Stuart Woods - Short Straw

"Oh, one more thing: she converted the three hundred grand she stole from you into traveler's checks. They're in her purse."

"Thanks, Cupie." Eagle hung up and flopped back onto his pillow.

"What's happened?" Susannah asked.

"Barbara's back in the country," Eagle said.

"Is that good or bad?"

"That remains to be seen, but I'm not optimistic."

Barbara Eagle got into the cab and said, "La Jolla," then she dug into her purse and came up with a cell phone, Cupie's as it happened. What the hell. She tapped in a number she knew well. As the number was connecting, they passed a corner shop with several signs: pawnshop • guns • gunsmith. She made a note of the intersecting streets.

"La Reserve," a smooth woman's voice said.

"Let me speak with Mrs. Creighton," Barbara said.

"I'm sorry, but Mrs. Creighton is out for the evening; may I connect you with Mr. Wilson?"

"Of course."

The extension rang twice, and a soft male voice said, "Front desk. Mr. Wilson."

"Mr. Wilson, this is Barbara Eagle."

"Good evening, Mrs. Eagle," the man said, with enthusiasm. "I hope you're well."

"I will be if you can accommodate me for a few days, perhaps a few weeks."

"Of course, Mrs. Eagle; Pine Cottage is available. Will that be suitable?"

"Pine will be perfect."

"And when may we expect you?"

"Within the hour. And no one except Mrs. Creighton is to know I'm there."

"As you wish. We look forward to welcoming you soon."

"Good-bye." She settled back into her seat. The cab stank of cigarette smoke.

THE CAB SWUNG into the hidden drive, marked only by a mailbox, and stopped under a portico where a uniformed servant awaited. He opened the cab door. "Good evening," he said.

"Everything in the trunk," Barbara said to the man.

"I will take your luggage directly to Pine Cottage," the man replied. "Mr. Wilson is waiting at the front desk."

Barbara went inside, through a foyer and into a comfortable living room.

To one side, opposite the fireplace, an extremely graceful young man sat at a desk. On seeing her, he sprang to his feet. "Oh, Mrs. Eagle, welcome!"

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson, it's good to be back."

"Have you had dinner?"

"No, I'll order something sent to my room."

"I'll alert the kitchen. May I show you to Pine Cottage?"

"Yes, thank you."

He led her outside and along a paved path through a subtropical garden, until they arrived at the cottage door. He let her in and gave her the key. "Everything is ready; the room service menu is on the desk. May I do anything else for you?"

"Yes. First thing tomorrow morning, book me into the salon for four hours. I'll want a two-hour massage-with Birgit, please-a facial, a manicure and pedicure and a consultation with Eugene and his colorist and his makeup designer. And will you please let your office know that I'd like to cash ten thousand dollars in traveler's checks tomorrow morning?"

"Of course, Mrs. Eagle, that will not be a problem."

She handed him a fifty-dollar bill, and he backed out of the cottage, bowing, as if she were royalty. She looked around. Her suitcase was nowhere to be seen, but her clothes had been put away in the dressing room. She would replace most of them in the days to come. She flung open the French doors and walked out onto the stone patio. The moon was rising, blazing a silver streak across the Pacific; a light breeze, perfumed by the garden, played across her face. She was as much at home as she would be for the foreseeable future.

VITTORIO PACED THE SAN DIEGO airport, as he had done for an hour. She would come here, he knew she would. She would want to get as far away as possible. He questioned the desk clerks at every airline, strewing hundred-dollar bills as he went, but no one had seen anyone answering to the name or description of Barbara Eagle. He waited another hour, then boarded the last flight of the evening, to Albuquerque. His anger was contained, but deep inside, it burned brightly. It would continue to do so until he had delivered a slow, exquisitely painful Apache death to Barbara Eagle.

CUPIE DALTON LET HIMSELF into his little house in Santa Monica, went into the laundry room, opened his suitcase and dumped the contents into the washing machine. He stripped off his clothes and added them to the pile, then started the machine. He grabbed a light cotton robe, then went to the cabinet where he kept the liquor, filled a glass with ice, then filled it again with a very good Scotch and let himself out onto the back porch, where he sank into a rocker. His garden looked nice in the moonlight; the Japanese man came twice a week to keep it that way.

He sipped the Scotch and thought about the past week: he had been shot, shot at, chased by kidnappers and Mexican cops and made a fool of by the most cunning and conscience-free woman it had ever been his displeasure to meet. She would make a fine chapter or two in his memoirs, when he got around to writing them, but he hoped to God that Ed Eagle would not ask him again to find her or that he would ever again, in any circumstances, set eyes on her.

BARBARA WOKE WELL after the sun came up and ordered breakfast sent to her patio. She wolfed it down, watching the people on the beach at the bottom of the cliffs, then she phoned the front desk.

"Good morning, Mrs. Eagle," a woman with a cultivated British accent said. "I'm so sorry I was not available to receive you last evening."

"That's quite all right, Mrs. Creighton."

"We have arranged for your massage at eleven o'clock, followed by lunch on the salon terrace. The manicurist will tend to your needs at two, and Eugene and his colorist will consult with you at three."

"That will be perfect, Mrs. Creighton. By the way, during my stay I wish to be known as Barbara Woodfield. I do not wish to hear the name Eagle ever again."

"Of course."

"Will you arrange a taxi for me in fifteen minutes?"

"It would be my pleasure. And the cash you requested is ready for you. Are hundreds and fifties all right?"

"I'd like a hundred in twenties and a hundred in fives and tens."

"Of course."

Barbara hung up the phone, dressed in slacks and a blouse, then wrapped a scarf around her head and put on her big, dark glasses. She took ten thousand dollars in traveler's checks from her large purse and locked the remainder in the safe in her dressing room.

FORTY MINUTES LATER Barbara got out of the cab. "Wait for me," she said to the driver. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Yes, ma'am."

She walked into the shop and found it empty, except for a skinny, balding man in a wheelchair. "Good morning," she said.

"Morning. What can I do for you?" the man asked. He appeared to be about fifty.

"First of all, I am not a police officer, a federal agent or anyone else who wishes to create legal complications for you."

"Well, I'm real glad to hear that," the man said. "Who sent you?"

"Nobody. I saw your shop after I crossed the border last night, and your sign advertised the services I need."

"You want to pawn something?"

"No, I want a gun."

"What sort of gun?"

"I want something small and light that will fit into a purse, probably either a.25 or a.380. I do not want a background check, nor do I wish to wait three days for it. I expect to pay for the privilege."

The man rolled his wheelchair to the front door, locked it and turned over a sign that read BACK IN HALF AN HOUR. "Follow me," he said. He led her into a back room, where he opened a large safe, then reached inside and brought out a small black pistol and handed it to her. "Walther PPK," he said. "James Bond carries one."

She weighed it in her hand. "Nice size; too heavy."

He returned the gun to the safe and brought out another. It looked like a miniature of the.45 that Vittorio had carried, and it was very light.