Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

Holly arrived back at Stone’s house at six-thirty and found Stone, and a bottle of Knob Creek, in his study. He was pouring her one as she entered the room. Bill and Claire were there, too.

Holly raised her glass. “Your continued health,” she said.

“Holly,” Stone interjected. “Bill and Claire are here to talk about your continued health.”

“Am I looking a little peaked?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” Bill and Claire said, simultaneously.

Then Bill continued, “The threat last evening was not a hoax. The call came from an actual phone booth — one of the last extant, I suppose — at a convenience store and diner in Fairfax County, Virginia. The woman who made it was observed by a clerk inside to have driven away in a newish pickup truck of a dark color. Two hours after that, about the time you reached this house after dinner, an attempt was made to break into your Georgetown house. Shots were exchanged with our agents on duty there, none of them were wounded. They believe they shot one of the two intruders in the upper left arm as they fled on foot, at first, then in a newish pickup truck of a dark color, driven by a woman. The pickup truck was found, wiped clean, half an hour later. So they switched vehicles, and we have no idea to what kind.”

“It sounds as though we have a friendly snake in a nest of vipers,” Holly said.

“If so,” Bill said, “one who has put herself at risk twice: once making the call, the other when driving away with the perpetrators.”

“Let’s see if we can think of a way of encouraging her, without getting her killed.”

“We’re working on that, but no joy yet. Her safety will be our primary concern.”

“I should think,” Stone said quietly, “that Holly’s safety would be your first concern.”

“Of course. I misspoke.”

“I understand, Bill,” Holly added. “I suppose the Georgetown incident indicates that they didn’t know I wasn’t still there.”

“Yes, but it’s unlikely that they don’t know that now. Unfortunately, the tabloids have reported your presence at Bloomingdale’s.”

“But not at any other location?”

“No. We think this indicates a Bloomie’s employee on the payroll of a newspaper.”

“Has anyone in the media learned where the transition office is?”

“So far, so good,” Claire said. “Oh, they’ll eventually figure it out: some reporter will spot a staffer on the street and follow her there — something like that. I suggest that you make a point of going there as infrequently as possible.”

“And you may as well say it, Claire,” Stone said. “Back to Washington as soon as possible.”

“That would be our preference,” Claire said, “but we understand fully, ma’am, that you have things to do that can only be done in New York.”

“Quite right,” Holly replied, shooting a sidewise glance at Stone. “You’ll be happy to know that, after my shopping spree, I’ll be doing all my fittings and further appointments here in Stone’s house. He’s kindly provided a large room upstairs where those can take place.”

Bill let out a deep breath. “That was a sigh of relief, ma’am,” he said. “I think it would be best if they not enter the house through the front door or the office entrance. We would prefer to meet them at the rear gate to the gardens, on Second Avenue. We have someone there.”

“A good move,” Stone said.

“Some of these people, like Ralph Lauren, are VIPs in their own right, and I’d prefer it if they could enter and leave through the garage.”

“A touch of the cloak-and-dagger,” Stone said. “They’ll like that. But please let them know not to arrive in stretch limos; that would strain our facilities, not to mention our garage doors.”

“I’ll see to it,” Bill said.

The two agents tossed off the remainder of their drinks and excused themselves.

Colonel Wade Sykes sat in a rear treatment room at a veterinarian’s office a few miles from his base and watched the DVM inject a man’s left arm with lidocaine, then flush the wound, and after testing for numbness, used a probe to locate the bullet. When he had done so, he used another tool to extract it and dropped it into a steel tray. He flushed the wound again and applied a coagulant, then trimmed the edges, stitched it closed, and bandaged it. “Okay, you can sit up now or, if you’re feeling ill, just lie there for a few minutes.”

“He doesn’t feel ill,” Sykes said. “Let’s go, kid. We’ve got to get out of here before daylight comes.” He handed the DVM ten folded hundreds. “It was our lucky day, Doc, when you grabbed that nurse’s ass and got drummed out of med school for your trouble.”

“Maybe my lucky day, too. My work here is easier, and my patients don’t complain. Let this guy rest for twenty-four hours, Colonel, before you put him in harm’s way again.” He gave the man another injection of something, then handed him an unmarked bottle of pills. “One, twice a day, until they’re all gone.”

“Is there a painkiller in there?” the colonel asked.

“There is not. I know your policy on pain. Those are an antibiotic. You don’t want the trouble of an infected patient.”

“He’s going to get back on that pony pretty soon,” Sykes shot back, slapping the young man on the back and causing him to wince. “C’mon, boy.” He led the man outside and put him in the rear seat of his pickup, then drove off toward home.

Once there, he put the man on a bed in the bunkhouse, threw a blanket over him, and went home for dinner. His cook, an older black man named Elroy, a fine practitioner of the old Southern school, set down a plate filled with a fried chicken breast, collard greens, and creamed corn. A plate of biscuits followed, then he poured a glass of a wine his boss had already chosen. Two of Sykes’s men and a young woman called Bess were waiting for him.

“How’s he doing?” the woman asked.

“We don’t discuss business at table,” Sykes replied, rolling his eyes toward Elroy. They all continued eating in silence. When they were done they left the dirty dishes for Elroy, then adjourned to the living room, where Sykes poured everyone a brandy.

“Sorry about that, Colonel,” Bess said. “I thought you trusted Elroy.”

“I’m alive because there exists only a very short list of those I find trustworthy. Elroy’s not very bright, and obviously he’s... not one of us. Who knows what hatreds he harbors?”

“Quite right,” she said. “Now, how is the boy?”

“He’s asleep. The doctor gave him something, I think, and his wound has been properly treated. He’s going to experience some pain when he wakes up, but that will be good for him. Up until today, he was a raw recruit, but tonight, he was blooded.” He took a sip of his brandy. “Now,” he said. “I want a proper report.”

One of the men leaned forward in his chair. “Bess drove us to within a block of the house. We took a turn around the place and found it mostly dark, with a lamp on here and there. We found a window with no alarm module on it and broke a pane. The boy was halfway through when I heard the shot from inside and saw the flash. The boy fell into my arms, and I fired two rounds to keep the on-duty man away from the window. Bess was there in a hurry, and we beat it out of there. We drove back to where we had left the van, and Bess got a combat bandage on the boy’s arm, while I wiped down the pickup, then we got the hell out of there.”

“Sounds like Bess is the only one of you with any brains,” the colonel said.

His man flushed and sat back in his chair, silent now.

“It’s obvious now that Ms. Barker was not in residence,” Bess said. “She must have got out Sunday or Monday, probably after dark. A New York City newspaper put her at Bloomingdale’s yesterday morning. We need better intelligence than this, Colonel. We shouldn’t be reading about it in the New York Post. ”