Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

“Shorter than planned,” Stone replied, “and you’re going to envy me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve spent the last half hour gazing at Craig Calvert’s bare ass.”

“You’re right, I envy you. How did he come to expose himself to you? I may want to try myself.”

“Someone took a shot at us when we were out running — at me, very probably — and Calvert’s ass got in the way. He’s moving in with us — rather, with me — for a few days while he heals up.”

“Where is he sleeping?”

“You don’t need to know. Let’s go down for some lunch.”

“Just a minute,” Jamie said, “did you say someone shot him?”

“It was only a flesh wound, as they say in the movies.”

“I take it that it wasn’t a passing hunter.”

“Craig’s ass does not resemble a grouse.”

“Are we in danger?” she asked.

“Isn’t that why we left the States?”

“It’s not why I left the States,” Jamie said.

“Well, you can add that to your list.” He hustled her to lunch.

They were having sandwiches in the kitchen when Dino called.

“Hey,” Stone said. “Are you on your way?”

“We’ll be there in the morning the day after tomorrow,” Dino replied.

“Good. We’ve had some action here. Is Viv listening in?”

“I am,” Viv said.

Stone told them what had happened. “Viv, will you call your London office and get some people down here?”

“Sure, they know the drill by now. So there’s going to be a movie star in the house?”

“I’m afraid so. I may have to sit on Jamie the whole time.”

“You may have to sit on me, too,” she replied. “That Calvert is a dish.”

“I’ll do whatever sitting on you is required,” Dino said.

“Call me on the satphone when you’re an hour out,” Stone said, “and I’ll have you met at the landing strip.”

“Okay,” Dino replied, then hung up.

Mick and Calvert came into the kitchen with their bags. Stone spoke to the cook about them. Calvert lowered himself gingerly into a padded chair and tried to get comfortable. “The lidocaine is wearing off,” he said.

“Anything I can do?” Jamie asked.

“Yes,” Stone replied, “go write another draft of your book.”

“You don’t want me near a computer,” she said. “I’m itching to write a story about what just happened to Craig.”

“Oh, Stone,” Calvert said, “I hope you don’t mind if my girlfriend joins us. She’s my leading lady, too, and bringing her down here is the only way I can keep her quiet.”

“We’d be delighted to have her,” Stone replied, and with real feeling.

Back in New York, Rance Damien entered the penthouse office of Henry Thomas, the patriarch of the Thomas family and the real power behind everything that happened at H. Thomas & Son.

Henry peered at him closely. “You almost look like yourself,” he said.

“They tell me I’ll need three or four more surgeries before that will happen,” Damien replied sourly.

“Are you ready to come back to work?”

“I’ve been back since early this morning,” he said.

“We’re going to have to turn our attention to Mr. Stone Barrington,” Henry said, “if we’re ever to have any peace.”

“I have already done so,” Damien replied. “I gave the orders last night, and a team was down at Barrington’s place early this morning, their time.”

“Did they get a shot at him?”

“Yes, but he was running with another man, and I’m not sure which one they hit. They got him back to the house, but they didn’t call the police or an ambulance.”

“That’s good news,” Henry said. “They may get another shot.”

“What do you want to tell Hank about this?” Damien asked. Hank Thomas was the old man’s grandson — formerly a congressman from New York and a candidate for the presidency, until his father’s suicide, after which he had returned to the family business to help out.

“You size him up, and we’ll decide how much he should be told. At some point, if he’s going to be here, he’ll have to know that he’s not in Washington anymore, but back in the real world.”

“I think Hank may work out,” Damien said. “He’s a gutsier guy than Jack was, and he’s always been a realist. He didn’t bat an eye last year when I told him that we were going to use our new computer installation to steal the money for his presidential campaign.”

“A man after my own heart,” Henry said, chuckling. “Are we going to rebuild the computer setup?”

“I don’t think so,” Damien said. “After the Times ’s investigative campaign against us, the banking people will have completely gutted their security procedures and started over. It would be much, much harder to pull off another digital heist.”

“I want Hank to become the public face of the company now,” Henry said. “We’ve got four years to rebuild him as a serious presidential candidate, and you... Well, you know.”

Damien nodded. He knew he was no longer a pretty face — and he’d make Barrington pay for that.

By mid-afternoon, people were arriving. First came Vanessa Pym, a svelte beauty with a mane of honey-blond hair, whose hired Rolls-Royce disgorged ten pieces of matched luggage. Craig made the introductions, and then Stone called Major Bugg and specified the former master suite for Craig and Vanessa, which contained a large dressing room. “And you’d better assign a maid to Ms. Pym, too. I think she’s going to demand one, anyway. Move Mick down the hall a bit, so the maid can use his room for ironing.”

“And you’ll be five for dinner?”

“Yes, unless Mick also produces a female companion.”

“And Dame Felicity?”

“She’s in London. And if we hear from her, don’t mention the presence of our guests.”

In the late afternoon, two Mercedes Sprinters arrived and set down a team of eight men with bulges under their jackets and extra-long luggage. They were housed in a large cottage that had been used for the same purpose before — Stone had already ordered for a cook and a maid to be assigned to them. The tallest among them reintroduced himself to Stone as Derek Forrest. “Same as last time, Mr. Barrington?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” Stone said. “Whoever’s out there has already missed me and wounded a guest, then left in a gray Ford van.”

“I’ll have a man on the front gate and another on the dock,” Derek said.

“Very good,” Stone said, handing him a card with his cell number on it. “Call me directly if there’s an emergency. Otherwise, call Major Bugg, whom you’ve met.”

“Yes, sir, I already have his cell number.” Then the man went about his business.

Stone sent word to Craig that dress for dinner was lounge suits, not dinner jackets. When they turned up for drinks in the library, Vanessa had apparently not received the message, since she was dressed in a floor-length yellow gown billowing around her breasts from cleavage nearly to her navel.

“Why didn’t you tell me we were dressing up?” Jamie hissed in Stone’s ear.

“Because we’re not. Vanessa apparently dresses to a different standard.”

“Did you see her luggage?” Jamie asked.

“I did. We’re fortunate that it’s a large house.”

“I’ll bet she has a ball gown and two fur coats packed.”

“I’ve assigned her a maid.”

“You didn’t assign me a maid,” Jamie said, pouting.

“That’s because you are so wonderfully self-sufficient,” Stone said, kissing her on the forehead. “I didn’t want to insult you.”

“Well,” Jamie said, smoothing her skirt.

Stone knew that to be a complete sentence.