D.C. Dead

24

Holly placed the ad in the TIMES, then composed an e-mail to Todd Bacon at an e-mail address that required a ten-digit password to access. “Call off your party immediately, as the guest of honor is permanently unavailable. You and the kids come home and see me at seven A.M. Friday. Bring your own breakfast. Barker.”

She looked at Teddy’s letter for a long minute, then disobeyed orders: she made a copy and put the original in her briefcase, then she shredded the copy, emptied the shredder into a burn bag, and gave it to her secretary for disposal. She was determined that this was not going to come back and bite her on the ass.

Todd Bacon, still on the West Coast, opened the e-mail on rising and read it. “Shit!” he shouted, waking up the man in the other bed.

“What?” the man yelled back.

“It’s over, goddammit. They’ve pulled the plug. Call everybody now and tell them we’re due at Langley Friday A.M., first thing.”

“Worst fears realized,” the man said.

“Maybe not,” Todd said. “I’m not dead yet.”

On the appointed day, Teddy drove to a little bookstore in D.C. that stocked the New York, Washington, and National editions of the Times, bought a paper, then went back to his car and opened the Arts section. His tight face spread into a grin. The ad was there.

He drove slowly home and found Lauren making breakfast. “I think it may be over,” he said.

“Your letter worked?” she asked, incredulous.

Teddy handed her the newspaper, folded back to the ad.

“I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he replied, “at least not yet. We’ll give it a while, and if we have no further problems, we’ll pick us a spot and go live happily ever after.”

“And if we have further problems?”

Teddy sighed. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

Stone was still working on the Times crossword when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?” A woman’s voice, silken.

“Yes?”

“This is Milly Hart.”

“Good morning, Ms. Hart,” he said.

“I would be pleased if you would come to lunch today at my apartment, if you’re available.”

“May I bring my colleague?”

“I would prefer to see you alone.”

“I’m available.”

“One o’clock, then?”

“One o’clock.” Stone hung up, got out of bed, and went into the living room, where Dino was reading the Wall Street Journal. Dino had become interested in financial matters after the multimillion-dollar divorce settlement arranged by his former father-in-law, Eduardo Bianchi.

“Who was on the phone?” Dino asked.

“Milly Hart.”

Dino looked surprised. “Yeah? That sounds interesting.”

“That remains to be seen,” Stone replied. “She invited me to lunch.”

“Just you?”

“I asked if I could bring you-she said no.”

Dino smiled. “She’s going to jump your bones.”

“I doubt it,” Stone said, “but I think she may have something to say. I wanted you to know up front that it wasn’t my idea to see her alone, it was hers.”

“It’s okay, pal,” Dino said.

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure. Anyway, there’s a movie on HBO I want to see.”

“Okay,” Stone said.

Stone presented himself at the Watergate apartments at five minutes past the hour, and the maid was waiting for him when he got off the elevator. She showed him into the living room, where Milly Hart was sitting on the sofa, just as last time, in another beautiful peignoir. She offered him a hand and patted the sofa next to her. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Barrington,” she said.

“I never turn down a free lunch,” Stone replied, sitting.

“Marilyn,” she said to the maid, “you may have the afternoon off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, smiling. She disappeared.

As soon as she left, there was a knock on the door from the foyer.

“Come in,” Milly called out.

The door opened, and a waiter pushed in a room service table and set it up before the windows overlooking the river.

“Come,” Milly said, leading Stone to the table. “I believe you’re feveet ond of lobster salad,” she said, waving him to his seat.

“You’re very well informed,” Stone said, surprised.

“It’s Washington,” she said.

Stone laughed. “I was surprised to hear from you.”

“I’m sorry I had to cut our first meeting short, but you hadn’t called ahead, and I had another engagement.”

“I believe I bumped into your engagement as we got off the elevator.”

“Did you,” she said, but it wasn’t a question. She poured them each a glass of a good white Burgundy, and they raised their glasses. “To truth and justice and the American way,” she said.

Stone smiled and sipped his wine.

“I take those things very seriously,” she said, popping a morsel of lobster into her mouth.

“Is that how you were brought up?”

“Well, yes, but it was my late husband, Senator Hart, who instilled those values in me in a more permanent way. Since he died, I have hated injustice in its every form, and I always tell the truth.”

“Are you going to tell me the truth today?” Stone asked.

“I am, to the extent that I know it.” She sipped her wine. “Tell me, what have you heard about me?”

“That you come from good stock, that you married a good man, but one who left you in dire straits.”

She smiled broadly. “And that I was forced to take money from men as a result?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m afraid the truth is more shocking than that,” she said.

“I can’t wait to hear it,” Stone said.

So she told him.