Stuart Woods: Hothouse Orchid

“Tell me the good news; maybe it’ll help me get over it.”

“I got promoted.”

“To what?”

“Assistant Deputy Director of Operations-ADDO.”

“What was it you were before?”

“Assistant to the deputy director of operations.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Of course there is. Assistant to made me sound like a glorified secretary, though, of course, I was a lot more than that. Assistant deputy director means, I think, that I’ll have some authority of my own.”

“Authority to what? Assassinate people? Because if that’s the case, James Bruno ought to be your first hit.”

“No, no, Ham. It just means that when I give an order I don’t have to preface it with, ‘Lance Cabot asked me to tell you to…’ ”

“Does it mean that if Lance dies you get his job? Because if it does, I’ll shoot him for you.”

“No, it doesn’t, Ham, and I want you to get your mind off shooting people. You’ll screw up your digestion, and that chunk of cow you’re flaming is going to take a lot of digestion.”

“I guess Lance’s job is a lot of politics,” Ham said.

“You’re right, and Lance says I’m shitty at the politics. Not as shitty as he thinks I am, but I could do better, and I’m going to surprise him by doing it.”

“Pretty soon you’re going to have Kate Lee’s job,” Ham said.

“Not while Will Lee is president,” Holly said. An act of Congress had allowed the president to appoint his wife, who was a career CIA officer, as director. Holly looked at Ham closely. “How’s your blood pressure?”

“Returning to normal,” Ham said, taking a swig of the Knob Creek. “Well, almost normal. I hope Bruno likes to fish, because if he does, I’ll catch him on the water and drown him.”

“Careful, the BP is going up again. Drink more bourbon.”

Ham did.

“You doing any flying?” Ginny asked, by way of changing the subject. Ginny ran her own flying school at the Vero Beach airport.

“No time,” Holly said. “I miss it, too.”

“Why don’t you come out to the airport tomorrow, and I’ll give you a biennial flight review and an instrument competency check.”

“Good idea,” Holly said. “Let me call you in the morning and set it up.”

“You want your steak rare?” Ham asked.

“No, I want it medium rare, and that means when I stick it with a fork, I don’t want it to moo.”

They dined on the huge steak, which Ham had sawed into human-sized chunks, baked potatoes and a Caesar salad along with a big, fat California cabernet. Daisy dealt with the bone.

Ham, who had been quiet, finally said something. “Tell me, what was the most fun you’ve ever had at your job?”

“You just want me to tell you some secret stuff, don’t you?”

“If you really want to. I just want to know if you’re having any fun.”

“Well, a few months ago I got to pose as an assistant director of the FBI and serve a phony court order on the editor of the National Inquisitor.”

“You’re shittin’ me!”

“I shit you not.”

“God, I hate that rag,” he said. “I hope you gave the guy a really hard time.”

“Oh, I did, and I savored every moment of it.”

“I thought the Agency wasn’t supposed to mess around in domestic stuff,” Ham said with false naïveté.

“Oh, I was never there,” Holly said. “The minute I left his office I ceased to exist, and so did what I did there. Or rather, what I didn’t do.”

“Just don’t get caught not doing it,” Ham said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“How was the Farm?” The Farm was Fort Peary, the Agency’s training facility for new officers.

“Hard but fun. You’d have been proud of my shooting.”

“I heard,” Ham said. “The best ever scores by a trainee.”

“You heard? You’re not supposed to hear; we’re talking about the CIA.”

“I heard. I got a call from your instructor. He was properly awed, and, of course, he gave me all the credit.”

“He said he knew you, but…”

“I kicked his ass in the national championships one year.”

They ate and drank on, enjoying each other. Holly hadn’t had such a good time since she had joined the Agency.

They ate and drank and talked until nearly midnight, then, after a cup of strong coffee, Holly stood up and said, “If I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight, I’d better get going.” Ginny came out of the bedroom. “Daisy’s dead to the world on our bed; you want me to wake her up?”

“Let her sleep,” Ham said. “We haven’t seen her for a long time. I’ll bring her home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Holly said. “Great grilling, Ham.”

He handed her something wrapped in aluminum foil. “Take some home; we’ve got enough for a week.”

Holly kissed them both, looked in on Daisy, who was having a dream, running on her side and making muffled woofing noises, then got into the Cayenne and started home. As she stopped before turning onto the bridge over the Indian River she noticed a car parked on the shoulder to her left: dark color, nothing fancy, like an unmarked patrol car. Its headlights came on, bathing her in bright light, and as she started to cross the bridge, it pulled onto the road behind her.

She had the odd feeling that she was being followed, and she couldn’t get the idea out of her mind, so she did something unexpected: after the bridge, she turned right onto Indian River Trail, a dirt track that ran about five miles down Orchid Island, parallel to A-1A. It was wild and beautiful in the daytime but completely dark at night, and there was no moon. A deer ran into her headlights, and she slammed on her brakes. It scampered away. She checked her rearview mirror: no headlights behind her. She relaxed and continued down the trail, comfortable at thirty miles per hour.

She had driven a couple of miles when suddenly very bright headlights came on a few yards behind her. Holly’s first reaction was to accelerate, but instead she just continued steadily down the trail. Then, as she approached a wide spot in the road, a flashing blue light came on behind her. In her rearview mirror she could see a uniformed figure illuminated in the blue flashes. She pulled over to the right and stopped to see if he just wanted to get past her or if this was a traffic stop. She wasn’t particularly worried. How much trouble could she get into going thirty, and, anyway, she had the Orchid Beach chief’s badge and ID the department had given her when she left.

The car pulled up even with her rear bumper, and she heard the door slam. She looked over her shoulder and was blinded by an extremely bright flashlight. Probably a Surefire, she thought, with the lithium batteries. She switched off the car, rolled down the window and began fishing for her driver’s license in her handbag.

“Good evening,” a male voice said.

She turned left and was met by the blinding light. “Good evening,” she said.

“May I see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?” he asked politely.

“Of course,” she said, and then something struck her in the head, hard. Only the seat belt kept her from falling into the floorboards. She blinked, trying to see and think again, then she felt a sharp stab in the left side of her neck, and she lost consciousness.

Ma’am?” a male voice was saying. “Ma’am?” “She’s coming to,” a female voice said. Both voices were young. She realized she was bathed in light from a car parked behind her. She tried to get up.

“Don’t move around, please,” the male voice said. “An ambulance is on the way.”