Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  “Oh, I would have liked to see it,” Stone said sadly.

  “Why? You weren’t doing anything but lying there.” She left the room.

  There was a knock on the door, and a man carrying a clipboard entered and closed the door behind him. He was dressed in a necktie and shirtsleeves and wore a pocket protector that sported an array of writing instruments. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Assistant Administrator Willis. I have some forms for you to sign, so that we can discharge you.” He had an owlish look because of his heavy black spectacles, and he also sported a Vandyke—mustache and goatee—as if to make up for his receding hairline. “I hope you’re feeling up to it.”

  “I’m feeling very well, thank you,” Stone said. “Where do I sign?”

  Willis walked over and set his clipboard on Stone’s rolling hospital tray. “There are four,” he said, extracting a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen from his shirt pocket and handing it to Stone.

  “This is the first actual fountain pen I’ve seen for years,” Stone said. “Very handsome.”

  “I’m a bit old-fashioned,” Willis said. “I like the old ways.”

  Stone unscrewed the cap and pushed it onto the other end of the pen. Then he thought of something Lance had said. They had found a fountain pen in Wilfred Thomas’s workshop, one that administered a poison, much like one the CIA has developed. It also occurred to him that there was something, he wasn’t sure what, familiar about Mr. Willis. “Oops!” he said, allowing the pen to slip from his fingers and bounce off his tray table to the floor. “I’m sorry, that was clumsy of me.”

  “Not to worry,” Willis said, taking some tissues from Stone’s bedside and walking around to the other side of the bed to retrieve the pen.

  Then Stone remembered something he had forgotten: he had seen Wilfred Thomas in the video that Lance’s people had made of the party at the Russian embassy, and without the glasses and the Vandyke, Willis could be Thomas. It was the hairline that pegged it for him. Stone slipped out of bed and stood facing the man. “Your mustache is slipping,” he lied.

  The man reflexively raised a hand to stick it back on.

  “Only joking, Mr. Thomas,” Stone said, looking about him for a weapon. “By the way, my compliments on the handsome bindings on The Short OED.” The only weapons Stone could use were the rolling tray table and a visitor’s chair, and he wasn’t sure he could lift the table, since one arm was out of action. “I’m glad your bomb-making talent doesn’t match your binding skills.”

  Thomas picked up the pen, holding it between two fingers with tissues.

  Was he going to shoot poison at him? Bullets? Would it explode? Stone looked for the button to call the nurse, but it was on Thomas’s side of the bed.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Thomas said, seemingly uncertain of his next move.

  Stone got hold of his visitor’s chair at the end of the bed and was pleased that it weighed much less than the table. He placed it on the bed, between him and Thomas, and held it, lion-tamer style. “I think your best bet is to make a run for it,” Stone said, hoping the man would take his advice.

  Instead, Thomas got a grip on the end of the pen and held it before him, as if it were a knife.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” Stone yelled.

  The door opened, and Felicity stood there, wearing a business suit with her handbag over her left arm.

  “How good to see you, Felicity,” Stone said. “May I introduce you to the Earl of Chelsea, aka Wilfred Thomas? I believe you are armed. Would you shoot him, please?”

  Felicity began digging into her handbag, and Stone picked up the chair and threw it at Thomas’s head, which connected, knocking him to the floor, sending his glasses flying, and putting his mustache genuinely askew.

  “What’s taking you so long?” Stone asked Felicity. “The man has a poisoned pen!”

  Felicity finally came up with a small, semiautomatic pistol and pointed it at Thomas. “Kindly stay where you are and do not move, Mr. Thomas,” she said. “And let go of the pen, or I’ll kill you where you stand. Or sit, as it were.”

  Thomas looked carefully at her, then tossed the pen on the floor between them. It rolled a couple of times, leaving behind a thin trail of clear liquid.

  Felicity reached into her bag again with the other hand and did something, Stone couldn’t see what. There were running footsteps from the hallway, and she stepped aside to let two large young men into the room. “Mind the pen,” she said, “it’s dangerous. But please take charge of the gentleman on the floor. Handcuff him and search him for other weapons, including pens.”

  The two young men went to work and got Thomas out of the room, denuded of pens.

  Felicity walked over to the Mont Blanc pen on the floor and looked down at it. “My word,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  Stone and Lance sat in the Rose & Crown, near the gates of Windward Hall, consuming a lunch of sausages and Cornish pasties.

  Lance washed down his food with a draught from his pint of Guinness. “Well, Stone,” he said, “I’m sorry you have had to go through two attempts on your life—no, three, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve lost count,” Stone replied, sipping his pint of bitter.

  “How are your wounds?” Lance asked.

  “I can’t see my back, but it hurts. My arm, too. But Rose has found me a physiotherapist, who is moving into the house this afternoon, so I won’t have to go to the hospital for rehab.”

  “Excellent,” Lance said. “By the way, this episode has had the salutary effect of silencing comment at the Agency on your appointment.”

  “I’m not surprised there was comment,” Stone said. “Frankly, I thought it might blow up in your face.”

  “Stone,” Lance replied reprovingly, “I’m too careful for that to happen.”

  “I suppose you are.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached down, took a gift-wrapped package from a shopping bag and set it on the table. “This is for you, by way of my thanks.”

  Stone regarded the package with suspicion. “Will this blow up in my face?”

  “Not this time,” Lance said. “The earl is safely housed in one of MI-5’s secret places, where he is being interrogated. His diplomatic passport seems to have been misplaced.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Stone pulled the bow on the ribbon and tore open the package, revealing volumes one and two of The Short Oxford English Dictionary, beautifully bound by Wilfred Thomas. “I trust the bombs have been removed?”

  “They have, but the spaces where they once lived remain. Who knows, you might one day wish to hide something in plain sight.”

  “All the time,” Stone said.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

  However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me an e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

  If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

  Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

  When you e-mail, please do not send attachments, as I never open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

  Please do not place me on your mailing lists for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally spea
king, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

  Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

  Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, Penguin Random House LLC, 1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.

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  Those who wish to make offers for rights of a literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 285 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10017. (Note: This is not an invitation for you to send her your manuscript or to solicit her to be your agent.)

  If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my website, www.stuartwoods.com, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Penguin representative or the Penguin publicity department with the request.

  If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please write to Sara Minnich at Penguin’s address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

  A list of my published works appears in the front of this book and on my website. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

  Keep reading for an exciting excerpt from the next Stone Barrington novel, TREASON.

  1

  Stone Barrington was sitting up in bed watching last night’s recording of the Rachel Maddow Show, while skipping Joe Scarborough’s rant during the first half hour of Morning Joe, which was on a subject he had heard too often: small government. His cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Scramble,” a female voice said.

  He paused. This was the secure cell phone on which he only got calls from Lance Cabot, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who always scrambled. It was a CIA iPhone, given to Stone when he was appointed special adviser to the director, with the putative rank of deputy director, though he was no such thing.

  “Scramble, goddammit!” she said.

  Stone pressed the button. “Scrambled,” he said. “Now who the hell is this?”

  “It’s Holly, you complete ass,” she said. “You don’t recognize my voice anymore?” They had been lovers for years.

  “Of course I do, but how did you get this number?”

  “You gave it to me,” she said, “to use for the most confidential calls, and all of my calls to you are most confidential.”

  “Oh,” he said. Holly was the secretary of state and about to announce a run for the Democratic nomination for president. She was very, very careful about being seen or heard communicating with Stone; the press would have far too much fun reporting ad nauseam that she was sleeping with someone.

  “‘Oh’?” Is that all you’ve got to say?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Now it’s your turn: What have you got to say?”

  “I’m coming to New York, and I want to spend the night at your house, doing what we always do there.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, what?”

  “Oh, of course. I look forward to seeing you. What time?”

  “We’re landing at the East Side Heliport at noon. Can Fred meet me?” Fred Flicker was Stone’s factotum, a pint-sized veteran of Britain’s Royal Marines Commandos.

  “Sure. What did you mean by ‘we’?”

  “The presidents will be aboard, too, since it’s the presidential helicopter.” The presidents were Katharine Lee, the current president, and her husband, Will Lee, the former president.

  “Invite them to dinner.”

  “I don’t want to dine with them, I want to dine with you. Alone. I need your advice on something.”

  “Something that can’t be discussed on a scrambled CIA iPhone?”

  “Certainly not. Do you trust those people?” Holly had once been the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and she knew them well.

  “Well, yes, I trust them. Sort of.”

  “You’re hopeless,” she said. “See you later.” She hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, and the phone rang again almost immediately. “Hello?”

  “It’s Dino. Dinner tonight? Viv is traveling again.” Dino was Dino Bacchetti, Stone’s former partner on the NYPD and now the police commissioner of New York City.

  “Can’t. Holly’s on her way in for the evening.”

  “What, I’m not allowed to see Holly now?”

  “She wants us to dine alone. She needs advice about something.”

  Dino made a snorting noise. “Advice? From you?”

  “I give very good advice,” Stone said. “My friends’ lives would be so richer, fuller, and happier if they would just take it.”

  “You’re delusional,” Dino said. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Sure.”

  “Patroon, at seven?”

  “Sure.”

  Dino hung up.

  Stone was at his desk at noon, waiting for Holly to arrive. Joan Robertson, his secretary, buzzed him.

  “Yes?”

  “Some woman claiming to be the secretary of state is on one. Shall I tell her to buzz off?”

  “You know very well who that is,” Stone said, pushing the button. “Where are you, Holly?”

  “Out of the chopper and into the car. Since I spoke with you earlier I’ve been saddled with three pre-campaign chores that I have to take care of this afternoon. May I keep your car—and Fred?”

  “You may. What time to you expect to finally land here?”

  “By six, probably, which means maybe.”

  “I’ll look for you when I see you coming.”

  “Great, bye.” She hung up.

  Stone called Helene, his housekeeper/cook and ordered dinner for seven o’clock, probably, perhaps later.

  Helene understood. “It’s moussaka; I can serve whenever.”

  “Good.” Stone hung up and tried to find some work to do.

  At seven-thirty, Holly called. “I’m on the way, there in ten.” She hung up.

  Stone called Helene and alerted her, then went up to his study to wait.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later, Fred delivered her to the study, then took her luggage up to the master suite.

  Stone and Holly wrapped themselves around each other and kissed noisily. She finally broke away. “Bourbon, now,” she said breathlessly.

  Stone poured them both one, and they settled onto the sofa before the fireplace, where a cheery blaze burned.

  “Why don’t we just down these drinks, strip off, and fuck each other’s brains out right now?” Holly asked.

  “Because Helene will be here shortly with our dinner, and we don’t want to shock her and make her drop the dishes.”

  “Oh, well,” Holly said, squeezing his genitals. “I’ll just have to wait.”

  Dinner arrived, they sat down, and Fred decanted the wine Stone had chosen. They tucked in to their first course, Pâté Diana: goose liver with lots of butter.

  “Okay, what advice do you need?” Stone asked.

  “I have what you migh
t call an administrative problem at State,” she said.

  “And we both are aware that I know absolutely nothing about the administration of the State Department, so why are you talking to me about it?”

  “Because I trust your judgment.”

  “What judgment?”

  “Judgment about everything.”

  “Even things I know nothing about?” Stone took a sip of his wine. “The reason some people trust my judgment is because I never give advice about things I know nothing about.”

  “Are you willing to listen?”

  “Yes, of course. Shoot.”

  “I have reason to believe that there is a Russian mole in a trusted position at State.”

  Stone took a gulp of his wine and looked at her. She seemed absolutely serious.

  2

  Holly took a gulp of her wine, too. “All right, now you know. What’s your advice?”

  “Shoot him between the eyes with a large-caliber weapon,” Stone replied.

  “Be serious.”

  “That’s as serious as I can be with grossly insufficient information. Try again.”

  “My deputy secretary stopped by the house last night and insisted that we take a walk around the block, indicating with hand motions that there might be a bug in the house. So, we took a walk.” She paused to stuff some moussaka into her mouth.

  Stone waited for her to chew. “Did you check that out?”

  “This morning. My living room was bugged. My people fixed it.”

  “And what did your deputy impart to you while you were hiking the streets of Georgetown?”

  “That he believed there to be a mole in the department.”

  “On what evidence? And don’t tell me a hunch.”

  “He had a briefing from somebody at the Agency whose report on the Russian situation contained a telephone intercept that employed the exact language he had used at a staff meeting at State a week or so before.”