Стюарт Вудс - Standup Guy

“And look what happened to him.”

“You have a point.”

“I think it would be more fun just to wing it.”

“So do I, that’s why I’m not prepping.”

“You have to watch out for Lesley Stahl, though, she’s sneaky.”

“I well know it.”

“She comes on all sweet and charming, then suddenly she’s asking about your Swiss bank account, and somehow, she knows your balance.”

“I am fortunate in not having a Swiss bank account, so Ms. Stahl can do her worst.”

“God, I hope not.”

“I hope not, too. What time can I expect you?”

“Why? Would I be interrupting something if I got there unexpectedly early?”

“I just want time to lower the girls from the bedroom window and kick the champagne bottles under the bed.”

“Just a typical Sunday morning when the wife’s away, huh?”

“I have to run now, the Chris Matthews show is about to start, and he’s having that hot Katty Kay on. You know what a British accent does to me.”

“Yes, I do. Isn’t she one of the girls you have to lower out the window?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“See you in a couple of hours.”

“Bye.”

They both hung up.

13

Sunday morning, and Stone’s phone was ringing. He opened an eye and glanced at the clock. Nearly ten. “Hello?”

“It’s Holly.”

“Well, spymaster, long time. What’s up with you?” He pressed the remote and the bed sat him up.

“At the moment, I’m hungry. Buy me brunch?”

“How soon can you be here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“I’ll order now. Hurry!”

But Holly had hung up.

Stone buzzed the kitchen and got Helene, then he ordered eggs Benedict, asparagus, freshly squeezed orange juice, and his usual, Medaglia d’Oro Italian coffee, made strong. He got out of bed, went to the dumbwaiter, and retrieved the Sunday New York Times , which weighed almost more than he could lift. He got back in bed and began reading the front page. No mention of Kate’s fund-raiser. How long could this last?

• • •

Nineteen minutes later, Holly walked into the room, undressing as she came. “I’ve still got my key,” she said. “Hope that’s okay.” She dived into bed and kissed him.

“It’s more than okay.”

“The Times is going to have to wait,” she said, climbing on top of him and kissing him wetly.

“We can always read the Times ,” Stone said. “We can’t always do this.”

She eased him inside her. “It’s the nation’s fault,” she said, then sucked in a breath.

“That’s it,” Stone replied, sucking in his own breath as he went deep. “Blame the country for your absences.”

They both stopped talking and concentrated on the activity at hand. They both went off at exactly the same time as the bell on the dumbwaiter.

“I’ll play waitress,” Holly said, hopping off him and running for the tray.

Stone put her bed up to match his, and they dug in.

“Helene makes the most heavenly hollandaise sauce,” Holly said. “I’d ask her for the recipe, but I don’t intend to cook ever again. We have a very decent restaurant at the New York station, you know.” Holly was CIA station chief in New York. “You must come to lunch sometime.”

“Well, I do have the security clearance for it,” Stone replied. “Someday when neither Mike Freeman nor Bill Eggers is inviting me to his table at the Four Seasons, I’ll take you up on it. Do they serve Dover sole?”

“On occasion,” Holly said. “I never make requests, because I’d get blamed for ordering expensive food. It’s more like comfort food.”

“Dover sole is comfort food for me.”

“Yeah, but you’re a multi-zillionaire these days.”

“Not my fault,” Stone said. “I didn’t lift a finger to earn a penny of it.”

“What’s it like being that rich?”

“It’s a combination of a joy and a heavy burden. I’m Peter’s trustee, too, so I have to spend quite a bit of time husbanding money and getting it to reproduce.”

“What have you bought that you didn’t already have?”

“Let’s see. A car . . .”

“What kind of car?”

“I’ll show you later. And a house.”

“Where?”

Stone pointed to his right.

“How far?”

“Less than a stone’s throw.”

“You mean the house next door?”

“Right. Joan found out the people were selling. She had a look at it, found it newly renovated and decorated, and suggested I buy it and turn it into staff quarters.”

“Which means Joan is living next door?”

“Right. And Helene, and Frederic.”

“Who the hell is Frederic?”

“The butler.”

“You have a butler? Ye gods!”

“He was a gift, actually.”

“Somebody gave you a butler?”

“My French friend, Marcel duBois. For a year. After that, Fred and I negotiate, if we’re both happy. He’s a wonder, and he and Helene have formed an attachment and are sharing an apartment. Then there’s Joan’s apartment and a very nice guest duplex. Plus, we broke through the wall and enlarged the garage and the wine cellar.”

“So that’s all you bought?”

“Well, there is the new jet.”

Holly howled with laughter. “I knew it. I knew you’d go nuts!”

“I didn’t go nuts. I would have ordered the airplane anyway. It’s a new model from Cessna, a Citation M2, and a nice step up from the Mustang—faster, better range, a little larger. I gave the Mustang to Peter.”

“When do you take delivery?”

“End of September. I have to go to school for two weeks. Say, I get two training slots. You want to spend two weeks in Wichita with me, learning to fly it?” Holly already had an airplane of her own and a couple of thousand hours.

“God knows, I’ve got vacation time coming. Give me the dates and I’ll see what I can do. What girl could resist two weeks in Wichita?”

“I warn you, it’s going to be hard work. The simulator isn’t an airplane, it’s more like a computer game, I’m told.”

“It would be a vacation for me.”

Stone got up and put the tray back on the dumbwaiter and sent it downstairs, then he jumped back into bed. “This is a vacation for me,” he said, burying his face in her lap.

“Happy vacation,” she said, lying back.

14

Stone sucked in a breath and clenched his teeth as Holly took a curve on the Sawmill River Parkway. “Jeez, Holly, you hit a hundred and twenty for a second there, and I don’t think a CIA ID is going to get you out of being arrested by a state trooper.”

“What is this thing?” Holly asked, slowing down slightly.

“It’s a Blaise, a new French car made by my Parisian friend.”

“It’s like flying,” she said.

Stone wished for dual controls.

“I think I read about this in the Times , didn’t I? Doesn’t it cost something like four hundred grand?”

“Something like that, but I got a deal, less than two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“I’ve never driven anything like it. What’s the horsepower?”

“Six hundred,” Stone said, “and you’re using every one of them at the moment.” He was pressed back into his seat as she accelerated again. He put a hand on her arm. “Please, I don’t think my heart can take any more.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, touching the brakes and bringing it down to eighty. “What’s the speed limit out here, anyway?”

“Fifty-five.”

“That’s a crime, a beautiful drive like this!”

“Here’s an idea,” Stone said. “Why don’t you call a security alert and get the road closed for a couple of hours? Then you can come out here—without me—and become part of a large tree.”