by Stuart Woods
“The nation is fortunate in your service.”
“The nation better believe it. Now, enough about how I’m running the world. What are you doing with yourself?”
“Lately, I’ve been much involved with a new client—a young man who won six hundred million dollars in the lottery and is spending it as fast as he can.”
“Too fast?”
“Not yet, and he spends it on worthwhile things like houses and estates.”
“Rather like another young man I know, so he must be something of a sage.”
“I hope he will grow into one, once the fog of great wealth burns off and lets the sun shine on him.”
“Is great wealth such a burden?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is. Dealing with it is a full-time job.”
“And yet you always seem to have so much free time, running off to England and to the West Coast and to Maine.”
“My genius lies in choosing the right people to deal with it and staying out of their way, until I want some money to spend on another house.”
“Are you going to buy any more houses?”
“Pray God, no. I’ve a property glut as it is, although I did sell the Connecticut house.”
“Such a nice house, too. I’ll miss it.”
“I hardly ever went there.”
“You hardly ever go to Maine, either.”
“That’s too true, but a fellow needs a place on the water.”
“Though I haven’t seen it yet, I’ve heard the English estate is on the water.”
“True, but that’s water over there, not over here. No, ma’am, I’m not buying any more houses.”
Joan buzzed him, and he picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“Ed Eagle for you on line one.”
Stone pressed the button. “Ed, how are you?”
“Better than you would believe. You’re very well, too.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because something wonderful is about to happen to you.”
“I’m delighted to hear it! Am I allowed to know what?”
“Gala is moving back to L.A. full-time and is selling her Santa Fe house, and she’d like to sell it to you.”
Stone was caught completely off guard. “No, I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
Stone closed his eyes and images of the place flooded his brain—the large, airy rooms, the tall trees on the lot, the sunsets, the pool and hot tub. “Ed, really, I have too many houses already, and I don’t have time to decorate it.”
“You won’t have to, she’ll sell it completely furnished, except for a few pictures she wants to take with her, and you’ll have a wonderful time combing the Canyon Road galleries for replacements. And you can have it cheap, if you take it before she hires a real estate agent.”
“How much?”
“She’s going to ask three million nine for it, but with no agent involved she’ll sell it to you for three million, intact, immediate closing.”
Stone felt himself slipping back into the water, after clawing his way up the beach to real estate safely. “Oh, God.”
“That’s wonderful, Stone. It’ll be great having you for a neighbor! Susannah is already excited to have you in town. We’ll throw a housewarming for you, so you can meet some people, and I’ll use my influence to get you season tickets to the Santa Fe Opera.”
The last chink fell into place for Stone. “All right, to whom do I make the check?”
“Put Joan back on, and I’ll sort it all out with her. We’ll be ready to close immediately—Gala is already ensconced in L.A., so you can have possession tomorrow, if you like. Now put Joan on before you change your mind.”
Stone buzzed Joan. “Ed Eagle wants to speak to you. Make him happy.”
“You bought another house, didn’t you?”
“Oh, shut up.” He hung up and turned back to his lunch.
Holly peered at him. “Did I just hear you make another real estate transaction?”
“A house in Santa Fe,” Stone said sheepishly.
“So much for good intentions,” she said.
“And they were the best of intentions, too. Wait until you see the place—it’s perfect.”
“I would expect no less.”
“Holly, can you take a week off from running the world and come out there with me? We can leave tomorrow.”
Holly looked sheepish herself. “Funny you should mention that—when I left this morning, the boss ordered me not to come back for at least two weeks. I haven’t even had time to figure out what to do with myself.”
“Let me figure that out for you.”
“I place myself in your hands. I’ll have to make some phone calls now and then, though.”
“If I know Kate, she probably told you to leave your phone behind.”
“Well, she did say she would order the White House switchboard not to take my calls. I think she may have even been serious.”
“If you try that, I’ll tell on you, and you’ll be in big trouble.”
Holly put down her fork. “I’d better call her and break the news.” She went to Stone’s desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. “The President, please. It’s Holly Barker calling.” She listened for a moment, and her face fell. She hung up. “The White House operator has orders from the President not to put any of my calls through. I can’t believe she would do such a thing.”
Stone laughed. “Now you’re officially on vacation. And I’m not going to let you watch the news, either!”
48
STONE EXPERTLY TIED his black bow tie, slipped into his dinner jacket, and stuffed a white silk pocket square into the breast pocket, then he stepped out of his dressing room and found Holly, all five feet ten inches of her, sans heels, in an emerald silk dress that set off her red hair and skin color.
“You’re actually ready?”
“I don’t believe in futzing around for an hour while the gent taps his foot and looks at his watch.”
“Bless you. Let’s get out of here.” They took the elevator to the ground floor and exited the front door to find Fred waiting beside the Bentley. A moment later they were under way.
“Damn it,” Stone muttered under his breath, “I forgot to arm the security system.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Fred said, “I’ll do it when I return to the house.”
“Thank you, Fred.”
They were set down at the garage entrance to the Fairleigh and took the elevator to the top floor. A uniformed butler let them into the penthouse apartment, and Laurence came over to greet them.
Stone introduced Holly. “I see you’ve hired a butler.”
“Mike Freeman provided him, just for the evening. Come, I want you to meet my mother and stepfather. They arrived yesterday from England.” He took them to an elegant-looking couple who were occupying a sofa before the fireplace.
“Stone, these are Derek Fallowfield and my mother, Dorothy. Stone Barrington and his law firm are my principal advisors.”
Hands were shaken.
“I hope you had a good flight,” Stone said.
“We’re still a little jet-lagged, but Laurence has made us very comfortable in the flat downstairs,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, I had that done up for them,” Laurence said. “Excuse me, I have other guests to greet.”
While Dorothy and Holly chatted, Derek pulled Stone aside. “Look here, Barrington,” he said quietly, “I’m very concerned about all the money Laurence is spending. My calculations put his recent spending at more than a hundred million dollars. Did he really win enough to be all right for that?”
“He’s quite able to handle it,” Stone said. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Derek said, snagging another glass of champag
ne from a passing waiter. “This really is quite an establishment, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is. When Laurence bought it, it was the finest property on the market.”
“The boy has turned out to be smarter than I thought,” Derek said. “I thought he was going to spend his life teaching English and art history to schoolboys and playing jazz piano.”
“He has many interests,” Stone said.
“He’s taking us to Santa Fe to see his new house there,” Derek said. “Where in God’s name is Santa Fe?”
“New Mexico.”
“Is that in Mexico?”
“No, it’s an American state, just south of Colorado.”
“Ah, yes, Colorado.”
“As it happens, I’ve just bought a property there myself, so perhaps we’ll see you while you’re in town.”
“We’d be delighted. Who is the young woman you’re with? She’s a stunner in that dress.”
“She’s the national security advisor to the President of the United States.”
“Good God! Do all your civil servants look like that?”
“Hardly any of them,” Stone said. “Holly is the exception. Before her current job she was a deputy director of the CIA.”
“I’m slightly acquainted with the head of our MI6,” Derek said, “and I think she’s attractive, but not like Miss Barker.”
“Dame Felicity Devonshire?”
“You know her?”
“We’re neighbors down in Hampshire. She’s just across the Beaulieu River from me.”
“I belong to a yacht club down there, on the Isle of Wight—the Royal Yacht Squadron.”
“So do I.”
“My word, Barrington, you do get around!”
“So does your stepson.”
“Yes, that’s quite a girl he’s got. We’re very impressed with her.”
“He stole her from Ralph Lauren,” Stone said.
—
IRV HAD WATCHED from across the street as the Bentley drove away. He got out his cell phone and dialed Curly. “They’ve left the house, and he was wearing a tuxedo, so they’re out for the evening. Now’s the time.”
“We’re just around the corner. Be there in a minute.”
Shortly, a gray van drove up, and Curly got out and got into Irv’s car. “How do you want to do this?”
“I think we’ll go in through the downstairs street entrance. It’s more sheltered than the front stoop.”
“You’re sure you can handle the lock?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll take a couple of minutes, but I’ve cracked these Israeli jobs before.”
“I’ll give you a head start while I get my handcart out of the van.”
Irv approached the house while Curly went back to the van.
“I want to get away from here,” Sofia/Maria said.
“Chill, Maria, we’re good to go. Barrington has left the house wearing a tuxedo. Now make three right turns and pull over as near to the southwest corner as you can get.” He set the folding cart on the pavement, and she drove away. Curly crossed the street, looking around for cops, and found Irv crouched at the bottom of the little flight of stairs that led to Barrington’s office.
“How’s it going, Irv?”
“It’s going. Keep quiet, I need to concentrate.”
Curly sat down next to him and watched him manipulate his lock picks. Suddenly, the door was open.
“Come on,” Irv said. “We’ve got about thirty seconds before the alarm blows, maybe a minute.”
“I know where the box is,” Curly said. “Follow me.”
—
TEN BLOCKS AWAY, a bored security technician named Sid manned a bank of monitors in the basement of a small office building. He had been at work for half an hour and had ordered a pizza for his dinner and had changed into his Strategic Services coveralls, dumping the contents of his pockets on his desk. He usually worked with a partner, but the man had called in sick.
He sat down and checked the condition of the systems he was monitoring. Suddenly, an alarm began to beep. He switched his monitors to an apartment a few blocks away but saw nothing. He looked up the phone number and called.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Sid, at Strategic Services. I have an alarm at your place. Is everything all right? Do you need the police?”
“It’s my fault, I entered my old code before I thought about it.”
“What is your cancellation code, please?”
“Black Cat.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll cancel your alarm. Let us know if we can be of service.”
His phone rang. “This is Sid.”
“This is Domino’s. Our guy is at the service door with your pizza.”
“I’ll be right there.” He grabbed some money from his desk and trotted down the hall to the door. He opened it and leaned against it while he paid the pizza guy. It was heavily sprung and took an effort to keep open. Then his foot slipped; he pitched forward, and the heavy door slammed behind him. He went to his pocket for the keys, then remembered that they were on his desk with the contents of his pockets.
“Oh, shit,” he said to himself.
49
THE TWO BURGLARS ran into Barrington’s office and got the door to the security panel open.
“Piece of cake,” Irv said, flipping switches. A piercing alarm siren beat against their eardrums, then Irv found the right switch, and it stopped. “That’s enough to alert the security company,” Irv said. “You’d better get your ass in gear.”
Curly ran up the stairs carrying his handcart.
—
SID TRIED THE FRONT DOOR of the little office building: locked tight, and there was no watchman. He was going to have to call for help, and he dreaded doing so. He felt his pocket for his cell phone, then remembered it was on his desk with the rest of the contents of his pockets. He glanced at the deli across the street and remembered it had a pay phone. He groped in his pockets: no quarters, no coins at all. He found the three dollar bills the pizza guy had given him for change and walked across the street to the deli. The place was deserted, only the counterman there.
“Hi,” Sid said, “I’m from across the street, and I locked my cell phone in my office.” He placed a one on the counter. “Can you give me four quarters, please?”
The counterman pointed at a sign. NO CHANGE FOR PHONE, it read. “Tell you what, give me one quarter for a buck.”
“What’s that in your hand?” the counterman asked, nodding at the Domino’s box.
“It’s a pizza.”
“We sell pizza,” the man said accusingly.
“Domino’s puts more stuff on theirs than you do on yours. C’mon, Mac, give me a quarter for a buck.”
The man ignored him and wiped something imaginary off his counter.
“All right,” Sid said, placing another dollar on the counter, “two bucks for a quarter.”
“The boss would fire me.”
Sid came up with his last dollar. “It’s all I’ve got. Be a human being.”
The man opened the cash register and started removing bills.
“You’ve got quarters staring you in the face,” Sid said.
The man ignored him.
“That’s it,” Sid said. “I’m never ordering a sandwich here again.”
“When did you ever?” the man said.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“At least I’ll know I’m doing it with somebody who loves me.”
Sid walked out and hailed the first cab he saw. “I’ll give you three bucks for a quarter,” he said to the driver through his ever-open window.
“What’s wrong with the ones?” the driver asked.
“Not a thing. I just need to make a call, and I don’t have any change.�
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The driver popped a quarter out of his change holder and grabbed the three bills, then drove away.
Sid looked up and down the block. Where the hell was another pay phone? He sighed and went back to the deli, where he found a CLOSED sign on the door, which was locked. The counterman was pushing a mop around the place.
—
FRED FLICKER had just pulled into the garage in the Bentley when the alarm siren wailed for a moment, then turned off. Had the garage door opener set off the system? he asked himself. That shouldn’t happen. He got out of the car, unbuttoned his jacket, and unholstered his little .380 automatic, which was big enough to frighten or wound, but not big enough to bring a man down, except with a shot to the heart or the head. He walked over to the door and let himself quietly into the house.
He walked stealthily into Stone’s office and saw the door to the security panel open. Uh-oh, he thought. He heard a noise to his left and wheeled, the gun in front of him. The figure of a man was running toward the kitchen. Fred screamed, “Please! Stop or I’ll shoot!” The “please” was intended to sound like “police.” The man kept moving; Fred lowered his aim and squeezed off a round. He was surprised at how much noise the small gun made in the enclosed space. The man made the kitchen door and kept running. A moment later, Fred heard the back door slam. The man had made the garden.
—
UPSTAIRS, Curly had four pictures on his cart when he heard the gunshot. He ran toward the back stairs to the kitchen, down them, and out into the garden, passing Irv, who was running with a big limp.
“Don’t you leave me here, you son of a bitch!” Irv yelled.
Curly made the gate to Second Avenue and looked for the van. Shit, she had parked across the street, and traffic was heavy. Irv caught up with him just as the light changed, and they both made it into the van. “Let’s get out of here!” he yelled at Maria, and she floored the vehicle.