Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

“Yes?”

“My name is Stone Barrington. Do you remember that name in relation to Ed Rawls?”

“I do. I’m to accept your instructions for delivery, should you call.”

“I’m calling. Do you have a van in your business?”

“I do, and the twenty boxes will fit into it.”

“I’d like you to load all the boxes into the van and deliver them to the following address. Got a pencil?”

“I have. Give me the address.”

Stone gave him the address of his New York house.

“That’s going to be expensive, if my van has to go to New York. It might be cheaper to put the boxes into bigger boxes, then ship them by Federal Express Ground.”

“I need the boxes here today,” Stone said. “How much to deliver them?”

The man did some math and mentioned a number.

“Done,” Stone said. “How long will it take to get them here?”

“We can have the van loaded in about an hour, then four to six hours, depending on traffic.”

“I’ll give you a credit card number,” Stone said. He did, then hung up.

Joan came in with the mail. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. This afternoon, probably around three o’clock, a van is going to arrive and deliver twenty boxes. If I’m not here, I want you to secure them.”

“How big are the boxes?”

“They each hold about ten books.”

“There won’t be room enough in your safe for that many.”

“Then lock them in the wine cellar.” The wine cellar had a steel door in a steel frame, and the lock operated four bolts on each of the three sides.

“Okay. This is all very peculiar,” Joan said.

“You are quite right.”

“It will be done.” She went back to her office.

Stone riffled through the mail and found an envelope from a law office in Virginia; that struck him as odd, and he opened the letter inside.

Dear Mr. Barrington,

I am an attorney with offices in Virginia. One of my clients is Edward Rawls. I assume you will receive this letter on Tuesday; I will be in New York that day, and I would like to see you on an urgent matter as early in the day as possible. I will phone for an appointment.

Rutledge & Rutledge

Stone buzzed Joan, and she answered. “I’m expecting a call from a Mr. Carson Rutledge, and—”

“He’s on the other line and wants an appointment.”

“Invite him to come as soon as he can.”

She went back to her call, then buzzed. “He’s on the way over here now — be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Carson Rutledge was a tall, slender man in a well-tailored, chalk-striped suit, with a head of thick gray hair. Stone offered him a chair and coffee. He declined the coffee, and Stone thought that a good thing, since he seemed to be pretty wired already.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Rutledge. What can I do for you?”

“Ed Rawls has asked me to deliver this package to you by hand,” he said, opening his briefcase and handing Stone a padded envelope. “It contains two copies of a book Mr. Rawls wrote and the originals of some documents that are reprinted in the book.”

Stone accepted the package and put it on the coffee table. “Is this a book that Ed has recently written?”

“It is, and I must tell you, I’m glad to have that material off my hands. I suggest that you keep it in a safe, or at least under lock and key.”

“I shall do so.”

Rutledge heaved a deep sigh. “I feel greatly relieved,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Because during the time those things have been in my possession, I have come to fear for my life, and that is not an emotion I am accustomed to.”

“And now that you have given them to me, should I fear for my life?”

“I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s my strong feeling that you should be, if anyone other than you, me, and Ed Rawls should learn about this transfer.”

“Do you have a malefactor in mind?”

“Mr. Barrington, do you have any concern that your office might be under electronic surveillance?”

“I have enough concern that I have it electronically swept at regular and close intervals.”

“Let’s just say that my suspected malefactors are a very rich man, his protégé, and his private security force.”

“I believe I get the picture.”

“I’m glad of that.” He stood. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to return, posthaste, to my usual dull and uneventful existence.”

“Can I have my secretary call some transportation for you?”

“Thank you, no, I have a car and driver waiting outside, and it’s a long drive to Virginia.” They shook hands; Rutledge took his briefcase and walked out.

Stone sat down, found a small box cutter in his desk, and sliced open the package. He found two bound copies of a book entitled A Great Storm Coming , by Edward Rawls, a longtime officer in the Central Intelligence Agency.

Stone picked up the phone and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“It’s Stone. Are you going to be in your office for the next couple of hours?”

“Yeah, I’m having a sandwich at my desk for lunch.”

“I’m going to send you something that, once you open it, you should treat as if it were a bomb.”

“But it’s not a real bomb?”

“No, but read it as soon as possible, then lock it in your safe and don’t speak to anyone about it, except me.”

“You promise it won’t explode?”

“I promise.” Stone hung up the phone and gave the second copy of the book, in its envelope, to Joan. “Ask Fred to deliver this as soon as possible. He is to place it in Dino’s hands and no one else’s.”

“You betcha,” Joan said, taking the package and leaving his office.

Stone opened his copy of the book and began to read.

At around 3:30 PM Joan came into Stone’s office. “The boxes you told me about are here. Can I have the man bring them in?”

Stone thought about that. “No, there’s a hand truck in the garage. Ask the man to unload them in the front hallway and give him a hundred bucks, then ask Fred to come down here and put them in the wine cellar.”

It was done, and Stone watched the whole time, then locked the wine cellar door himself.

He opened the envelope containing the original documents Rutledge had given him; they were two Virginia birth certificates, one seventeen years old, the other twelve. He checked Rutledge’s phone number on his letterhead, then called him.

“Rutledge & Rutledge,” a man’s voice said.

“Mr. Rutledge? This is Stone Barrington.”

“Yes, Mr. Barrington?”

“You’ll recall that we met in my office this morning.”

“No, sir, that would have been my father. I’m Carson Rutledge Junior.”

“May I speak to your father, please?”

“I’m afraid he’s not in. We expected him in from New York a couple of hours ago, but he hasn’t turned up yet, and he’s not answering his cell phone.”

“Could you ask him to call me at my office when he returns? He has the number.”

“I’m afraid...” the man began, then stopped. “We’ve been having some trouble with our phone lines, so he will need to go to another location to return your call.”

“All right, thank you.” Stone hung up and called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Did you read it?”

“I did. I was about to call you, but I wanted to check on something.”

“What do you think of Rawls’s book?”

“Ordinarily, I would think that the guy was just some conspiracy nut — the whole business seems so improbable — but having met him, he doesn’t seem like a nut.”