Stuart Woods - Mounting Fears

“Lance, is Teddy Fay still alive?”

Lance turned and looked at her. “Certainly not, Director,” he said, then he opened the door, walked out, and closed it behind him. He was back in his office before he allowed himself to take a deep breath and expel it.

He hung up his jacket and sat down at his desk, then turned to his computer. He entered the code word for restricted personnel files, entered his personal code, then two other codes before he reached the security level he sought. Then he typed in the name Owen Masters. The computer responded by bringing up the restricted record of that agent, and it began with six rows of photographs of the man, one taken each year since he had been recruited from Brown University thirty years ago.

Lance studied the progression of the photographs. It was a pictorial biography, showing the years, cares, and shocks levied on the subject over an adult lifetime, and it revealed a sad decline.

Owen’s file was 526 pages long. Lance placed the cursor in the search window and typed in the word termination. Almost instantly this produced the message “Not found.” Clearly not specific enough, Lance thought. He typed in the word assassination.

This produced a dozen or so references, mostly political murders, of figures whose paths Owen had crossed during his career, but none of the deaths had been at Owen’s hand. This was not good.

Lance gave it some thought, then typed in the words assisted departure. Two references popped up. Once, in 1979, Owen had “assisted the departure” of an African politician. Again, in 1984, he found the words “an assisted departure,” this time in Egypt. Lance closed the file and exited the restricted records level.

He consulted his computer phone book, found a direct line to Masters in the Panama station and told the computer to dial it.

“Yes?” Owen’s voice said.

“Scramble,” Lance said.

“Scrambled,” Owen said a moment later.

“Do you know who this is?” Lance asked.

“Yes,” Owen replied.

“This is for your ears only,” Lance said. “Forever.”

“I understand,” Owen replied.

“I hope you did not follow the instruction I gave you concerning the destruction of a photograph.”

“I would have to check.”

“He is alive and within your purview,” Lance said, ignoring Owen’s evasion, “and neither of those things is acceptable. Do I make myself clear?”

Owen was silent for a moment, then said, “What are your instructions?” He was going to make Lance say it.

“Give him every assistance in his departure,” Lance said. “And ensure that he is not encountered by anyone again.” He hoped that was clear enough. “And when that is accomplished, take some snapshots and prints and fluids.”

“How much time do I have?”

“It must be accomplished at the earliest possible moment that it can be, while taking every care.”

“I understand,” Owen said.

Lance hung up.

Owen sat at his desk and stared out the window. It had been one hell of a time since he had received an order like that. Oh, what the hell, he thought. May as well go out with a bang, so to speak.

He opened his safe, extracted an envelope, and shook out of it the photograph that he had been ordered to destroy. He sat back in his chair, polished the glasses that hung on a string around his neck with a necktie, and put them on.

“Ah, yes, Teddy,” Owen said aloud.

Martin Stanton followed Elizabeth Wharton, a hotel manager, a bellman with his cart, and two Secret Service agents down the hall of the Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas. He was paying a lot more attention to the ass of Ms. Wharton than to anything else, and he was interrupted when the procession halted.

“Here we are, Mr. Vice President,” the bellman said, inserting a key into the lock of a double door.

Liz turned to him while the attention of the others was absorbed with getting him into his suite. “I’m right next door, if you should need me,” she said.

Beads of sweat popped out on Stanton’s forehead. “Thank you, Liz,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He walked into the suite and had a look around.

“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” the manager said.

“Yes, thank you.” Stanton shook the man’s hand, then turned to an agent. “Thanks, that will be all for the night. I’m going to order something from room service. I’ll call you if I should want to go out again.”

“Yes, sir,” the agent replied, and after a moment Stanton was alone. He took off his jacket and necktie and hung them in the bedroom closet with the other clothes that his valet had pressed and put away in advance of his arrival, then he went into the large living room to the array of liquors that had been set out on the bar. He reached for a bottle of Scotch, then stopped.

Instead, he walked to a door on one side of the living room, put his ear to it, and listened, then unlocked the door and rapped on it with his signet ring. Nothing happened. He sighed and went back to the bar. Then he heard a sharp rap on the same door.

He went back and rapped again and got an immediate response, so he tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal Elizabeth Wharton, standing there, her hair wet, apparently wearing only a hotel robe.

“You rang?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your shower.”

“I just got out. You didn’t disturb me.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, nodding toward the bar.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I could use a drink.” She stepped into the room in her bare feet. “Bourbon, please.”

“Would you like anything in that?”

“Ice.”

Stanton poured her drink and a Laphroaig, a single-malt Scotch, for himself. When he turned around, she was sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed, a satisfying amount of thigh showing. He took the drink over, sat down beside her, and handed her the drink.

“Tough day?” she asked.

“No tougher than yours.” They clinked glasses and drank. In two weeks of campaigning, it was the first private, informal moment they had spent together, and neither of them seemed able to think of anything to say.

Liz reached out, took hold of his wrist, and pressed two fingers against it for his pulse.

“A little rapid, isn’t it?” he asked. “How’s yours?”

She took his hand and placed it on her left breast, under the robe. “You tell me.”

“Very much like mine,” he said, leaving his hand on her breast and rubbing a finger over the nipple, which sprang immediately to attention.

“I didn’t think I could ever get you to do that,” she said.

“I didn’t think I could ever do it,” he responded.

“I’m glad you did,” she said, pulling the tie on the robe and allowing it to fall open.

He set both their drinks on the coffee table, then leaned over and kissed her, using his chilled drink hand to caress the other breast. He pulled her legs open and bent to kiss her delta and was surprised to find it completely bare. He explored with his tongue.

Liz raised herself and sat on the padded arm of the sofa, facing him and parting her legs. He buried his face in her flesh and parted the labia with his tongue. She took hold of his hair and held him in place, and in less than a minute, she came enthusiastically. He laid his cheek against her flat belly and panted.

“Does this suite come with a bed?” she asked, conversationally.

He got up, took her hand, and led her to the bedroom, where he allowed her to undress him, then they fell into the bed, locked in each other’s arms and began what would turn out to be a full-inventory exploration of each other’s body parts.