Stuart Woods - Dark Harbor

“Unfortunately, one of his girls was a setup of the Soviets, and they took the usual embarrassing photographs. He was up against it, due to retire in a couple of years, and exposure would have gotten him fired, after his debacle in London. He began feeding them information, probably harmless stuff. Two of our people were designated to follow him to a possible meet with the Soviets, and they were both shot. Kate Rule, herself, found him out and got him sent to prison. He spent four or five years in the Atlanta Federal Prison, until the Agency got some backdoor information from a former source that seemed to clear him. ”He was also the source of a tip that put somebody we were looking for in a cottage on North Islesboro. That, apparently, tipped the balance, and the top echelon at Langley, including Kate Rule, recommended a presidential pardon. He also got a million-dollar reward and repaired to his ancestral home in Dark Harbor to amuse himself as best he could and await death. That’s about it.“

“Is he somebody I can trust?”

“Trust to what?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“Probably, especially if it’s in his interest to do so. Why do you ask?”

“Rawls told me he thinks Dick’s death was work related.”

A brief silence. “Did he give you any details?”

“He said he had some feelers out, and I’d have to be patient. He’s also afraid whoever killed Dick and his family may have a go at him as well, and he’s taken security precautions at his house. I wandered down his drive, exploring, and he trapped my car and drew down on me.”

“Well, assuming prison didn’t send Ed around the bend, there may be something to it. We all have a certain amount of paranoia trained into us, and Ed would be no exception. Did he seem to make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d take ham seriously and find out what, if anything, he has to offer. How could it hurt?”

“Well, it’s not like I have anything else to go on.”

“You’ll find Ed an entertaining character, full of stories, and he’s very smart. You could do worse than to have him on your side.”

“I didn’t see any evidence of a wife.”

“She bailed out when Ed was arrested, took half of everything and bought a house in Florida. Last I heard, she’d remarried.”

“Tell me, Lance, in what sort of repute is Rawls held by his former colleagues?”

“Some are sympathetic; some hate his guts. Hugh English, whom Dick was succeeding as Deputy Director for Operations, was one of the haters, but he signed off on the pardon recommendation. Incidentally, I don’t know if Ed mentioned it to you, but there are a few other retired spooks living out their years on that island. I understand they do some drinking together and call themselves the Old Farts.”

Stone laughed. “Thanks for the information, Lance.”

“Call me when I can help.” Lance hung up.

It suddenly occurred to Stone that he had a golf date the following morning, and he didn’t have any golf clubs. He saw Seth Hotchkiss working in the back garden, and he walked outside.

“Hey, Stone,” Seth said.

“Hey, yourself. Tell me, Seth, did Dick have any golf dubs?”

Seth nodded. “There’s a big cupboard in the garage, next to the MG.”

“I noticed, but I didn’t look inside.”

“There’s a lot of sports stuff in that cupboard.” Then Seth nodded toward a sailboat resting at the end of Dick’s dock. “There’s that, too, got delivered from the yard this morning, and there’s a picnic boat, ought to be delivered from the yard this afternoon. You’ll get a big bill for the maintenance and storage.”

“What’s the sailing boat?”

“It’s a one-off. Dick designed it himself maybe ten years ago and had it built over at Hinckley’s, in Southwest Harbor. They built the picnic boat, too, but Dick got that last year.”

“Thanks, Seth.” Stone went back into the house and then to the garage, where he opened the large cupboard. It was a veritable sporting goods store: There was a set of titanium Callaway clubs, tennis racquets, a croquet set, fishing equipment and more. Dick was nothing if not well equipped; he had spent his wife’s money well.

Stone went back into the house, opened the safe and read Dick’s will again. The bequest of the use of the house to Stone included outright ownership of all its “appurtenances.” Stone read that to include the cars and boats and whatever else he hadn’t discovered yet.

“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself.

STONE WAS STANDING in front of the house with his golf clubswhen Ed Rawls pulled into the driveway in a shiny, new Range Rover. Stone put his clubs in the back and got into the passenger seat “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Rawls said. “Looks like we’ve got a good day for it.”

“Yep.”

“I had a call from Lance Cabot last night. We had a nice chat, and he offered me any support I might need in helping you with the Stone murders.”

“That’s good. Take him up on it.”

“He gave me a name at Langley as a liaison. I talked with her this morning, and she’s running down some things for me.”

“You want to tell me about the things?”

“Nah, it would take too long, and it wouldn’t help you. The information she gets might help, though, and I’ll tell you about that when I get it.”

“Okay.”

They drove through Dark Harbor and out to the golf course, where they unloaded their clubs. There was a wait while a foursome teed off before them.

“Let’s give them a good head start,” Rawls said. He looked down at Stone’s loafers. “What kind of golf shoes are those?”

“Oh, Dick’s were too small, and I didn’t have any of my own. I’ll have to send for some, I guess.”

Stone looked around; there were no carts. “We going to walk?” he asked.

“Oh, sure; it’s how I get my exercise.”

They teed off, and Rawls set a rapid pace down the fairway. Stone followed as best he could, but his loafers were not built for this.

TWO HOURS LATER they sat at a table at the Tarrantine Yacht Club, which was a modest building with a big dock and a lot of moorings, waiting for cheeseburgers. Stone took off his ruined loafers, which were soaking wet after a few tramps through the rough, and rubbed his feet.

“You gotta get some better shoes,” Rawls said, sipping his Coke.

“Tell me about it.” He had to replace the loafers, too. It had been an expensive round of golf.

“What did you shoot, finally?” Rawls asked.

“Don’t ask.”

“How’m I going to play you for money, if you won’t tell me your score?”

“All right, I shot a fifty-two. How about you?”

“Forty, a little off my handicap.”

“Which is…?”

“Six.”

“Jesus, Ed, how the hell are you playing to that kind of handicap at your age?”

“I practice a lot. There’s fuck-all else to do around here, if you don’t sail or play tennis. What’s your handicap?”

“I don’t know, probably around twenty-five.”

“You need to practice more.”

“Well, if I spend enough time up here, I might do that. Golf is tough when you live in the city. I have a place in Connecticut, and I belong to a club there, but I don’t get up there often enough.”

“You going to be spending any time around here?”

“Maybe. Dick left me his house.”

“No kidding? That’s a very tidy inheritance. You know what that place is worth?”

“I get to use it, and so do my heirs, but if it’s sold, the proceeds go to the Samuel Bernard Foundation.”

“You know what that is?”

“Yes. Bernard was a mentor of mine in law school.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t recruit you.”