Stuart Woods: Hot Pursuit

“Would you like a drink?” Salton asked.

“Thank you, just some fizzy water.”

Instantly, a waiter entered the room and took their drink orders.

“What is this place?” Stone asked.

“It’s a sort of club, I suppose,” Salton said.

He supposed? “Does it have a name?”

“It does not. The members refer to it vaguely as ‘the club’ or ‘the association’ or ‘the East Side House.’ To what clubs do you belong, Stone?”

“Only a small golf club in Washington, Connecticut, where I have a house.”

“No city clubs?”

“None.”

“I find that remarkable,” Salton said.

Stone didn’t ask why. “Are all meals taken in this setting?” Stone asked, indicating the room.

“No, there is a proper dining room downstairs, but only members are permitted to use it. As a group, they guard their privacy jealously. Guests are received in these private rooms.”

“I see,” Stone said, overstating his understanding.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time,” Salton said.

Stone wrinkled his brow. “Why now?”

“Because, until last evening, we had not been introduced.” He smiled. “I realize that’s a bit old-fashioned of me, especially since I’m a politician, but it has been my experience that the means by which one makes acquaintances is almost as important as the acquaintance.”

“That’s not only old-fashioned, it’s very selective,” Stone said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Last evening you were in the company of two men I know fairly well, and that spoke well of you.”

“Is either of them a member of this club?” Stone asked.

“One is. I proposed the other this morning, along with you.”

Stone was dumbfounded. This man, who professed to be so selective, had proposed a man he didn’t know for what was obviously an extremely exclusive club. “I’m not sure I have the qualifications for membership,” Stone said. “What are they?”

“Substance, character, and to a lesser extent, cordiality,” Salton replied.

“And influence?” He thought he was beginning to see what this was about.

“Sometimes. Many members acquire more of that here than they bring to the party. And we are more inclusive than you might imagine. There is an unspoken rule — virtually all the rules here are unspoken — that no candidate is discriminated against for any of the usual exclusionary traits — race, religion, et cetera. The membership is quite broad in that regard.”

“Is it also large?”

“Given that the membership is worldwide, not terribly. There are no more than a couple of hundred members who have their main residence within a fifty-mile radius of the city, and you know more of them than you think you do. Several of them joined you in a group whose contributions started Katharine Lee’s campaign for the presidency.”

And that, Stone thought, is why I am here. Their lunch arrived — a fish soup, followed by poached salmon and a glass of a flinty white wine.

“You’re going to the inauguration, of course,” Salton said.

“Of course.”

“Will you be staying at the White House?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to impose on the Lees at such a frenetic time for them. I’ll be at the Hay-Adams Hotel.” He didn’t mention that he had declined an invitation to stay at the White House because his date was his friend Holly Barker, who ran the New York station of the CIA. Holly had felt it was inappropriate for her to stay there because of her position.

“My wife and I would be delighted to have you stay with us at our home in Georgetown,” Salton said.

“That’s very kind of you, but there will be four in my party.”

“Then perhaps you, your companion, and the Bacchettis would be our guests for a buffet dinner before the Inaugural Ball?”

“We’d be delighted,” Stone said. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Salton spoke up. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m not pumping you for more information about yourself, but you see, I already know a great deal about you — your background, parentage, education, police service, and law practice. There are at least a couple of members here whose fat you pulled from the fire during your early career.”

Stone laughed. “I used to do quite a lot of that,” he said.

“And you did it well and discreetly,” Salton replied. “I admire that.”

“I know a fair amount about you, too,” Stone said. “You’re that rare person whose first public office was the United States Senate. I liked, when you first ran, that you didn’t seem to scramble for the seat.”

“Oh, I consumed my share of rubber chicken,” Salton said, “but my way was eased somewhat by members of this club.”

The waiter returned to take their dishes.

“Would you like dessert?” Salton asked.

“Thank you, no.”

The waiter came back and poured coffee. Shortly another man in a black suit and green tie entered and handed Salton an envelope, then departed.

Salton opened the envelope, took out a sheet of stationery, and read what was written on it. He tucked the paper into his inside pocket. “Congratulations,” he said. “You have been elected to membership, as has Michael Freeman.”

Stone blinked. “Do you mean that Dino Bacchetti was already a member?”

“Dino was your co-proposer, as was Bill Eggers. You mustn’t blame them for not telling you. Another of our unwritten rules is that we may not tell any non-member that we belong, or even confirm that the association exists.”

Stone laughed. “I’ll blame them anyway.”

“This is how it works: for a year you will not receive a bill from the group. After that, you’ll be billed annually for a sum that is the cost of our previous year’s operating expenses, divided by the number of members, plus a sum — usually around ten percent — to account for inflation and new expenses. Occasionally, the board will authorize an assessment to cover some large expense — a new roof, renovation, et cetera. There is no initiation fee. If you do not receive a bill on the first day of your thirteenth month of membership, then enough of the membership will have thought ill of you to cancel it, and no more will be said.”

“How often does that happen?” Stone asked.

“Rarely. There have not been more than two such cases in any year.”

“How long has the club existed?”

“Since 1789,” Salton replied, “more than a century in this building, which was purpose-built from a rough plan drawn by Thomas Jefferson, who was a member, along with Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Now, come, and I’ll give you a tour of the house.”

Salton led the way to the stairs. “We’ll walk down,” he said. “By the way, there’s a lovely roof garden above us, but it won’t open until spring.” They didn’t pause at the fourth floor. “There are some rooms here, which are sometimes used by out-of-town members — or members who have found their domestic arrangements temporarily inhospitable.”

“Are there women members?”

“About twenty percent of us,” Salton said, “and the number is growing. Kate Lee is among them, elected many years ago, as is our future first gentleman.”

They came to the dining room, which, at that hour, was thinly populated. Stone spotted a couple of familiar faces there, lingering over coffee.

Another floor down and they entered the most beautiful library Stone had ever seen, paneled in American walnut with white accents and two stories of bound volumes. “We have a very fine collection of American history,” Salton said, “including some volumes from Jefferson’s library.” They continued past the first floor and emerged into a garage, albeit a very elegant one.