Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“Then there’s just me,” he said. “There’s always the encrypted telephone.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you: the NSA tells me the Russians are trying to break in to that.”

“Swell. Do we know when?”

“The Russians never rest.”

“Go back to sleep,” he said, cuddling her.

She was up before dawn. He could hear her singing tunelessly in the shower, then he dozed off, only to be awakened by the hair dryer.

She came and sat on the bed. “I’m going to appoint a special committee at the National Security Council to come up with a list of secure places we can make love.”

“How about my place in Maine? There’s nobody there in the winter.”

“That would entail flying Air Force One to Boston, then boarding a U.S. Navy cruiser to somewhere off Southwest Harbor, then a Navy SEALs assault boat to your dock.”

“I’ll think again,” he said.

“You keep doing that.” She gave him a deep kiss and was gone.

He could hear the car doors slamming downstairs.

The bell on the dumbwaiter woke him again; breakfast was on its way up. Helene had not gotten the word; it was for two. He sent one back downstairs and took the other to the bed. He switched on the TV and the morning news showed Holly and Sam Meriwether walking past the Rose Garden and into the Oval Office, as if she had never left Washington.

Dino called. “You’re all over Page Six again,” he said.

“We can’t just have a quiet dinner in an Upper East Side restaurant anymore,” Stone said.

“Next time, you should have the management take the patrons’ cell phones as they enter.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Stone said. “A dishwasher, or somebody, would call us in for the standard fifty bucks.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You know where Holly wanted to have dinner? P.J. Clarke’s. Can you imagine?”

“It would have been a zoo.”

“Worse. Somebody at a nearby table would have recorded our conversation.”

“Are you ever going to get used to this?”

“I doubt it,” Stone said. “Moving a president around is a big transportation challenge, and somebody will always notice. Holly suggested Camp David, if we each had a helicopter.”

Dino laughed. “You keep trying!” He hung up.

Stone was at his desk when Dino called a second time.

“What?”

“Interesting news,” Dino replied.

“Uh-oh.”

“Not that interesting. I ran Donald Clark through the system and his file was blocked, ‘For reasons of national security.’”

“A file block for the once and never secretary of commerce?”

“The intelligence people wield a heavy hand,” Dino replied.

“What a shame one of us doesn’t know somebody in that world.”

“Both of us do.” Stone was a personal adviser to Lance Cabot, the director of intelligence. “You want me to call him, or do you want to do it?” Stone asked.

“Lance likes you better.”

“Well, if you’re going to whine about it,” Stone said, “I’ll call him.”

“Let me know what he refuses to tell you.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Lance Cabot on his secure cell phone and was connected immediately. “Good morning, Stone. I trust last evening was a pleasant one.”

“You’ve been reading the trash news,” Stone replied.

“A rich source of intelligence,” Lance replied. “Whatever can I do for you?”

“You think that’s why I called? So you can do something for me?”

“You never call for any other reason, Stone.”

“Okay... Dino and I are taking a look into Donald Clark, and his personal file is blocked.”

“Blocked by whom?”

“By you, probably.”

“Why would I do a thing like that?” Lance asked, wounded.

“To annoy Dino and me?”

“While annoying you and Dino has its pleasures, it’s not happening on this occasion.”

“Then you can get us in?”

Lance began tapping computer keys. “Got a pencil?”

“I prefer ink.”

“Whatever you like. This is a onetime pass code for the file. You may not both view it simultaneously.”

“May one of us print it?”

“Certainly not. It’s good for one hour.” Lance read out a thirty-six-character code of numbers and symbols, and Stone read it back to him.

“Have fun!” Lance said, then hung up.

Stone rang Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“All right, I’ve got a onetime, one-person pass code to Clark’s file, and we can’t both view it simultaneously, so you’ll have to come over here.”

“Why over there? Why not over here?”

“Because here is where it works.” Stone glanced at his watch. “The pass code expires in fifty-seven minutes, so shake your ass.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Please ask Helene to make lunch for Dino and me in” — he checked his watch again — “in sixty-four minutes.”

“Your wish, et cetera, et cetera,” Joan said, and hung up.

Dino arrived around thirty minutes later, pretending to pant. He pulled up a chair next to Stone’s. “Let’s go.”

Stone buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Please come in here with your pad and take notes.”

“On my way.”

Stone laboriously tapped in the thirty-six-character code. An on-screen message appeared: You screwed up. Try once more, because that’s all you get.

“I think Lance writes the error codes himself,” Stone said.

“Try and get it right this time,” Dino moaned.

Stone handed him the pad with the number. “Read it aloud to me.” Joan came in and sat down, pad and pencil at the ready.

Dino slowly read out the pass code, with Stone repeating every character as he entered it. Another on-screen message appeared: You made it. You have twenty minutes to read the file.

The screen wiped, and a typed form filled the screen, along with an older photograph of Clark, in a Marine dress uniform, his cap too large and resting on his ears, looking very young.

Stone began reading the file aloud, while Joan took shorthand.

It was four pages long.

“Done,” Stone said, twenty minutes later. The screen image of the file dissolved and melted away.

“Done here, too,” Joan replied.

“Type that up for us, please. We’ll be upstairs.”

Fred entered the room. “Gentlemen, lunch is served.”

“Those words always make me hungry,” Dino said.

Later over coffee: “It’s difficult to believe that the pudgy, bald guy we know was once a Marine,” Dino said.

“A Marine trained for special operations,” Stone said. “You know what I find most interesting about that?”

“What?”

“That Donald fired Expert with the Colt 1911 .45.”

“And with every other firearm in the special ops repertoire,” Dino replied.

“What bullet killed Art Jacoby’s girlfriend?”

“A .45,” Dino replied. “Anybody who could fire Expert with that weapon is damned good. I could never even hit the target with it.”

“Well, you’re pretty good with most guns,” Stone said, “so that says something about Donald’s skills.”

“What do you mean, ‘pretty good’?”

“Okay, more than pretty good.”

“Damn straight.”

“So, we have motive and means,” Stone said. “But opportunity?”

“I left my office in a rush, and I didn’t bring the file on the girlfriend’s shooting, but you can bet your ass Donald Clark has a solid gold alibi.”

“Can’t you remember what his alibi was?”

“I’ve got it,” Dino said. “He was dining with the D.C. chief of police.”

“Little Debby,” Stone said. “How convenient.”

“Ain’t it?” Dino said.

“I’ll bet that with a little elbow grease we can punch holes in that story.”