Quick & Dirty

by Stuart Woods

  “President Katharine Lee, who of late has been somewhat unpopular in certain quarters of the international community, thus won a victory for her policies by the simple device of not showing up, and instead dispatching her glamorous secretary of state to stand in for her.

  “Secretary Barker has recently been seen with her president in half a dozen appearances where one might not expect a Cabinet member to be seen in such high company, which indicates both her high standing in her boss’s opinion and maybe even a hint as to whom the President might like to see succeed her in office. There seems to be a widespread view in both houses of Congress that the President could do a lot worse than Holly Barker.”

  • • •

  IT WENT ON like that for another six paragraphs. Stone found a pair of scissors in his desk drawer and clipped both the Times op-ed piece and the Post editorial. He buzzed Joan.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Didn’t somebody give me a nice leather scrapbook for Christmas a couple of years ago?”

  “Yes, boss, I’ve been keeping it in the hope that you might do something that would engender some favorable press clippings.”

  “Forget about that, but bring me the scrapbook, please.”

  Joan hustled into his office and removed the album from its box.

  Stone handed her the clippings. “You are now the official archivist for our secretary of state,” he said.

  “Soon to be our next President?”

  “You didn’t hear that from me,” Stone said. She took the clippings and the album and returned to her office.

  3

  JOAN BUZZED STONE. “Will you speak to the secretary of state?”

  “I will deign to do so,” Stone replied drily. He picked up the phone. “Stone Barrington.”

  “Mr. Barrington, the secretary of state is on the line,” a young man said.

  “Good morning,” Holly said.

  “And to you. I trust you’ve seen this morning’s papers.”

  “I have. The Times piece by . . . that woman was very nice.”

  “I thought so, too, as was the Post, the New York one.”

  “That Post has not winged its way to my desk as of yet, but the Post down here published an overnight poll showing Kate with a sixty-one percent approval rating—not at all bad for a second-term President—but me with a sixty-nine percent rating. It was very embarrassing.”

  “Have you heard from Kate on the subject?”

  “She called me at seven o’clock this morning, laughing like hell.”

  “That’s our Kate.”

  “She warned me not to try and stay out of trouble and just coast on my approval ratings. She thinks I have to deal with something controversial right away, to show I’m not an airhead. She’s already looking for something to throw at me.”

  “Sounds like you’ve acquired a campaign manager.”

  “I’m afraid she’s going to foist the new Russian president on me.”

  “That would certainly be good practice for you.”

  “I didn’t like the last one, and I don’t like this one, either.”

  “Then that’s a good place to start.”

  “Did you hear all of my speech to the UN?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll remember the part where I said to the Russians that if they want the sanctions lifted, to just get out of the Crimea?”

  “The whole world heard that—it’s one of the reasons you’re so popular this morning.”

  “Well, I think my next step is going to be to recommend to the President that we nominate Ukraine for membership in NATO.”

  “Well, that should be enough controversy to keep you busy for a while. Is that what Kate wants to do?”

  “In the best of all possible worlds, yes, but she’s unlikely to say so anytime soon.”

  “But you’ll be on record as having proposed it.”

  “See how smart Kate is? Everybody will remember that I said that, and if Kate ever gets around to doing it, they’ll give me the credit for moving her my way.”

  “Kate is very smart indeed.”

  “Well, I think I’ll anticipate her and get started on a draft of my recommendation.”

  “Good idea. Call anytime.”

  “When you least expect it,” she said, and hung up.

  Joan came on immediately. “Dino called while you were talking. Want me to get him back for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She buzzed, and Stone picked up. “Hello again.”

  “I want to read you a press release.”

  “Shoot.”

  “‘The New York City Police Department has conducted a thorough investigation of the assassination attempt on the secretary of state on New Year’s Eve—’”

  “Wait a minute, you’ve concluded it was an assassination attempt? A few days ago you thought I was the intended victim.”

  “Shut up and listen. ‘We have determined that the would-be assassin has a history of hatred of women in positions of authority and that he had several drugs in his system at the time of the shooting, including marijuana, heroin, and cocaine. We have also, after investigating his connections in prison and since his recent release, concluded that he acted alone and without the assistance of any person or organization. Although we found more than six hundred dollars in cash on his person, that is consistent with the funds withdrawn from his prison savings account upon his release. Therefore, unless new, credible evidence emerges, this investigation is now closed.’ What do you think?”

  “I’m pleased that my name was not mentioned as the intended victim.”

  “Don’t ever speak those words to me again,” Dino said. “This is it, as far as the department is concerned.”

  “I’m sure the President and the secretary of state will be glad to hear it.”

  “See ya.” Dino hung up.

  So, Stone thought, Holly is now, officially, a heroine.

  • • •

  AFTER LUNCH, Stone got a call from a reporter of his acquaintance at the New York Times.

  “Hey, Stone,” Edward Petter said.

  “Hey, Eddie.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Dino just made a statement about the, ah, shooting business outside his building on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let me read it to you.”

  “All right.”

  Petter read the whole statement. “You were there, Stone. Do you agree with his statement?”

  “Entirely.”

  “There was a rumor that maybe you were the intended victim and Holly Barker just got in the way.”

  “I haven’t heard that. I didn’t know the shooter, and he didn’t know me.”

  “Is there anybody who might want you dead, anybody who might have hired Crank Jackson?”

  “No, not to my knowledge. I don’t know anybody who’s that mad at me.”

  “Did you ever represent Jackson as a defendant?”

  “No, and it’s been many years since I represented a criminal defendant.”

  “Why did your driver shoot Jackson?”

  “To keep him from shooting . . . somebody else.”

  “You?”

  “From the direction the guy was pointing his gun, Fred might have thought it was pointed at me. After all, Holly and I were walking next to each other.”

  “Did you and the secretary change positions while you were walking?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, were you walking nearer the building, then changed sides?”

  “I may have done that to get her out of the wind.”

  “Was that the moment at which she was shot?”

  “I don’t remember,” Stone said. “It all happened so fast.”

  “That’s
what they all say,” Petter replied. “See you around.” He hung up.

  Stone hung up, too, hoping that was the end of it.

  4

  PETER RULE, the son of the President of the United States, Katharine Lee, by her first marriage to the late Simon Rule, a high CIA official, left his Fifth Avenue New York apartment to go car shopping. Peter was employed as chief of staff to his father-in-law, U.S. Senator Eliot Saltonstall of New York, but he had announced his candidacy for the other New York seat in the Senate, whose occupant had declined to run for reelection.

  Peter owned several cars: three Mercedeses, one at each of his residences in New York, Washington, D.C., and East Hampton, New York, all the homes inherited from his father, who had been the only child of an old and wealthy New England family. Now he needed something he could be seen campaigning in, and no Mercedes would do. Peter had toured the state repeatedly on behalf of his boss and thus had a wide acquaintance among elected officials statewide, but he had always done so in rental cars. Now he needed something American-made that could be readily identified with him.

  He carried a printout from a website containing classified ads for automobiles. His first stop was in Chelsea, where he looked at a six-year-old Ford Explorer; he didn’t like it. His next stop was in the West Village, where the owner, a fifty-year-old widow, walked him to a garage on the next block to see a three-year-old Chevrolet Tahoe, which he found attractive.

  “My husband and I used the car to drive to our weekend place in Snedens Landing, up the Hudson,” she said. “That’s why the mileage is so low. I’ve since sold the house, so I don’t need the car.”

  Peter checked the odometer: 3,700 miles. Remarkable. Apart from the garage dust, the SUV looked practically new. He offered the woman her asking price, and she accepted. She produced and signed the title, and Peter produced and signed a check, and he was the owner.

  He thanked the woman and drove uptown to the garage where he kept his Mercedes S550. He made a deal on the monthly rental and gave a key to the manager. “Don’t wash it,” he said to the man. “Not ever.”

  He got back to his apartment in time to have a sandwich with his wife, Celeste.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Something perfect,” he replied, and told her about the Tahoe. “Are you ready for a week’s campaigning?”

  “I’ve already packed a bag,” she replied.

  “I’ve told the garage never to wash it—it would look brand-new. I hope to get it dirtier on this trip.”

  Celeste laughed. “Don’t worry, rain is forecast. You can look for some mud.”

  “Should anybody ask you how long we’ve owned the car, just say it’s three years old.”

  “Got it.”

  • • •

  STONE HAD FRED drive him up to the East Sixties, to a club he belonged to that was so exclusive it didn’t have a name. Its members referred to it as merely The Club, or sometimes The Place. Stone and Mike Freeman, the CEO of Strategic Services, had proposed Charles Ford—their partner in their investment firm, Triangle Partnership—for membership, and he had just been elected, so their lunch was a celebratory one.

  • • •

  CHARLEY WAS WAITING in the lobby of the large old house that was headquarters for The Club, and Stone introduced him to the manager and some staff, then they went up to the bar, where Mike Freeman awaited them. They found a table and ordered.

  “I’m reading in the Times,” Charley said, “that your friend Holly Barker is being talked about as a candidate to succeed Kate Lee.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Stone said.

  “Don’t you read the Times?” Charley asked.

  “Yes, but I still don’t know anything about that, and I’m not going to.”

  “I see. I think.”

  “Charley,” Mike said, “I think that’s going to be a no-go subject, until Holly actually runs.”

  Charley laughed. “I was getting that picture,” he said.

  “There’s something you need to do,” Stone said.

  “All right.”

  “I want you to go through the list of companies we own or have invested in and do some weeding.”

  “Everything is profitable,” Charley said.

  “I’m not concerned about profits,” Stone replied, “I’m concerned about what each company does and whether that might associate me with something that Holly wouldn’t want to be associated with.”

  “You mean, like tobacco companies?”

  “Exactly. Also armament companies, oil companies, and any company that might depend heavily on government contracts for its profits.”

  “I believe I get the picture,” Charley said.

  “It’s well known in Washington and among the political press that Holly and I have a long-standing friendship. Since her parents are elderly retirees and since she doesn’t have siblings or a husband, or even an ex-husband, that puts me in the position of someone who will be looked at for conflicts of interest.”

  “And you don’t want to have any,” Charley said. “What does she have in the way of personal assets?”

  Stone thought about that. “I don’t know.”

  “If she has any substantial holdings, she might want to think about a blind trust. I could handle that for her.”

  “A blind trust is a good idea, and right away, but you’re not the guy—you’re too close to me. You could, however, recommend the guy to handle that—or maybe better, a woman.”

  “Good idea. I know just the person, but perhaps I shouldn’t tell you who she is—it’s better if you don’t know.”

  “I’ll ask Holly to have her assistant call you for a name and number.”

  “Very good.”

  “Stone,” Mike said, “have you given any thought to having some regular personal security?”

  Stone looked at him askance. “Why?”

  “Well, there has been talk that the New Year’s Eve shooter was after you, not Holly.”

  “That can’t be the case, Mike, and even if it were, it would only cause more such talk if I started traveling around the city with armed guards.”

  “It looks like Fred had that role all taken care of,” Charley pointed out.

  “I can’t argue with that,” Mike said, “and nobody can blame you if your driver is an ex–Royal Marine commando.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” Stone said.

  • • •

  AS FRED PULLED OUT of the garage and turned toward Third Avenue, Stone looked across the street and saw a figure in black, walking in the same direction and carrying a sledgehammer.

  5

  STONE TOLD FRED TO PULL OVER, and he did. “Something wrong, Mr. Barrington?”

  “A man with a sledgehammer,” Stone said. “Lend me your weapon, will you?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, the police have not yet returned it since the shooting.”

  Stone reached into the front seat and retrieved the golf umbrella that Fred kept stowed there.

  “Follow me, Fred,” Stone said, “but stay a few yards back.” He opened the car door.

  “Yes, sir. It’s begun to rain again, you might open the umbrella.”

  “Open, it wouldn’t be as useful,” Stone said. He held the umbrella at the opposite end from the heavy briarwood handle and began walking rapidly down the street. The young man with the sledgehammer disappeared around the corner. Stone began to jog, and the rain began to increase in intensity. He turned the corner, the umbrella ready, but the young man in black had vanished.

  Behind him, he heard the whooper of a police car, which turned the corner and continued down Second Avenue. Stone stood there in the rain, getting wet, shelter in his hand, unused. The guy must have gotten into a vehicle, he thought. As he did, another police car turned the corner, flashing its lights, whooping if anyone got in t
he way.

  They got a report, Stone thought. Behind him a horn honked twice. He turned to find Fred waiting in the Bentley, and he got in.

  “You’re soaking wet, sir,” Fred said. “Why didn’t you use the umbrella?”

  “I wanted to, but I didn’t have the opportunity,” Stone replied, taking a linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his face and hair.

  “You’ll catch your death,” Fred said. “Let’s get you home and dry.”

  “Good idea.”

  • • •

  STONE HUNG UP HIS SUIT to dry in his dressing room, then toweled his hair, got into fresh clothes, and went downstairs to his office.

  “Dino called,” Joan said.

  “Get him back for me, will you?”

  She buzzed. “Line one.”

  Stone picked up the phone. “Hey.”

  “You sound annoyed about something,” Dino said. “Did the guys with sledgehammers attack your Bentley again?”

  “No, but I saw one of them as we pulled out of The Club’s garage.”

  “Our The Club?”

  “One and the same. I went after the guy on foot, but he turned the corner at Second Avenue and dematerialized. I think that some sort of vehicle, maybe a van, was waiting for him.”

  “Yeah, we had two patrol cars in pursuit, after an incident at Seventy-third and Lexington. They lost him, too.”

  “A similar incident to before?”

  “This time it was parked cars. The guy walked down Lex, looking for expensive cars. Four windshields broken—two Mercedes, a BMW, and a Bentley Mulsanne. They’re expanding their repertoire to include German cars.”

  “Just one guy?”

  “That’s what the reports say. We had a call from a windshield-replacement outfit. They said their business is too good.”