Shoot Him If He Runs

2

The following day, Stone, as per directions included with his White House invitation, took the Acela to Washington and a cab to the Willard, the restored grande dame hotel of the mid-nineteenth century. He was led by a bellman to an elegant suite and was a little surprised to find the luggage and clothes of a woman there. He tipped the bellman, then explored.

The clothes in the closet were few, but from fashionable designers, and slinky. He reflected that Holly was tall, but not particularly slender, and a little on the butch side, with short, light brown hair. She was certainly very attractive, but these clothes could not be hers. He called the front desk to inquire as to whether he was in the right suite and was assured that he was. He looked at his watch: four hours until he was to present himself at the White House.

He phoned the concierge and arranged for a massage, and while he waited for the masseuse to appear, he sent his dinner jacket and other clothes out to be pressed.

After an hour and a half of prodding and pummeling, he soaked in a hot tub and took a nap. He was in front of the hotel at the appointed time and was met by a black Lincoln and a driver, who knew the way to the White House.

The mansion and its grounds looked very beautiful with the moonlight on its six-inch blanket of new snow. At the gate he identified himself with his invitation and his passport and was driven to a portico, lit by a huge, hanging lamp, with Marine guards on either side of the door. Inside, he was greeted by name (they must have a photograph, he thought), his coat was taken, and he was asked to follow an usher. They walked down a portrait-hung hallway, took a couple of turns and stopped before a pair of double doors. The usher rapped lightly, and the door was opened by a man in a tuxedo. “Mr. Barrington,” the usher said, and stepped back to allow Stone to enter.

Stone walked into the room and was astonished to find himself in the Oval Office. The president of the United States, William Henry Lee IV, sat at the desk, on the phone, in his shirtsleeves, his dinner jacket resting on a valet stand beside his chair.

The president waved and pointed at a couch.

Stone sat down, and it was a good thing, too, because he felt a little weak in the knees. He had never been in this room, nor in this house, nor had he ever seen its occupant face-to-face.

A uniformed butler materialized and asked his pleasure in drink.

“A Knob Creek on the rocks,” Stone said automatically. “But if you don’t have that…”

“We have it, sir,” the man said, and he was back in a trice, with not one, but two drinks on a tray. He served Stone, then set the other glass on the president’s desk and dematerialized.

“I’ll expect to hear from you before noon tomorrow,” the president said, then hung up. “Mr. Barrington,” he said, rising and slipping into his dinner jacket. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.” He walked toward Stone, his hand out.

Stone rose and shook his hand. “Have you, Mr. President?” He couldn’t imagine how.

“Bill Eggers is an old friend, and Woodman amp; Weld have been very helpful to the Democratic Party and to me over the years.” His accent was softly Southern. “Bill has told me some of the things you’ve done for them since becoming of counsel to the firm.”

What Stone did for Woodman amp; Weld was the things the firm did not want to be seen to be doing themselves, and he was a little embarrassed that the president knew about that. “I see,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Stone,” Lee said. “Every law firm needs that sort of work”-he paused-“as does every administration.” He waved Stone back to his seat.

Stone sat down, uncertain as to what might come next.

“I asked you here a few minutes before the arrival of the others to thank you in advance for your help. I’m aware of your campaign contributions over the years, and I’m grateful for those, too.”

Stone had made a few thousand-dollar donations, but he couldn’t imagine why the president would be aware of that.

“I’m also aware of your honorable and very capable service to the NYPD for the fourteen years before you became an attorney, and as a citizen, I thank you for that, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Stone gulped. He took a long sip from his bourbon.

“Good stuff, Knob Creek,” the president said. “Knob Creek was where Abraham Lincoln spent his early years, in Kentucky, you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

The president raised his glass. “It’s the patriotic thing to do,” he said, taking a sip. “Though I mustn’t be patriotic too often these days, given the nature of the work.”

“I suppose not, sir.”

The president sat down on the sofa beside him. “Let me come directly to the point; the others will be here soon.”

Stone waited and listened.

“I believe that, some years ago, you were involved in a widely publicized criminal trial, on the island of St. Marks, way south of here.”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“I believe I even caught a glimpse of you on 60 Minutes.”

“Yes, sir, it was important to the outcome of the trial that we obtain as much media coverage as possible.”

“I forget; what was the outcome of the trial?” The president asked, raising his eyebrows.

Stone had the distinct feeling that he had forgotten nothing. “My client was hanged,” he replied.

President Lee burst out laughing. “I’m aware that you believed her to be hanged, until some years later, and I’m aware of your most recent encounter with her. Where is she now?”

“In a Florida prison, Mr. President.”

“Ah, yes, and she’s been asking me for a pardon every year since; for her husband, too. Tell me, Stone, if you were in my position, would you pardon them?”

“Since I don’t represent her anymore, I can say candidly, absolutely not. Both she and her husband deserve worse than being where they presently are, and the country is better off for having them there.”

The president chuckled. “We are of one mind,” he said. “Stone, someone is going to ask you to go back to St. Marks for…a visit.”

“That would not be unpleasant duty, Mr. President. It’s a beautiful island.”

“I hope you can take the time to go.”

“I was requested to pack my bags, Mr. President, and I have done so. May I ask why you want me to go back?”

“Oh, I haven’t asked you to go back,” the president said. “Someone else will, but I will not. And I must ask you to recall this meeting, this room, this bourbon and this conversation as wholly imaginary.”

“As you wish, Mr. President.”

“Stone, I’m sure you know that I am up for reelection in the autumn, and I wanted to tell you personally that your visit to St. Marks may, in one way or another, have a profound effect on my chances. Since, in light of your campaign contributions in the past, I have some reason to believe you think it might be important for me to finish my administration’s work, I wanted to tell you personally that you may soon be in a position to contribute to my campaign in a larger way than you imagine, and I want you to know, in advance, that you have my deep gratitude for your help.”

Stone was too baffled to speak, and he was relieved of that obligation when a door behind him opened and a woman’s voice said, “Will, honey, it’s time for us to go in.”

Stone sprang to his feet and turned to see the first lady, who was also the Director of Central Intelligence, standing in the open door.

“Kate, darling, this is Mr…” the president started to say.

“I know who he is, Will,” she replied, walking over and shaking his hand. “And I’m glad to have the opportunity to thank you for your efforts in solving the death of your cousin, Dick Stone, last summer. Dick was about to assume an important post at the Agency, and I had hopes that he might one day succeed me, when I’ve played out my string. Lance Cabot has told me how helpful you were to him during the investigation.”

Funny, Stone thought, and I was laboring under the apparent illusion that Lance was helping me. “You’re very welcome, ma’am.”

“Good luck on St. Marks, Mr. Barrington.” She turned and walked out the way she had come in.

“I must go,” Will Lee said, shaking Stone’s hand. “And by the way, the woman you just met was entirely imaginary, too. Have a seat; someone will come for you.”

The president followed his wife out the door, closing it behind him.

Stone stood in the center of the Oval Office, alone with its ghosts. He recognized the President’s desk as the one John Kennedy had used, and he remembered a photograph of John-John playing under it. He took in the portraits and the model of a yacht on one side of the room, and the rug under his feet with the Great Seal of the United States woven into it.

Then the door through which he had entered opened and Lance Cabot walked in.

“Oh, shit,” Stone muttered to himself.