Stuart Woods - Shoot Him If He Runs

He closed the door as best he could and got back into the Land Rover. “Next house: Weatherby, farther up the mountain,” he said to the driver.

They turned into the Weatherby driveway and stopped. This was a small house, once the guest quarters for the larger house owned by the American woman at the top of the mountain. He broke into the house, just as he had the Pemberton place.

Teddy was wakened from his nap by a tiny beeping; someone was upstairs. He watched the blinking lights on the panel that told him someone was walking from room to room. He decided not to be cornered; he let himself out of his redoubt, closed it up and left at a trot.

DuBois walked through the house, surprised. The house was furnished, but there was no indication that anyone had ever lived in it-no clothing, no food. He looked under the mattresses on the unmade beds: nothing. But Weatherby was supposed to be on the island, too, according to immigration records. Why was it that neither Pemberton nor Weatherby seemed to have been in his home-in the case of Pemberton, not recently; in the case of Weatherby, never?

He went back to the Land Rover.

“Where to, Captain?”

“Let’s go up the mountain; there’s an American woman living there.” He didn’t bother to check the garage.

The driver took him the few remaining yards and turned into the drive. DuBois noted an SUV and a pickup truck in the garage. He knocked on the door, and the American woman opened it.

“Yes, officer?” she asked.

“I am Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police,” he said politely. “May I come in?”

“Of course, Captain,” she said. “I’m Irene Foster.” She led him into the living room, where a man was sitting in a reclining chair with a beer in his hand, watching a golf tournament on television. He picked up a remote control and pressed a button, and Tiger Woods froze in mid-drive.

“Harold,” she said to him, “this is Captain duBois, of the St. Marks Police. Captain, this is my friend Harold Pitts, who is visiting from the States.”

Pitts stood up and offered his hand, which duBois shook. “What can we do for you, Captain?”

“May I see your passports, please?”

“Sure; will you get mine, honey? It’s in the top drawer of the dresser.”

“Of course,” Irene said, and left the room.

“How long have you been in St. Marks, Mr. Pitts?” duBois asked.

“Oh, less than a couple of weeks; I sailed down from Ft. Lauderdale in my boat.”

“What is your work, may I ask?”

“I’m retired; I used to have a home renovation business in Virginia,” he said. “Now I’m footloose and fancy-free.”

“How nice for you.”

The woman returned with the passports and handed them to him. “I’m a permanent resident,” she said. “I own this house.”

DuBois examined the passports closely, then handed them back. “They appear to be in order,” he said. “Where were the two of you earlier in the day?”

“I haven’t left the house all day,” she replied. “Harold went down to his boat at the English Harbour Marina, then came back.”

“I do a little work on it almost every day,” Pitts said.

DuBois found these people boring-elderly, retired Americans with no possible axe to grind with Croft. “Have you seen the occupants of the house next door recently?”

“I’ve never seen them,” Irene said. “I hear their name is Weatherby, but I don’t know if they’ve ever even moved in.”

“Thank you,” he said, rising. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

The woman showed him out, then returned.

“That had to be about Colonel Croft,” Pitts said to her.

“I would imagine so,” she replied. “They must be checking on all the foreigners.”

Pitts pressed a button, and Tiger Woods finished his drive, pulling it into the rough.

“Shit,” Pitts said.

On his way down the mountain, duBois stopped at number 56, the Robertson place, since his file said that he owned an airplane. He found it much the same as the Pemberton house. Where were all these people?

Will Lee was nearly dressed for a state dinner honoring the prime minister of Australia when he heard running footsteps through the master bedroom. He stuck his head out of his dressing room, but she had already disappeared into hers.

“Running just a tad late, aren’t you?” he called out.

“Sorry,” she yelled back. “Accident on the beltway screwed everything up.”

Will came out of his dressing room, his bow tie hanging loose. “Don’t I remember a helicopter in the CIA appropriations bill?”

“Two helicopters,” she called back.

He walked to the door of her dressing room and leaned against the doorjamb. He liked watching her undress, even when she was in a hurry. “And they were both down?”

“Can you imagine what the press could do with a story that had me taking a helicopter so as not to be late for a dinner party?”

“Not a dinner party, a state dinner; not even nearly the same thing.”

“Certainly not as much fun.” She stepped into a red dress and turned her back. “Shut up and zip,” she said.

He zipped. “Now you have to tie my tie. Tit for tat.”

“Oh, all right, come here.”

He knew how to tie a bow tie; he just liked it when she did it. She stood close, concentrating.

“What are you staring at?”

“What I stare at every chance I get.”

“That is covered by a dress.”

“Oh, I like your face, too.”

“You’re sweet.”

“Even when it hasn’t been washed and made up.”

“Oh, God,” she cried, running for her bathroom. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. Just as soon as you got my tie tied.”

There was a sound of running water and splashing. “How much time do I have?”

Will checked his wristwatch. “Minus ten minutes.”

“Shit! Are they down there waiting?”

“They’re in the Oval; we’re having cocktails there.”

“You go ahead; I’ll be there a few seconds after you.”

“Someone on the staff has heard that Hugh English was seen having lunch with Cal Ferguson.”

“That will have to keep until I have a face again.”

Will went back to his dressing room, got into his waistcoat and dinner jacket, chose a white silk pocket square, put his glasses, pen and jotting pad, which contained his nuclear code card, into his inside pockets and started across the bedroom. “Minus twelve minutes,” he called out.

“Go fuck yourself, Mr. President!”

Will laughed all the way to the elevator.

They were halfway through their first martini when Kate swept into the Oval Office. “I’m so sorry to be late,” she said, shaking hands with the PM and his wife. “I wish I could blame it on national security, but it was just traffic.”

“That’s quite all right,” the PM said. “We have traffic in Australia, too.”

Will handed her a dirty martini with an olive stuffed with an anchovy. “Inhale that and relax.”

“It’s not like you’re late for the Queen,” the PM’s wife said. “I was once twenty minutes late for the Queen, when we were in London. She was not amused.”

“The Duke of Edinburgh was amused,” the PM said. “I thought he would burst out laughing, until the Queen gave him that look .”

Kate drew in a third of her martini. “Ahhhh,” she said.

“Mr. President…” the PM began.

“Please, we’re Will and Kate.”

“And we’re Geoff and Sheila,” he replied.

“Sheila is the national term for female in Australia,” Sheila said. “Makes it easy for people to remember my name.”

“Will,” the PM began again, “when I visited the Capitol this afternoon, a senator, that ginger-haired fellow, the tall one…”