Стюарт Вудс - Shakeup

“Mr. Clark,” she said, with a little smile, “can you enumerate for me the occasions on which you had sexual intercourse with Ms. Carlyle?”

Clark blinked. “I decline to address that question,” he said, finally.

“How about the nature of such intercourse?”

Clark collected himself. “I decline to answer.”

“How about the occasions on which one or more others were involved, and what persons participated in such intercourse? And their names, genders, and occupations?”

“Decline. I will not bring others into this matter.”

As if propelled by some spring-loaded mechanism, a man in a pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase, entered the room at a trot through a rear door, crying, “Stop! Stop! My client will answer no further questions!”

“Oh, really,” Clark said. “I don’t mind.” This with patent insincerity.

“This interview is over,” the lawyer said to Maren. “Kindly leave the premises at once.”

“I take it you would prefer to have your client answer these questions before a grand jury,” Maren said, rising and picking up, but not turning off, her recorder. “I can arrange that.”

“Go, go!”

“A subpoena follows,” Maren said, then departed, noting the time on her recorder before switching it off.

Stone received her in his study, and Fred took her small suitcase and makeup bag away.

“Good evening,” Stone said, kissing her. “You look lovely!”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting.

“A drink?”

“Of course. A very dry martini,” she replied.

“Is there any other kind?” he asked, pouring one out of a premixed bottle from the freezer, frosting the glass immediately.

“Where are we dining?”

“At Rotisserie Georgette,” he replied. “Specializing in roast fowl.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“How did your day go?”

“Better than I expected,” she said. “Art Jacoby will make an excellent witness either for himself or against Donald Clark. I pretty much wrung him out, but he has his story straight now.”

“What about Clark?”

“I got everything I expected from him, and when I brought up the subject of sex, an attorney, apparently mechanically operated, sprang from somewhere, shouting ‘Stop!’ I’ll see his client before a grand jury, where he will, very likely, take the Fifth.”

“Very likely.”

“I’ll tell you this, though. He’s scared, and that’s the way I like my suspects.”

Stone had his houseguest for a couple of nights, then she folded her tent and readied herself for departure.

“When will I see you in Washington?” she asked.

Stone gulped. “I rarely visit Washington, and when I do my time there is fully occupied.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “I thought that might be over.”

Stone kissed her, took her downstairs, and put her into her car.

“If your investigation brings you north again, please let me know.”

“Perhaps,” she said, then drove away.

That afternoon, Stone had a sandwich at his desk. Joan stuck her head around the door. “Put on CNN,” she said.

Stone turned on the TV, which was already tuned to CNN. “According to a source at FBI headquarters, Director Shaker has never been happy serving under President Barker. Other sources say he would be unhappy serving under any woman. After leaving his resignation at the White House, handing it to a Marine guarding the doors, Mr. Shaker returned to the Bureau, packed his briefcase and a few boxes of books and personal items, and left for his country house in Virginia. There was no farewell speech to the men and women he left behind.”

“Who is replacing him?” Stone shouted at the TV.

“His replacement, Maren Gustav, is a sixteen-year veteran of the Bureau who has served in a number of posts there, climbing the promotion ladder steadily, and has been a favorite of President Barker’s since the president served as CIA director.”

“Thank you very much!” Stone yelled, then switched off the TV. “Joan, are you still there?”

She opened the door a crack. “Yes, sir.”

He handed her Maren’s personal card. “Send two dozen yellow roses and a card saying ‘Congratulations’ to her home.”

“Do you want to send Mr. Shaker a farewell bouquet?” Joan asked.

“Are you nuts?”

“I’m on it,” she said, and closed the door.

Dino called. “You see it on TV?”

“I did. Well-deserved.”

“What’s that going to do for the investigation of the Carlyle girl’s murder?”

“I think that, given her interviews on Monday, she’s fully invested in it, and now she’s in a position to bring more agents into it.”

“I hear she has a bear-trap mind.”

“You hear correctly. Dinner?”

“P.J. Clarke’s, at six-thirty?”

“Done. You book.” He hung up.

Stone arrived on time at Clarke’s, and the remnants of the five o’clock crowd were still at the bar. A Knob Creek on the rocks was set before him. And when the bartender moved away, Stone saw two photographs taped to the bourbon shelf of the bar: one was of Maren Gustav, in a low-cut evening gown; the other was of Stone waltzing with the new president.

Dino materialized at Stone’s elbow, with a Scotch before him. “Nice, huh?” He said, nodding at the photos.

“Danny,” Stone said to the bartender, “get rid of the one with me in it, will you?”

“Sorry, Stone,” Danny replied. “Orders from the owner.”

“Take it down, or I’ll run amok.”

“Speak to the owner.”

“Danny, when was the last time the owner was in here?”

“I don’t know, last year sometime.”

“I’m going to stop coming here.”

“You can’t do that, Stone. We’ll go broke!”

“Live with it,” Dino said.

“Distract me from what I’m looking at,” Stone said.

“Did you hear the news?”

“Not since lunchtime.”

“The new FBI director’s first official act was to call the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia and ask him to form a grand jury to investigate Art’s girlfriend’s murder.”

“She doesn’t waste any time, does she?”

“Well, she hung out with you for a few days,” Dino pointed out.

“And look what happened to her!”

“I guess Holly isn’t the jealous type.”

“I asked you to distract me.”

“Okay. A girl is at home walking around naked. There’s a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’ she yells. ‘The blind guy,’ he yells back. “Okay, come on in.’ The guy comes in and says, “Hey, nice tits! Where d’you want the blinds?”

Stone laughed in spite of himself.

Maren Gustav was finishing her first days as director when she got a phone call from Mark Bernstein, the U.S. attorney for the District of Columbia.

“Good morning, Mark,” she said, breathless to know what had happened.

“Good morning, Maren,” he replied. “It went off pretty much as we expected. He took the Fifth.”

“Then the media will convict him before we can.”

“There’s always immunity,” Mark said.

Maren thought about it. If they gave Clark immunity from prosecution, then he could not take the Fifth, since he would not be incriminating himself. If he still refused to testify he could be held in contempt and jailed until he relented. “I think so,” Maren said.

“The question is, to whom do we make the proffer of immunity: Clark or Deborah Myers?”

“I suppose we do have a choice,” Maren said. “What happens if they both decline the offer and refuse to testify?”

“I suppose they could hold hands in federal prison,” Mark replied. “Or, perhaps, we could arrange some conjugal time for them.”