Stuart Woods: Below the Belt

“Where did the alleged rape take place?”

“In Knott’s office in Washington, according to her DVD testimony,” Stone said.

“I’ll send the whole package to the D.C. police chief and see if we can get them involved. They’re the proper investigative authority.”

“Good idea!” Stone hung up.

A group of men and women sat in a screening room at the D.C. police department and watched Martha’s statement. It ended, and the chief looked around the table. “Since receiving the book and the DVD, we’ve received a lab report saying that there’s a DNA match between Nelson Knott and the boy. My question is, do we have the basis for an investigation here?”

“Certainly we do,” her deputy replied, “if it occurred in the District, and the woman says it did, and it would have occurred within the statute of limitations.” There was general assent around the table.

“The book and the DVD, but not the DNA report, have been sent to two hundred media outlets around the country. Should we send out the DNA report?”

“We’re not exactly ahead of this story,” her deputy said. “Sending out the report might give us some catch-up.”

“We have a list of press and media fax numbers, don’t we?” the chief asked.

Her public affairs officer raised his hand. “We do, Chief, and I can have it out to them in a matter of minutes. We can robo-dial all the numbers.”

“Fine, do it, and let’s get an investigative team assembled right now and start substantiating everything.”

In New York, at CBS Television, another group sat watching Martha’s testimony on the DVD. It ended, and everyone was quiet for a moment.

“Okay,” the executive producer said, “how do we go forward?”

“We get it on the news, pronto,” somebody said.

“Why us?”

“Because we gave Knott 60 Minutes last week. All of it.”

“That doesn’t make us accomplices in a rape. Is this cause to disrupt a presidential campaign?”

“I’ll give you a better reason to get it on the air now,” the youngest member of the group said.

“Go ahead.”

“This package didn’t just come to us, every media outlet in the country is going to know about it in no more than an hour. We don’t want to be the only one not broadcasting it.”

“That’s a very good reason. Get a report together, call Knott for a comment, and we’ll lead with it on the evening news. Then let’s get it on 60 Minutes Sunday night, the whole statement. Go!”

Erik Macher was now doing forty miles an hour; he called St. Clair, and his secretary answered. “It’s Macher. Let me speak with him.”

“He isn’t taking any calls this afternoon. He didn’t feel well after lunch, and he’s lying down. And there have been many calls from the media.”

“I’m not surprised, given yesterday’s announcement. Let him know that I was delayed by traffic accidents on the interstate, and that I’ll be there in two hours.”

“I’ll tell him as soon as he wakes up.”

Macher hung up and tried to see into the future. Getting ahold of the strong case had given them a leg up, he thought. Knott’s announcement had been received respectfully by the media; now they would start digging into Knott’s past. He’d been working for years to make sure that there was nothing in that past that would cloud the man’s political future, even to committing murder. With the handing over of the strong case to St. Clair, Macher would be the hero of all their efforts, and he intended to make the most of it. He would go from being in charge of an at-arm’s-length security company to being an important executive in St. Clair’s business empire. They couldn’t afford not to give him that, because he knew too much to be cold-shouldered. He was going to place that case in St. Clair’s hands personally, and reap the attendant rewards.

Traffic was clearing; he picked up speed.

Stone got a call from Mike Freeman.

“Yes, Mike?”

“My people in England tell me that all opposition around your estate has disappeared. They’ve apparently been withdrawn.”

“I expect that St. Clair has heard about Martha’s statement by now, and if so, she would no longer be in danger.”

“Should I withdraw my people, then?”

Stone thought about it. “Wait until tomorrow morning, but leave two people with them. If they can find out where the family is, the press and media are going to want to interview Martha, and they will be very pushy about it.”

“All right, I’ll do that.” He hung up.

Joan buzzed. “Ed Rawls on one.”

Stone pressed the button. “Yes, Ed, where are you?”

“North of Portland. I’ll get a room in Augusta and fly tomorrow morning. The forecast is good.”

“What’s up?”

“I was just wondering if you’d heard anything from St. Clair or his people?”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not a peep,” Stone said.

“How about Knott?”

“Nothing from him, either, but I haven’t expected any of them to contact me.”

“I just wondered,” Ed said. “Good night.” He hung up.

Stone went upstairs to his study and poured himself a drink. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour to go.

Erik Macher pulled up before Christian St. Clair’s double-width town house. One of his people was guarding the door. He got the strong case out of his trunk and trotted up the stairs.

“Good evening, Mr. Macher,” his man said.

“Don’t let them give me a ticket,” Macher replied, and rang the bell. Another of his people answered it. “Where is Mr. St. Clair?” he asked the man.

“I believe he’s in his study,” the man replied. “He just woke up from a nap. He’s been down all afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Macher replied, and walked up the curving staircase from the marble hall to the second floor, to the double doors of St. Clair’s study, which was where he worked when he was in New York. He rapped on the door.

“Who is it?” St. Clair called from inside.

“It’s Erik, sir.”

“Do you have the strong case?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then come in!” His voice sounded excited.

Macher let himself into the two-story room, which was filled with pictures and books. St. Clair sat at his desk. The only light on in the room was the lamp that illuminated its surface.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Macher said. “There were accidents on the interstate. I did the best I could, and I did call you.” He walked toward the desk.

St. Clair beckoned him. “I had a migraine and was down for a while. What do you hear from England?”

Macher stopped and set down the heavy case. “The family are surrounded by armed men, and have been since this morning. There was no opportunity to stage an accident, and even an all-out assault would not have worked, so I sent our people home, until circumstances have changed.”

“Damn it!” St. Clair said. “Set the case up here.” He cleared the desk of papers and patted the desktop.

Macher placed the case on the desk and turned the opening side toward St. Clair. “Here you are, sir.”

St. Clair examined the case. “Jesus, it’s pretty substantial, isn’t it? How does it open?”

“I’m sorry, sir, here’s the key.” He dug it out of his pocket and handed it to St. Clair.

“How does it work?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir, I haven’t opened it.”

“Obviously your curiosity isn’t as strong as mine.” He waved Macher to a chair across the desk from him and inspected the locks. “This brings an end to our problems,” St. Clair said, inserting the key into a lock and turning it.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Macher said.

St. Clair inserted the key into the other lock and turned it. “Come November, I’ll have my man in the White House.” He set down the key and reached forward with both hands to open the case.