by Stuart Woods
“Oh, shit,” Rifkin said under his breath.
The suited man reached into the case and came out with an object, then he noticed the crowd behind him. “Get the fuck out of here, all of you!” he yelled. His voice was muffled by the helmet. “We’ve got a couple of pounds of plastique here, and I want every human being at least a hundred yards from this building!”
“Turn on your radio, Jim!” Rifkin yelled, then he started hustling everybody out of the room. He, Stone, and Mike got into the cart and headed back up the hill, where they parked behind the reception building. Rifkin picked up his radio. “Jim? Do you read?”
“Yeah, I read,” Jim replied. “I’m going to need a few minutes to go over this thing and try and figure out how to deal with it.”
“Is there a timer?”
“Yeah, but it’s not running,” he replied. “If it starts running, I’m running, too. I’ll get back to you.”
The three men sat in the cart silently for a couple of minutes. Finally, Mike spoke. “This one isn’t nuclear,” he said. “Too small.”
“I agree,” Rifkin replied.
“I hope you both know what you’re talking about,” Stone said.
Rifkin spoke up. “I did a week’s intensive course on bomb making and disposal,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you exactly how this one is put together.”
“Okay, shoot,” Stone said.
“It’s pretty simple: there’s a timer attached to a detonator, like a blasting cap, which is shoved into the plastique. Somebody starts the timer, and when it hits zero, the detonator goes off, exploding the plastique. If there’s a couple of pounds of the stuff, like Jim says, it will take down that entire building and damage others nearby, and it will kill nearly everybody in the building.”
“Nearly everybody?” Stone asked.
“Somebody always gets lucky.”
The radio crackled. “Steve?”
“I’m here, Jim.”
“Okay, I’ve isolated the plastique, and the device doesn’t seem to be booby-trapped. There’s a T-shaped key with a hexagonal tip, like a drill bit, and there are three positions: up, right, and left. I can’t tell which position fires it, so I’m going to try them all.”
“Jim…”
“Don’t worry, it’s just a blasting cap-the plastique is across the room. Stand by.”
A moment later there was a noise like a large firecracker.
Jim came back on the radio. “I found the firing position,” he said. “You can come back in now.”
They took the cart down the hill again, got out, and went inside. Jim had taken his helmet off, and there was a large black spot covering the chest of his suit. “It’s simple,” he said, “but very professionally made.” He held up the key, then inserted it into a slot. “Neutral position, off,” he said, then he turned the key. “Right position, timer.” He tapped a keypad, and the timer started to run. Jim turned the key all the way to the left. “Left position, immediate detonation. Suicide.”
Rifkin took the key from him and examined it. “I could make this in my home shop,” he said.
“You could make the whole device in your home shop,” Jim replied. He closed the small case, picked it up, then walked to the cube of plastique and picked it up. “I want to get this back to my shop and take it apart,” he said. Then one toe of the heavy suit caught the corner of a box, and he stumbled. The plastique flew from his hand and landed on the tile floor. “Oops,” he said. “Don’t worry, guys; it needs a detonator to blow.”
“That wasn’t funny, Jim,” Rifkin said.
An agent came over. “Boss,” he said, “we’ve finished our search. The bomb was in a wooden wine crate, and we’ve opened every other crate or box in the room.”
“What about the rest of the hotel?” Rifkin asked.
“We’re done-every conceivable hiding place.”
“Okay, stand down and tell the crew to go home but to remain on call. Nobody turns off his cell phone.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rifkin led Stone and Mike back to the cart, and they started up the hill, then stopped at Stone’s cottage.
“Steve, can I offer you a drink?” Stone asked.
“I wish I could, Stone, but I’m not having a drink until this weekend is over and both presidents are on their respective airplanes.”
Mike spoke up. “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” he said.
“What?” Rifkin asked.
“That’s only one bomb-there could be two more.”
“Maybe,” Rifkin said, “but not in this hotel. And if another one shows up, we’ll find it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Mike said. They got out of the cart, and Rifkin reached into his pocket. “Here’s a present for you,” he said, handing the bomb key to Mike, then he drove away.
“I hope he’s right, too,” Stone said.
42
Holly Barker had been working almost nonstop since her arrival in L.A., assisting Kate Lee during the security discussions with President Vargas and Mexico’s head of national intelligence. The only break she had had was drinks at Stone’s cottage on the evening of her arrival. Now everybody had initialed the draft of the security agreement, and it was being edited and translated for signing at the closing ceremony. Holly wanted out of the presidential cottage. She called Stone’s cell number.
“Yes?”
“It’s Holly.”
“How are you? I haven’t seen you since cocktails.”
“I’ve been working eighteen hours a day, and I am now experiencing an extreme case of cabin fever.”
“Sounds like what you need is a change of cabins.”
“That and at least one drink, followed by, ah, exercise.”
“Is now too soon?”
“Nope.”
“Come through the garden gate-it will be open, as will the French doors to my suite.”
Stone put down the book he had been trying to read, Chernow’s biography of George Washington, and checked the little bar for the proper ingredients, which were a bottle of Knob Creek and ice.
There was a scratch on the French doors, and Holly swept in. “Hallelujah!” she exclaimed. “Free again.” She lavished a kiss on Stone for half a minute, then broke. “Bourbon whiskey, please,” she said, kicking off her shoes.
Stone poured two and handed her one.
“To the completion of negotiations,” she said, raising her glass.
“Congratulations,” Stone replied, and they each took a large bite of bourbon. “All done?”
“It’s being prepared for signatures as we speak,” she said. “I can’t say the same for the presidents’ discussions, but I understand there are only a couple of sticking points.”
“How much time have you got?” he asked, kissing her on the neck and scratching a nipple.
“An hour and three minutes before I have to attend a video intelligence briefing from Langley with my mistress.”
“Then let’s not waste any of it,” Stone said. Seconds later they were in bed and in each other’s arms.
“I’m surprised Felicity Devonshire is over here, sniffing around,” Holly said.
“Jealousy? I like that. Don’t you like her?”
“She’s just a little too perfect,” Holly said, feeling for him. “Never a hair out of place.”
“An admirable quality,” Stone observed, growing in her hand.
“And one that I should cultivate?” Holly asked, archly.
“Nah, I like a hair out of place now and then.”
Holly rolled him onto his back and mounted him. “Aaaaah,” she breathed, “that’s where you belong.”
“No argument here,” he replied, thrusting. “Have you noticed that each of us still has a glass of bourbon in hand?”
“Then this is a first,” she said, taking a gulp.
Stone raised his head and managed to get a swallow down without spilling it. “An historic moment,” he said. Stone held his chilly glass against a breast.
“Yipe!”
“Sorry.” He raised his head again and warmed the nipple in his mouth.
“That’s better.” She reached behind her and took his testicles in her glass-chilled hand.
“Wow!” Stone said, and he felt a climax rising. “If you’re going to come with me, you’d better do it now.”
“I’m with you,” she said, then they both experienced the ecstatic paroxysms of orgasm. Finally, she leaned down and kissed him again. “And we didn’t spill a drop,” she said, polishing off the drink.
Stone finished his and they rolled sideways without separating. “This is good,” he said.
“It doesn’t get any better,” she replied. “Gone are long hours of discussing cross-border intelligence exchanges.” She contracted her abdominal muscles, squeezing him.
“Oh! Do that forty or fifty more times.”
“I’m afraid I’m spent,” she replied.
“I’m well spent,” he said. “Normally sex renders me unconscious, but I have the sneaking suspicion that more is going to be expected of me.”
“More, more, more,” she said.
“Don’t I get some recovery time?”
“As I recall, you’ve never needed much.” She squeezed him again.
“I think I’m getting the message,” he said.
“Then, like the song says, ‘Do it again.’”
And he did.
43
Scarcely a hundred yards away, another couple was locked in an unconscious duplication of Stone’s and Holly’s actions.
Kelli Keane and Hamish McCallister lay, panting, in his bed. After her departure from Harry, at Hamish’s whispered invitation, Kelli had returned. It had taken them less than half an hour to complete the seduction ritual before leaping into bed, and now they were entirely satisfied with each other.
“So,” Kelli said, by way of conversation, “who are you reporting for?”
“A London paper and a travel magazine, neither of which you have ever heard.”
“And they sprang for a suite?”
“You are obsessed with the idea of a suite, aren’t you?”
“I’m obsessed with the idea of not having one.”
“Well, now you have half a suite for as long as we can put up with each other. And to answer your question, I have discovered that having private means greatly augments the pleasures of reporting for peanuts.”
“A rich journalist? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“All it takes is selecting the right parents. It also helps that, when they are inevitably divorced, proper support for the issue of the marriage is cemented into the final agreement.”
“Which side of your parentage was the rich one?”
“Both of them.”
“You are just sounding luckier and luckier,” Kelli said, sighing. “Are you married?”
“Certainly not! My principles would not allow me to be in bed with you, if I were. How about you?”
“Nope. Of course, I’ve been living with a very nice man in a very nice New York apartment for a year, but he isn’t here, is he?”
“Nicely rationalized,” Hamish replied.
Kelli smiled. “It was, wasn’t it? Is there any more of the champagne?”
Hamish leaned over the side of the bed and came back with half a bottle and their two glasses. “There you are,” he said, pouring.
Kelli sipped. “Ah, yes, champagne. I can never seem to get enough of it.”
“There are two more bottles in my fridge,” Hamish said, “courtesy of the management.”
Kelli looked over by the windows. “What happened to your steamer trunk?”
“I unpacked it, and a bellman took it away for storage until my departure.”
“What do you travel with that you need a trunk?”
“Habitually, four suits, a dinner jacket, tails on some occasions, a blazer, two tweed jackets, a dozen shirts and a dozen each of socks and underwear, six pairs of shoes, two hats, a jewelry box, a toiletries case, and enough neckties to choke a very large horse. Also, depending on the weather at my destination, a trench coat or an overcoat or both.”
“That explains the trunk,” Kelli said.
“I believe it does. The simple truth is, you can take as much luggage as you wish, anywhere in the world, as long as you are prepared to pay a baggage overcharge or bribe a ticket agent-and tip well.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Kelli said. “I’m always just trying to jam my carry-on into the overhead bin.”
“Poor darling, you must learn to be more extravagant, you’d be much happier.”
“I must learn to earn enough to be extravagant,” she replied.
“That is entirely unnecessary,” Hamish replied. “You must simply do a better job of choosing men.”
“I hate to say it, but you have a point,” Kelli said. “Take my present beau: he’s handsome, charming, well educated, well housed, and well employed, but he’s not rich-not until he comes into his inheritance, anyway-and that might require a wait of some years or, perhaps, murder.”
“He does have most of the qualifications.”
“What else must he have?”
“A generosity of spirit and an absence of parsimony.”
“Ah, well. How would you define an absence of parsimony?”
“Before a man can be generous with you, he must first be generous with himself. Then, if he is paying three thousand pounds for a Savile Row suit, two hundred for a Jermyn Street shirt, and two thousand a pair for shoes, he cannot, in good conscience, deprive his woman of similar accoutrements. He cannot travel in first class and expect her to occupy steerage.”
“Ah, so I should encourage him to dress more expensively and travel better?”
“Certainly. Then, as the night follows the day…”
“You’re an eminently sensible man, Hamish.”
“And of course, the frequency of and competency in sex must be sustained at a high level.”
“No objections there,” Kelli said. “More often, my men have been unable to keep up.”
Hamish laughed.
“I don’t suppose you would care to form a more lasting bond than a one-nighter in a grand hotel?”
“We can talk about that,” Hamish replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Excuse me, call of nature.”
Kelli looked around. “Where can I find a robe?”
“Closet,” Hamish replied, closing the bathroom door.
Kelli got out of bed and approached the closet, of which there were two. She chose the left and found herself staring at a steamer trunk.
Then there was singing coming from the bathroom, in a language she did not understand.
44
Herbie Fisher and his girl, Harp Connor, got off their airplane at LAX and hoofed it to baggage claim, where they found a small booth emblazoned with the name THE ARRINGTON. Minutes later they were ensconced in a Bentley, headed for the hotel.
Herbie called Stone Barrington’s cell number.
“Hello, Herb, welcome to L.A. Where are you?”
“On the way from the airport. Be there in, I don’t know, twenty minutes?”
“It’s going to take longer than that, pal. Getting through the front gate is going to take a while and may require a cavity search.”
“Are you serious?”
“Almost. We’ve got two presidents in residence. Come for dinner tonight?”
“Love to. How are we dressing?”
“We’re doing it New York style-wear a necktie. Oh, and there’s a secret guest of honor.”
“Who’s that?”
“Didn’t I just say it’s a secret? Drinks at seven. Ask your bellman to show you my cottage on the site map. See ya!” Stone hung up.
“We’re invited for dinner, and there’s a secret guest of honor,” Herbie said to Harp.
“Who?”
“Didn’t I just say it’s a secret? Listen, Stone managed to get us into the hotel on short notice, but i
t will be a room, not a suite, and it may be small.”
“I can live with that,” Harp replied. “I’m a simple woman. All I need is a closet, a bed, a bathtub, and a minibar.”
“I expect you’ll have all of that, and if there’s no minibar, there’s always room service. Oh, by the way, security will be severe at the gate, so expect, maybe, a cavity search.”
“Promises, promises.”
They were received at reception with apologies for the lack of more luxurious accommodations, then driven in an electric cart to their room, which had a very nice view of a stucco wall around someone else’s patio.
The bellman handed Herbie the key to the golf cart. “Compliments of Mr. Barrington,” he said.
“Could you give me directions to his house?”
The man unfolded the hotel map and pointed out the Barrington cottage, then he left, having been rewarded with a very good tip.
“Pretty nice,” Harp said, looking around.
“It’s where they put the help, like corporate pilots,” Herbie explained.
Harp unpacked everything and put her things in the closet and chest of drawers provided, then kicked her cases under the bed.
“I’m impressed,” Herbie said, looking around.
“This way we have more space,” she replied, and Herbie followed suit.
“What should I wear to dinner?” she asked.
“I’ve been instructed to wear a necktie, and presumably, a suit. An LBD should do.”
“An LBD it is,” Harp replied, inspecting the minibar and retrieving two tiny bottles of Chivas Regal.
“Are those both for you, or may I have one?” Herbie asked.
Harp poured them into separate glasses and handed him one. They toasted, then she reached behind and unzipped her dress. “Now,” she said, “I believe you promised me a cavity search.”