Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

“I don’t know St. Clair,” Stone said, “do you?”

“All I know about him is what I read in the papers, the business press, and the occasional Secret Service report, if he’s dining at the White House.”

“I should think that the latter would contain just about everything known about the man except his vaccination list.”

“It depends on what the President wants to know,” she said. “It could be as simple as ‘The subject has no arrest record and has never threatened the life of the President of the United States,’ all the way up to, and including, a copy of his most recent financial statement, tax return, cardio workup, and proctological exam.”

“Which have you read?”

“The short one. I know that the gentleman is fifty-one years old and the fourth or fifth richest man in the United States, and that his fortune is based on oil, natural gas, renewable energy, and various high technologies.”

“What are his politics?”

“He’s a Democrat who is on, a little left of, the political centerline, depending on whom you talk to.”

“Will you eat his food and drink his wine?”

“If you insist.”

“Okay, you’d better start thinking about what you’re going to wear.”

“That would be an LBD with my best jewelry and flat shoes, since we’ll be aboard a vessel that might move under our feet, and our host is fairly short. What about you?”

“I actually possess a nautical dress uniform,” Stone said.

“And what, pray, does that consist of?”

“You’ll find out.” He texted Saltonstall: Stone Barrington and Holly Barker are pleased to accept.

At close enough to six-thirty they left the house by the back door, having first armed the security system, and walked the few yards to the yacht club, next door. As they passed the front porch, where people were gathered for drinks, they were greeted by sporadic applause. Stone gave them a salute. “Well, if anybody didn’t know we were here, they know now.”

They walked out onto the dock, where an exquisitely varnished launch awaited them, with a uniformed crew of three. One held the lines, one assisted them aboard, and the third attended to the helm. A moment later they were slowly under way, mindful of the dozens of boats moored in the little harbor.

“I believe that must be Breeze ,” Stone said, nodding toward a very traditional yacht moored in the outer harbor.

“Yes, sir, it is,” a nearby crewman said.

“What’s her length?”

“A hundred and twenty feet.”

“When was she built?”

“Launched this spring, finished her sea trials three weeks ago.”

“I would have put her at about 1935.”

“Mr. St. Clair is a traditionalist,” the man replied. “Although she has the grace of that era, everything else about her is either up to date or ahead of her time.”

“I was expecting more of a superyacht,” Stone said quietly to Holly.

“You mean a giant, plastic bathtub with a helicopter strapped to its back?”

“Something like that.”

“It seems Mr. St. Clair prefers the understated.”

The launch pulled up to a gangway hung on the yacht’s starboard side, and they were greeted at the top by the captain, who escorted them to the afterdeck, where several couples were arrayed on comfortable furniture. Piano music wafted from an invisible sound system.

“Mr. Barrington and Ms. Barker,” the captain announced. A rather short but well-proportioned man dressed in what Stone recognized as a New York Yacht Club mess kit turned to greet them. “Mr. Barrington, Ms. Barker, welcome aboard Breeze. I’m Christian St. Clair, and this is my wife, Emma.” He indicated the woman beside him, who was somewhat taller than him. “I believe you know Senator Saltonstall.”

“It’s Stone and Holly, please,” Stone replied, and hands were shaken. Senator Saltonstall got up from his chair and greeted them, introducing his wife, Allison. The other guests and wives were introduced as well, the men in dinner suits, and Stone recognized some of their names: a magazine publisher, a philanthropist, and the executive editor of the New York Times .

“And I’m Christian,” St. Clair said. “May we get you some refreshment?” He indicated a bar trolley nearby, crowded with bottles, and Stone looked at Holly.

“The usual,” she said.

“Two Knob Creeks,” Stone said, “on the rocks.” The drinks were placed on a small silver tray then transported the six feet to where they stood.

“What a beautiful yacht,” Stone said. “I was surprised to learn that she’s new.”

“Thank you,” St. Clair replied. “I prefer the old to the new in most things, but not in yachts or airplanes.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I see you are a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron,” St. Clair said, indicating his mess kit. “Somehow I hadn’t expected to find one in Islesboro.”

“I have a house in England, across the Solent from the Squadron. My membership is quite new.”

“Ms. Barker, I believe you are the national security advisor to the President, are you not?”

“I am, for my sins,” Holly replied.

“I didn’t know Kate Lee’s staff were allowed to leave the premises, at least not as far as Maine.”

“Sometimes she insists,” Holly said. “She felt I had too much unused vacation time.”

“I’m glad we found you here, Stone,” the senator said. “When did you arrive?”

“Only yesterday. Your timing was perfect.”

“Are you staying the summer?”

“I wish we were — work will catch up with both of us sooner than I’d like.”

“Did you manage to land your airplane on the island?”

“It would have been fun to try, but unwise, given the runway length. We landed at Rockland and were brought over in something smaller.”

“How did you come to choose Islesboro?” Emma St. Clair asked.

“It was chosen for me,” Stone said, “by my cousin Dick Stone, who died a few years ago. He left the house to a trust and lifetime occupancy to me. I subsequently bought it from the trust.”

“Such a lovely place to be,” she said.

“It certainly is.”

Everyone chatted companionably for another hour before dinner was announced, and the hosts led them through a comfortable saloon to the dining room, where place cards had been set out on a gleaming dining table, set with beautiful china, silverware, and crystal. Stone found himself between Emma St. Clair and the Times editor’s wife. Their husbands were on opposite sides of the table.

“Tell me, Christian,” the editor said, while a first course of foie gras was being served, “anything to the rumblings that have reached me about your considering a run for the presidency next time?”

“You may have heard rumblings,” St. Clair responded, “but there is no quake, nor will there be. I lead far too nice a life to exchange it for a political hell.”

“Is that what you think Washington is these days?”

“I suppose it’s no hotter than usual, but it would be hell for me. There isn’t even a presidential yacht anymore.”

“Wouldn’t this suffice?” He waved an arm.

“As long as it stays out of the Potomac, yes.”

“Stone,” Saltonstall said from the other end of the table, “I hear you’ve bought a place in Santa Fe.”

“A friend was leaving town and offered it to me, pretty much furnished. I couldn’t resist.”

“Do you ever practice law anymore?”

“Occasionally, but I try not to be caught at it. Anyway, an iPhone and a laptop make an office these days.”

“You are a wise man, Stone,” St. Clair said. “I operate much the same way, to the extent I can.”