SHOOT HIM IF HE RUNS
BOOKS BY STUART WOODS
FICTION
Fresh Disasters†
Short Straw
Dark Harbor†
Iron Orchid*
Two-Dollar Bill†
The Prince of Beverly Hills
Reckless Abandon†
Capital Crimes‡
Dirty Work†
Blood Orchid*
The Short Forever†
Orchid Blues*
Cold Paradise†
L.A. Dead†
The Run‡
Worst Fears Realized†
Orchid Beach*
Swimming to Catalina†
Dead in the Water†
Dirt†
Choke
Imperfect Strangers
Heat
Dead Eyes
L.A. Times
Santa Fe Rules
New York Dead†
Palindrome
Grass Roots‡
White Cargo
Deep Lie‡
Under the Lake
Run Before the Wind‡
Chiefs‡
TRAVEL
A Romantic’s Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland (1979)
MEMOIR
Blue Water, Green Skipper (1977)
SHOOT HIM IF HE RUNS
STUART WOODS
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONSNEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0745, Auckland, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2007 by Stuart Woods
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Published simultaneously in Canada
“Black Mountain Blues”: Words and music by J. C. Johnson. © 1965 Record Music Publishing Co. c/o Songwriters Guild of America. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Woods, Stuart.
Shoot him if he runs / Stuart Woods.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1176-2
1. Barrington, Stone (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Barker, Holly (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Intelligence officers—Fiction. 4. West Indies—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.O642S55 2007 2007017293
813'.54—dc22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is for Barbara Ellen.
Goin’ to Black Mountain
Take my razor and my gun;
Gonna cut him if he stands still
Shoot him if he runs.
“Black Mountain Blues,” by J. C. Johnson
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Author’s Note
1
Elaine’s, late.
Stone Barrington blew into Elaine’s, later than usual. Dino Bacchetti, his former NYPD partner, sat having dinner.
“Where the hell have you been?” Dino asked.
“Spokane, Washington,” Stone replied. “I told you, remember?”
“I don’t remember anything anymore,” Dino said. “That’s Genevieve’s job, now.” Genevieve James was his new girlfriend, his first regular since his divorce. “What were you doing in Spokane?”
“I’m having the engine ripped off my airplane and replaced with a turbine—that’s a jet engine, turning a propeller.”
A waiter set a Knob Creek on the rocks before him, and he sipped it gratefully.
“But why are you late? Dinner was two hours ago.”
“Because my flight was late.”
“You don’t take the airlines; you have an airplane.”
“Dino, having sex again is addling your brain. I left the airplane in Spokane; the work takes three months. It’s a big job.”
“Right.”
Stone put several letters on the table and began opening them.
“You getting your mail here now?”
“No, I stopped to drop off my bag, and I just grabbed the mail on the way out the door.”
Elaine came over, allowed him to kiss her and sat down. “You getting your mail here? We charge extra for that.”
Stone put down the mail. “No, I brought it with me. Any charge for opening it here?”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” she replied. “People will think you’re living in my back room.”
“You don’t have a back room.”
“That won’t stop them from thinking it.”
“Your logic is unassailable,” Sto
ne said, shoving the mail aside and sipping his drink.
A waiter appeared with a menu.
“Green bean salad, hold the peppers, spaghetti carbonara, half a bottle of the Chianti Classico,” Stone said.
“You look hungry,” Elaine said. “You’re late, too; where you been?”
“Spokane, Washington; Dino will explain it to you.”
“He’s turning his airplane into a jet,” Dino said.
“Sort of,” Stone replied. “A jet with a propeller. It’s called a turboprop.”
“Why are you doing this to your airplane?”
“Faster, quieter, more reliable, climbs faster.”
“Oh.”
Elaine had never evinced the slightest interest in his airplane, Stone remembered. He waited for the next, inevitable question.
“Only one engine?” Elaine asked.
“One’s all you need.”
“What if it stops?”
“Extremely unlikely, but I’d find a place to land it.”
Elaine nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“Where is Genevieve?” Stone asked Dino.
“Late shift; she’ll show soon. She might bring Eliza.”
“Good idea.” Eliza Larkin was an ER doctor Stone had been seeing occasionally since he had been run down by a car and she had treated him.
The two women, on cue, breezed into the place, exchanged kisses with everybody and sat down.
“Bring ’em a menu,” Elaine said to a waiter.
“No, thanks, I had dinner in the cafeteria earlier,” Eliza said.
“Me too,” Genevieve said.
Elaine looked at them incredulously. “You ate food from a hospital cafeteria instead of here?”
“I would have fainted if I hadn’t,” Eliza said. “Maybe I’ll have dessert.”
“Dessert is good,” Elaine said, pointing at a tray of samples and motioning for a waiter to bring it over.
“Cheesecake,” Eliza said.
“Make it two,” Genevieve echoed.
The two women excused themselves and went to the ladies’ room.
Stone turned his attention to the mail again, and a large white envelope caught his attention. He turned it over to read the return address. The White House, Washington, D.C., it read.
Stone opened the envelope.
“You look funny,” Dino said.
“I’ve been invited to dinner at the White House,” Stone said, gulping. “Holly Barker and me.”
“On the same invitation?” Elaine asked, taking it from him.
“Why you and Holly?” Dino asked.
“Yeah, Eliza is gonna want to know the answer to that question, too,” Elaine said.
Stone took the invitation and stuffed it into his pocket. “Let’s not discuss it with her,” he said, “especially since I don’t know the answer to that question.”
His cellphone vibrated on his belt, and he flipped it open. “Hello?”
“It’s Holly.” Holly Barker was his friend and sometime lover, a retired army officer and chief of police in a Florida town, now doing something or other for the CIA.
“Speak of the devil.”
“How was Spokane?”
“Fine. How did you know I was in Spokane?”
“I have a computer program that tracks the flight of any airplane. You went yesterday; I figured you came back today. You’re doing the engine conversion?”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“I know lots of stuff. You got the invitation?”
“Just now.”
“You getting your mail at Elaine’s these days?”
“I picked it up on the way here.”
“I have further instructions for you about the dinner.”
“Okay.”
“It’s going to take five days, maybe a week of your time.”
“Huh?”
“Listen to me carefully, and don’t argue. Dinner, you will have noticed, is tomorrow night; it’s black tie.”
“I got that from the invitation.”
“Pack a bag with warm-weather clothing and bring your passport.”
“Holly…”
“Shut up. I told you not to ask questions.”
“I’ll have to see what’s on my calendar for the next week.”
“Nothing; I checked with Joan this afternoon.”
Joan Robertson was his secretary. “A conspiracy,” he said.
“You don’t know the half of it, kiddo,” she replied, then hung up.
“What?” Elaine asked.
“I don’t know what,” Stone replied. “Weird, is what.”
2
The following day, Stone, as per directions included with his White House invitation, took the Acela to Washington and a cab to the Willard, the restored grande dame hotel of the mid-nineteenth century. He was led by a bellman to an elegant suite and was a little surprised to find the luggage and clothes of a woman there. He tipped the bellman, then explored.
The clothes in the closet were few, but from fashionable designers, and slinky. He reflected that Holly was tall, but not particularly slender, and a little on the butch side, with short, light brown hair. She was certainly very attractive, but these clothes could not be hers. He called the front desk to inquire as to whether he was in the right suite and was assured that he was. He looked at his watch: four hours until he was to present himself at the White House.
He phoned the concierge and arranged for a massage, and while he waited for the masseuse to appear, he sent his dinner jacket and other clothes out to be pressed.
After an hour and a half of prodding and pummeling, he soaked in a hot tub and took a nap. He was in front of the hotel at the appointed time and was met by a black Lincoln and a driver, who knew the way to the White House.
The mansion and its grounds looked very beautiful with the moonlight on its six-inch blanket of new snow. At the gate he identified himself with his invitation and his passport and was driven to a portico, lit by a huge, hanging lamp, with Marine guards on either side of the door. Inside, he was greeted by name (they must have a photograph, he thought), his coat was taken, and he was asked to follow an usher. They walked down a portrait-hung hallway, took a couple of turns and stopped before a pair of double doors. The usher rapped lightly, and the door was opened by a man in a tuxedo. “Mr. Barrington,” the usher said, and stepped back to allow Stone to enter.
Stone walked into the room and was astonished to find himself in the Oval Office. The president of the United States, William Henry Lee IV, sat at the desk, on the phone, in his shirtsleeves, his dinner jacket resting on a valet stand beside his chair.
The president waved and pointed at a couch.
Stone sat down, and it was a good thing, too, because he felt a little weak in the knees. He had never been in this room, nor in this house, nor had he ever seen its occupant face-to-face.
A uniformed butler materialized and asked his pleasure in drink.
“A Knob Creek on the rocks,” Stone said automatically. “But if you don’t have that…”
“We have it, sir,” the man said, and he was back in a trice, with not one, but two drinks on a tray. He served Stone, then set the other glass on the president’s desk and dematerialized.
“I’ll expect to hear from you before noon tomorrow,” the president said, then hung up. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, rising and slipping into his dinner jacket. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” He walked toward Stone, his hand out.
Stone rose and shook his hand. “Have you, Mr. President?” He couldn’t imagine how.
“Bill Eggers is an old friend, and Woodman & Weld have been very helpful to the Democratic Party and to me over the years.” His accent was softly Southern. “Bill has told me some of the things you’ve done for them since becoming of counsel to the firm.”
What Stone did for Woodman & Weld was the things the firm did not want to be seen to be doing themselves, and he was a little embarrassed that the president knew about that
. “I see,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Stone,” Lee said. “Every law firm needs that sort of work”—he paused—“as does every administration.” He waved Stone back to his seat.
Stone sat down, uncertain as to what might come next.
“I asked you here a few minutes before the arrival of the others to thank you in advance for your help. I’m aware of your campaign contributions over the years, and I’m grateful for those, too.”
Stone had made a few thousand-dollar donations, but he couldn’t imagine why the president would be aware of that.
“I’m also aware of your honorable and very capable service to the NYPD for the fourteen years before you became an attorney, and as a citizen, I thank you for that, too.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.” Stone gulped. He took a long sip from his bourbon.
“Good stuff, Knob Creek,” the president said. “Knob Creek was where Abraham Lincoln spent his early years, in Kentucky, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president raised his glass. “It’s the patriotic thing to do,” he said, taking a sip. “Though I mustn’t be patriotic too often these days, given the nature of the work.”
“I suppose not, sir.”
The president sat down on the sofa beside him. “Let me come directly to the point; the others will be here soon.”
Stone waited and listened.
“I believe that, some years ago, you were involved in a widely publicized criminal trial, on the island of St. Marks, way south of here.”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“I believe I even caught a glimpse of you on 60 Minutes.”
“Yes, sir, it was important to the outcome of the trial that we obtain as much media coverage as possible.”
“I forget; what was the outcome of the trial?” The president asked, raising his eyebrows.
Stone had the distinct feeling that he had forgotten nothing. “My client was hanged,” he replied.
President Lee burst out laughing. “I’m aware that you believed her to be hanged, until some years later, and I’m aware of your most recent encounter with her. Where is she now?”
“In a Florida prison, Mr. President.”
“Ah, yes, and she’s been asking me for a pardon every year since; for her husband, too. Tell me, Stone, if you were in my position, would you pardon them?”
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