Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“You don’t want anything to do with all that, but there’s room where it counts.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Hang on, let me clear the joint, or the Secret Service will go nuts.”

“What time would you like me to arrive?”

“Do you want to dine in or out?”

“Would it cause too much of a fuss, if we went to P.J. Clarke’s?”

“Yes, and so much so that I don’t think your detail would allow it. We need something with the tables farther apart: How about Caravaggio?”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Can you come directly there at eight? Your driver can take your luggage to the house.”

“Sure.”

“See you then.”

Stone hung up, and Fred came into the room. “Ms. Parks is back, sir.”

“She certainly is,” Lara said, squeezing past him with her shopping bags.

“Stand by, Fred. We’re going to need you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Stone kissed Lara and pointed her at the sofa. “Have a seat and excuse me for a moment.”

She did so, and he walked into Joan’s office.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need a one-way, first-class ticket to Los Angeles.”

“ You are flying the airlines?”

“Lara is. Seven or eight o’clock.”

“Okay.”

Stone went back to his office and sat down next to Lara. “Events have occurred,” he said, “that require your relocation.”

She blinked. “To where?”

“L.A., unless there’s somewhere else you’d like to go.”

“Well, if I’m being tossed out, I guess L.A. will do.”

“There’s big trouble: a dead cop and an attempt on another, who happens to be asleep in my study.”

“I guess that rules out a tumble on the sofa in there,” she said. “How about this one?”

“Too much traffic.”

Joan buzzed him, and he picked up the phone on the coffee table. “Yes?”

“Seven-forty-five,” she said, naming an airline.

“Print an e-ticket.” He hung up. “You’re on a flight to LAX at seven-forty-five.” He glanced at his watch. “That means rush-hour traffic. You’d better pack right now.”

She sighed, kissed him and left the room, taking her shopping bags with her.

He buzzed Fred. “Give Ms. Parks fifteen minutes, then go up for her bags; she’s headed to JFK, for a seven-forty-five flight.”

Joan came in. “I got Art into the Morgan, a little farther uptown.”

“Good. Have the Lowell pack his things and send them up there. Tell them mum’s the word.”

“Here’s Lara’s e-ticket,” she said, handing it to him.

“Oh, and book me a table for two at Caravaggio at eight; a quiet table. And tell them there’ll be an unnamed VIP.”

“Practically done.”

“And get Helene upstairs as soon as Lara clears the place, and tell her to make it look like it never happened.”

“Of course. Do I get to know who’s coming?”

“Holly. Tell Helene to keep the Secret Service guys fed and happy.”

“Right. Flowers?”

“It couldn’t hurt. Yellow roses, two dozen. Use the big vase. And get Art a car in fifteen minutes.”

“Done.” She went back to her office.

Stone walked upstairs and into the study. Art Jacoby was sleeping like a child. Stone shook him. “Art, wake up!”

Art opened an eye.

“We’re relocating you; time to go.”

Art sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Where am I going?”

“To another hotel: the Morgan.”

“I’ll have to stop by the Lowell.”

“No need. They’re packing your things and sending them to the new place. It’s just up Madison a bit.”

Art stood up, put his jacket back on, and smoothed the fabric. “Nice,” he said.

“You’re welcome. Come on, Joan has a car ordered for you. Fred is otherwise occupied.” He sent Art downstairs, then took the elevator to the master suite.

Lara was tucking lacy things from a shopping bag into her suitcase.

“Is your luggage going to hold everything?”

“I may have to sit on it to close it, but yes.”

Fred knocked on the door. “The car is ready, Ms. Parks.”

Stone helped her close and latch the suitcase, and Fred took it away.

“It’s been more than fun,” Lara said, giving him a wet kiss.

“It sure has,” he said.

“Call me when you come to L.A.”

“By then, you’ll be a very big movie star and unavailable,” Stone replied.

“I’ll be sitting home alone every night.”

Stone walked her down to the garage and tucked her into the Bentley. As he walked back to his office, he could hear Helene upstairs, vacuuming.

Stone was halfway through a drink when the first Secret Service agent entered the restaurant and walked the length of the room and back, looking exactly like a Secret Service agent. Half the room was twigged, and the conversation level dropped by that much.

Holly walked in, wearing a full-length cape with a hood that partly concealed her face, and the restaurant-goers leapt to their feet and gave her a round of applause. So much for discretion. Two agents took up places with good views of the suspect diners.

Stone held her chair, and seated her with her back to the room. “Forgive me for not kissing you, but we would have made the papers,” she said, keeping the hood up.

“We’re going to make the papers anyway.” Stone sighed. “I’ll bet there’s already a mob outside the front door. You may as well give them a look at that gorgeous hair.”

She did so, and the room went, “Ahhhh.”

“They’re repositioning the cars,” she said. “Maybe that will throw them off.”

“I’ll give the agents a suggestion: when we’re ready to leave, I’ll have Fred pull up with the Bentley, while the photogs are camped next to your cars down the street. The cars will catch up, but it will be too late for the shutterbugs.”

“That could work,” she said, “once.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep being inventive.”

“Or come to Washington now and then.”

“Do you really think it would be any better there?”

“Well... Camp David could work, if we take separate helicopters.” She laughed.

“I’ll put that escape at the top of the list.”

Menus arrived and, at Holly’s suggestion, Stone ordered for both of them.

“I’ll gain ten pounds,” she said.

“Just eat a third of it. We’ll take the rest home, so we won’t have to go out tomorrow evening.”

“I’m afraid we’ve only got tonight,” Holly said. “Big jam-up in the Oval the morning after, and I have to direct traffic.”

“Tell me something that you can’t tell me about,” Stone said.

“I can’t tell you about that.”

“Of course not, that’s the point.”

“I’m a stickler for the rules. If I start leaking, it will become a trend.”

“How are Ham, Ginny, and Daisy?” he asked, speaking of her father, her stepmother, and her dog. “Or are they off-limits?”

“They’re not, as long as you don’t ask me where they are.”

“Where are they?”

“Visiting Ginny’s folks in Virginia. Dammit, you tricked me!”

“You’re easy.”

“More than you know,” she said. “Eat fast.”

Sometime during the night he woke up, and Holly was crying. Not bawling, but he could tell.

He kissed at her tears. “We can do this,” Stone said. “Let’s just enjoy what we can. Dinner with you is better than a dozen with Dino.”

“I hope I’m a better lover, too,” she said, wiping her eyes with the corner of a sheet.

“You’ll have to ask Viv about that. Is there anyone in the White House you can talk to? Anybody completely trustworthy?”

“There’s my secretary, Anna, who came with me from State, but she’s sixty-four and turns beet-red if I mention the word sex .”