short time after her death; rumor had it that he had proposed to Evelyn in his wife’s hospice room. She was a smart woman, knowledgeable about the political flora and fauna inside the beltway, and she was jealous of Kate Lee, because she had a real job, while Evelyn no longer did, except to the extent that Cal Ferguson was a job. “You want to go over there and look down her dress?” she asked.

“Certainly not,” Ferguson replied testily. He was a bishop of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and he did not like that kind of talk—not when someone might overhear it, anyway. The Marine Band began to play some Glenn Miller. “Tell you what I do want to do,” he said, as the president and his wife led everyone to the dance floor. “I want to dance with her for a minute. How would you like to dance with the president?” He took her hand, hoisted her from her chair and shuffled a beeline across the floor toward the First Couple.

“Evening, Cal,” Will said as they came close.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Ferguson said. “I wonder if we might change partners for a moment?”

“Of course,” the president said, gracefully steering Kate into Cal’s arms while bringing Evelyn into his own.

“Good evening, Cal,” Kate said, flashing a brilliant smile.

“Hey, Kate. Tell me, what’s happening in the Caribbean these days?”

“The Caribbean? Well, let’s see: I can’t think of a thing. Were you thinking of invading some place down there?”

“I was thinking about a certain former Haitian who got his head blown off in St. Marks.”

“St. Marks? Isn’t that in the Mediterranean somewhere?”

Ferguson managed a chuckle. “My friend, Hugh English, tells me it’s not.”

Kate formed her features for tragedy. “Oh, isn’t it sad about Hugh?”

Ferguson frowned. “What?”

“Of course, I replaced him with Lance Cabot the minute we began to suspect. Just today, in fact.”

“Kate, you’re not telling me Hugh English is a mole, are you?”

“Of course not,” Kate said, shocked. “The man is a patriot!”

“Then what’s sad about him?”

“I’m sorry, Cal, I shouldn’t have mentioned it; I thought you already knew.”

“Knew? Knew what?”

Kate looked around, as if to see if she might be overheard. “Cal, you have to promise me faithfully that you’ll keep this to yourself. We don’t want this to get around; we just want a happy retirement for Hugh.”

“Of course.”

Kate sighed. “Well, this isn’t exactly a diagnosis, but some of Hugh’s actions over the past few days have caused a number of people to feel that he is suffering the early stages of…” She shrugged and made a face.

“Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “Why the man is as sane as I am.”

“That’s what I told everybody,” Kate said, “until…”

“Until what?”

“Well, there was an incident a couple of days ago during a staff meeting about…well, about a classified matter, and Hugh suddenly piped up and said, ‘We’ve got to get the man out, and quickly.’ That pretty much brought the proceedings to a halt, and somebody said, ‘Who, Hugh? And out of where?’”

“And what did Hugh say?”

“He said, ‘Nelson, of course; out of East Berlin.’”

“But East Berlin as a political entity doesn’t exist anymore,” Ferguson said.

“Exactly,” Kate replied, “and neither does Nelson, but at that moment, they both existed for Hugh. Someone had the presence of mind to say, ‘Right, I’ll get on it, Hugh,’ and the meeting continued, but Hugh got up and left. When I inquired about it, I was told that he had been exhibiting…memory issues and flashbacks. Someone thought it came on after his wife died.”

Ferguson looked perplexed. “We were going to call him in to testify next week.” Ferguson was the ranking Republican on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

“Well,” Kate said, looking sympathetic, “if there’s anything the committee wants to know about East Berlin…” She ducked under his arm, put her own around her husband’s waist and, effectively, left Evelyn Ferguson to rejoin her husband.

“What was that all about?” Will asked.

“It was about neutralizing Hugh English,” she said. “By tomorrow morning, no one, not even the press, is going to pay attention to anything he has to say.”

“And how did you accomplish that?”

“My darling, you don’t want to know.”

49

S
tone and Holly sat in their car on Black Mountain Road as dusk fell. Holly had produced a small pair of binoculars from her handbag and was training them, alternately, on the Pemberton and Weatherby houses, which could both be partly seen from their vantage point. They had already peered through the windows of the Robertson house and seen nothing out of the ordinary.

“What else have you got in that handbag?” Stone asked.

“Huh?”

“You keep pulling things out—a satphone, binoculars. What else is in there?”

“Oh, a couple of changes of clothing, a disguise or two, a bowling ball, a light machine gun—you know, the usual spy stuff.”

“I don’t think I want to walk through customs with you on the return trip.”

“Don’t worry; the duty is paid on everything.”

“Why are we sitting here? Why don’t we just go knock on both doors and see who opens them?”

“I want to see if any lights come on first,” she said. “That way, we’ll know if anybody’s home. I don’t want to approach the houses if anybody’s home.”

“Wait a minute; are you thinking of breaking and entering?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, maybe alarm systems, attack dogs, security cameras. All we need is to give duBois an excuse to rearrest us.”

Suddenly, lights came on in the Pemberton house.

“There you are,” Stone said. “Somebody’s home.”

Then lights came on in the Weatherby house.

“Did you notice,” she said, “that, in each house, three or four lights came on at once?”

“You’re thinking they’re on a timer?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. Isn’t it odd that both houses came on almost simultaneously?”

“Not very odd,” Stone said, “if they’re both set to come on as it gets dark. Maybe, instead of timers, they work on light sensors. You want to hang around and see if they go off when the sun comes up? I’d rather go get some dinner and, eventually, some sleep.”

“You’d never make a CIA agent,” she said.

“What, doesn’t it say anything about dinner and sleep in the official spy handbook?”

“Come on,” Holly said, opening the car door.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to peek through some windows.”

“Do you have any memory at all of what I just said a minute ago about alarm systems and security cameras?”

“Oh, come on, Stone; don’t be such a wuss.”

“Tell you what, you do the spy thing, and I’ll play the part of the getaway driver. If any alarms go off, you run like hell for the car, and you might catch up with me.” Stone started the car, put it in gear, made a U-turn and stopped, keeping his lights off. “Don’t delay, or you might have to hoof it down this mountain.”

“You move from this spot and I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t give me that; you’re unarmed.”

“I’m a trained killer; I don’t need guns.”

“Hurry up!” Stone left the engine running.

Holly took a small flashlight from her handbag, got out of the car and trotted up the drive toward the Pemberton house.

Stone waited and watched; he could see her silhouetted against the lights of the house. She looked in a couple of windows, then he was astonished to see the front door open and Holly go inside. He could see her moving about from room to room. Stone waited for the alarm to go off, but nothing happened.

Holly left the house, came down the driveway, then trotted up the road to the Weatherby driveway and disappeared. Stone took deep breaths and tried to remain calm. He glanced at his watch; she had been gone for nearly fifteen minutes.

Suddenly the car door opened, startling him, and Holly got in.

“Okay, we can go now,” she said.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, putting the car in gear and starting down the mountain. “What the hell were you doing inside that house?”

“Well, somebody got here ahead of us and forced the front door—both front doors, in fact.”

“Yeah, I think duBois got here first.”

“I’m glad he didn’t get here simultaneously.”

“Me too.”

“What did you find inside?”

“Two unoccupied houses,” she said. “Three, with Robertson’s. The Pemberton place had men’s and women’s clothes and some canned food, but the Weatherby house, though it’s furnished, seems never to have been occupied at all.”

“Maybe they’re not in the country.”

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully.

“Well, if they were in the country, there’d be signs that they’re living there.”

“Maybe,” she said again.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that I don’t know what to think.”

“Go for the simple explanation: neither Pemberton nor Weatherby is on the island.”

“Nor Robertson.”

“Can we go back to the inn and have dinner now?”

“I guess.”

At the bottom of Black Mountain Road, Stone turned toward the inn. “Holly,” he said, “if you say Robertson is not Teddy, and neither Pemberton nor Weatherby is on the island, and if Teddy killed Croft, then neither Pemberton nor Weatherby could be Teddy. Or more likely, Teddy didn’t kill Croft, somebody else did.”