by Stuart Woods
“So, below the new bottom, the old pool is still there?”
“Correct.” He walked over to a sideboard next to the window. “Holly, you may as well see this, too.” He removed two books from the near side of the bookcase atop the sideboard, reached into the shelf, pressed a board at the back, and a small door popped open. He showed them a bolt inside, then slid it back and pulled on the bookcase. The whole thing, sideboard included, swung into the room, revealing an opening. Ed reached inside and flipped on a light switch, illuminating a fairly short tunnel, lined with concrete blocks, then he led the way, beckoning them to follow.
The tunnel ended in another wall, and Ed swung open a concrete block, slid back another bolt, and flipped another light switch. “Watch your head, it’s a low ceiling.”
Stone followed him into a room that was, obviously, the lower six feet of the old swimming pool. There were half a dozen filing cabinets along a wall, each column of drawers secured by a steel bar and a heavy padlock, and a large safe sat opposite them. A computer sat on the desk and next to it, a large printer. They were much like the Agency equipment in Dick Stone’s little office. “I built all this myself, with the help of the Old Farts,” Rawls said. “Took us a whole winter. Everything is here.”
“Everything? Like what?” Stone asked.
“Everything that backs up what’s in my manuscript—files, photographs, documents, a lot of it taken from the main library at the Agency. I got into the computer using a phony password I set up, and downloaded and printed everything.”
“And nobody knows about this?”
“Just you two. Everybody else is dead. You’re going to need to know this later, but for Christ’s sake, be careful who you tell.”
“Does Will know about this?”
“Nope. He’d be the best person to tell, though. When the time comes.”
“And when would that be?”
“When this whole business blows. If I’m not here at the time, this is your insurance.”
“Insurance against what?”
“Against the wrong people getting ahold of the strong case. Everything here is on thumb drives in the case, along with the manuscript. If somebody tries to force open the case, it will explode and destroy the contents.”
“Jesus, Ed, you’re saddling me with this.”
“You see, it’s what happens when you get too curious. You find out things you didn’t want to know.”
13
STONE AND HOLLY WERE ESCORTED to their car by Ed Rawls, still carrying his shotgun. “Try not to get seen leaving here,” Ed said. “Take a circuitous route home.”
“Are you going to give me the key to the strong case?” Stone asked as he got into the car.
“Eventually,” Ed said, closing his door for him. The log and the gate were both open when they got there, and both closed after they had passed through.
“I don’t like this,” Stone said.
“What are you referring to? There’s so much not to like.”
They turned right instead of left and began a circuit around the island.
“I’m bothered by Ed being holed up like that.”
“He seems pretty comfortable.”
“If these people, whoever they are, want him out of the way, they’re eventually going to win.”
“Not before Ed kills a few of them,” Holly said. “We know that he’s prepared to do that. I think these people know they have to be careful, that they can’t murder someone on a Maine island in Penobscot Bay and expect it to go unnoticed.”
“It sounds like Ed hasn’t spoken to anybody but Jimmy Hotchkiss since last fall, so it’s not like he’d be missed on the island.”
“He’d be missed by Jimmy Hotchkiss, who, as you’ve pointed out, seems to have the ear and attention of everyone here.”
“That’s a good point. I’ll stop worrying until something happens to Jimmy.”
Holly laughed. “You do that.”
—
WHEN THEY GOT BACK to the house there was an envelope stuck in the front screen door. Stone retrieved it; it was made of thick cream-colored paper, and engraved on the rear flap was the legend “United States Senate, Washington, D.C.”
“What’s that?” Holly said.
“Let’s go find out,” Stone said, unlocking the front door and letting them in, then relocking it. They went into the living room and sat down on the leather sofa. He held out the envelope to Holly. “You want to inspect this for explosives before I open it?”
Holly backed away a few steps. “You go right ahead,” she said.
Stone took a silver letter opener from the coffee table and slit the flap. “Apparently, it’s safe,” he said, and Holly came and sat beside him. He removed a single sheet of notepaper on which was engraved Whitney Saltonstall, United States Senator from New York.
“Do you know Senator Saltonstall?” Holly asked.
“Yes, I’ve had lunch with him a couple of times at a club we both belong to.”
“Which club?”
“It doesn’t have a name. Members just call it ‘the Club.’”
“How idiotically classy,” Holly said, moving in close and reading the note along with him.
My Dear Stone,
I am aboard the motor yacht Breeze, anchored off the Tarratine Yacht Club, as a guest of my friend Christian St. Clair. If you are resident on Islesboro at this time, we would both be very pleased if you and your companion (if you have one, as you usually do) would join us this evening for drinks and dinner. Dress will be black tie, or nautical uniform. If you receive this, you may text a reply to the number below. A launch will collect you from the Tarratine’s dock at 6:30 PM.
With kindest regards,
Whit
“Whew,” Holly said. “You keep fancy company.”
“I don’t know St. Clair,” Stone said, “do you?”
“All I know about him is what I read in the papers, the business press, and the occasional Secret Service report, if he’s dining at the White House.”
“I should think that the latter would contain just about everything known about the man except his vaccination list.”
“It depends on what the President wants to know,” she said. “It could be as simple as ‘The subject has no arrest record and has never threatened the life of the President of the United States,’ all the way up to, and including, a copy of his most recent financial statement, tax return, cardio workup, and proctological exam.”
“Which have you read?”
“The short one. I know that the gentleman is fifty-one years old and the fourth or fifth richest man in the United States, and that his fortune is based on oil, natural gas, renewable energy, and various high technologies.”
“What are his politics?”
“He’s a Democrat who is on, a little left of, the political centerline, depending on whom you talk to.”
“Will you eat his food and drink his wine?”
“If you insist.”
“Okay, you’d better start thinking about what you’re going to wear.”
“That would be an LBD with my best jewelry and flat shoes, since we’ll be aboard a vessel that might move under our feet, and our host is fairly short. What about you?”
“I actually possess a nautical dress uniform,” Stone said.
“And what, pray, does that consist of?”
“You’ll find out.” He texted Saltonstall: Stone Barrington and Holly Barker are pleased to accept.
—
AT CLOSE ENOUGH to six-thirty they left the house by the back door, having first armed the security system, and walked the few yards to the yacht club, next door. As they passed the front porch, where people were gathered for drinks, they were greeted by sporadic applause. Stone gave them a salute. “Well, if anybody didn’t know we were here, they know no
w.”
They walked out onto the dock, where an exquisitely varnished launch awaited them, with a uniformed crew of three. One held the lines, one assisted them aboard, and the third attended to the helm. A moment later they were slowly under way, mindful of the dozens of boats moored in the little harbor.
“I believe that must be Breeze,” Stone said, nodding toward a very traditional yacht moored in the outer harbor.
“Yes, sir, it is,” a nearby crewman said.
“What’s her length?”
“A hundred and twenty feet.”
“When was she built?”
“Launched this spring, finished her sea trials three weeks ago.”
“I would have put her at about 1935.”
“Mr. St. Clair is a traditionalist,” the man replied. “Although she has the grace of that era, everything else about her is either up to date or ahead of her time.”
“I was expecting more of a superyacht,” Stone said quietly to Holly.
“You mean a giant, plastic bathtub with a helicopter strapped to its back?”
“Something like that.”
“It seems Mr. St. Clair prefers the understated.”
14
THE LAUNCH PULLED UP TO a gangway hung on the yacht’s starboard side, and they were greeted at the top by the captain, who escorted them to the afterdeck, where several couples were arrayed on comfortable furniture. Piano music wafted from an invisible sound system.
“Mr. Barrington and Ms. Barker,” the captain announced. A rather short but well-proportioned man dressed in what Stone recognized as a New York Yacht Club mess kit turned to greet them. “Mr. Barrington, Ms. Barker, welcome aboard Breeze. I’m Christian St. Clair, and this is my wife, Emma.” He indicated the woman beside him, who was somewhat taller than him. “I believe you know Senator Saltonstall.”
“It’s Stone and Holly, please,” Stone replied, and hands were shaken. Senator Saltonstall got up from his chair and greeted them, introducing his wife, Allison. The other guests and wives were introduced as well, the men in dinner suits, and Stone recognized some of their names: a magazine publisher, a philanthropist, and the executive editor of the New York Times.
“And I’m Christian,” St. Clair said. “May we get you some refreshment?” He indicated a bar trolley nearby, crowded with bottles, and Stone looked at Holly.
“The usual,” she said.
“Two Knob Creeks,” Stone said, “on the rocks.” The drinks were placed on a small silver tray then transported the six feet to where they stood.
“What a beautiful yacht,” Stone said. “I was surprised to learn that she’s new.”
“Thank you,” St. Clair replied. “I prefer the old to the new in most things, but not in yachts or airplanes.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I see you are a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron,” St. Clair said, indicating his mess kit. “Somehow I hadn’t expected to find one in Islesboro.”
“I have a house in England, across the Solent from the Squadron. My membership is quite new.”
“Ms. Barker, I believe you are the national security advisor to the President, are you not?”
“I am, for my sins,” Holly replied.
“I didn’t know Kate Lee’s staff were allowed to leave the premises, at least not as far as Maine.”
“Sometimes she insists,” Holly said. “She felt I had too much unused vacation time.”
“I’m glad we found you here, Stone,” the senator said. “When did you arrive?”
“Only yesterday. Your timing was perfect.”
“Are you staying the summer?”
“I wish we were—work will catch up with both of us sooner than I’d like.”
“Did you manage to land your airplane on the island?”
“It would have been fun to try, but unwise, given the runway length. We landed at Rockland and were brought over in something smaller.”
“How did you come to choose Islesboro?” Emma St. Clair asked.
“It was chosen for me,” Stone said, “by my cousin Dick Stone, who died a few years ago. He left the house to a trust and lifetime occupancy to me. I subsequently bought it from the trust.”
“Such a lovely place to be,” she said.
“It certainly is.”
—
EVERYONE CHATTED COMPANIONABLY for another hour before dinner was announced, and the hosts led them through a comfortable saloon to the dining room, where place cards had been set out on a gleaming dining table, set with beautiful china, silverware, and crystal. Stone found himself between Emma St. Clair and the Times editor’s wife. Their husbands were on opposite sides of the table.
“Tell me, Christian,” the editor said, while a first course of foie gras was being served, “anything to the rumblings that have reached me about your considering a run for the presidency next time?”
“You may have heard rumblings,” St. Clair responded, “but there is no quake, nor will there be. I lead far too nice a life to exchange it for a political hell.”
“Is that what you think Washington is these days?”
“I suppose it’s no hotter than usual, but it would be hell for me. There isn’t even a presidential yacht anymore.”
“Wouldn’t this suffice?” He waved an arm.
“As long as it stays out of the Potomac, yes.”
“Stone,” Saltonstall said from the other end of the table, “I hear you’ve bought a place in Santa Fe.”
“A friend was leaving town and offered it to me, pretty much furnished. I couldn’t resist.”
“Do you ever practice law anymore?”
“Occasionally, but I try not to be caught at it. Anyway, an iPhone and a laptop make an office these days.”
“You are a wise man, Stone,” St. Clair said. “I operate much the same way, to the extent I can.”
“He’s spent more time on the design and building of this yacht the past two years,” his wife said, “than on any sort of productive work.”
“Darling, I’m surprised you find all this unproductive, and anyway, you spent just as much time on the interiors as I spent on the rest.”
“Where did you have her built?” Stone asked.
“I bought a little boatyard on the bay,” he replied, “built a larger shed, and hired a yacht designer, a manager, and a workforce of thirty craftsmen. I find you get more attention from the builders if you’re not competing with other people’s yachts. We built Breeze and the two launches in less than two years—record time.”
“Will you keep the yard?” the editor asked.
“I will, along with a staff to maintain the yacht. I sent the others off with a nice bonus, and they have all already found work in other yards. Breeze looks good on their résumés.”
“That’s a brilliant way to build a yacht,” Stone said.
“Especially if you consider that I paid about the same as if I’d hired a top yard to do it. As it was, the company I set up made a very nice profit, and we may take on other yachts to maintain. Of course, if I’d built a larger vessel, I’d have had to go to Abeking & Rasmussen in Germany or Palmer Johnson in Wisconsin or some other brilliant builder thousands of miles away. Just think what I saved on jet fuel by doing it in-house, as it were.”
Everybody laughed.
A steward came into the room with a sheet of paper on a silver tray and offered it to St. Clair. “Excuse me, sir, but I thought you’d like to know.”
St. Clair picked up the paper and read it, while the others chatted. He tapped on a wineglass with a fingernail, and everybody got quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner, but it’s my sad duty to inform you that former President Joseph Adams died suddenly this afternoon at his home in Santa Fe. He and Sue were due at their home on Mo
unt Desert Island later this week for the summer. We had planned to call in and see them.”
Everyone seemed locked in a stunned silence.
St. Clair raised his glass: “I give you a great man—Joe Adams.”
Everyone raised his glass and drank.
“I knew him well,” St. Clair said, “and I’ve never known a better human being.”
The others exchanged reminiscences, then St. Clair turned toward Stone.
“You’re very quiet, Stone. Did you know Joe Adams in Santa Fe?”
“We met at the Democratic Convention in Los Angeles some years back and spent a riotous evening together in a skybox belonging to a mutual friend. I think we had more fun than any of the delegates.”
“It’s a pity he got to serve only a few months as President, after his predecessor died,” Saltonstall said.
“He and Sue came to Maine every summer,” St. Clair said. “Joe loved it here.”
The rest of the evening was quieter.
15
AFTER DINNER THEY ADJOURNED TO the yacht’s saloon for brandy and coffee and watched the TV coverage of Joe Adams’s death for a while. It was nearly midnight before the group showed signs of breaking up. Stone and Holly thanked their hosts profusely and rose to go.
“If you hang around Islesboro a little longer, perhaps we’ll see you again,” St. Clair said. “We’ll be cruising for a couple of weeks. Perhaps you could join us for a few days. We’re not fully occupied aboard.”
“That would be delightful,” Stone said, “if we’re able to stay longer.” They exchanged cards, and Stone and Holly boarded the launch for the return trip to the dock.
“What did you think of Christian St. Clair?” Holly asked as they were walking back to the house.
“I liked him,” Stone replied. “He’s smart, unpretentious, and he didn’t talk about business or, very much, about politics. He’d rather talk about his boat, and I liked that about him. How about you?”