Carnal Curiosity - Stuart Woods Page 0,33

do that.”

“And you know I can’t do it, either. But perhaps with a little wine and a little goodwill we can discuss this and then forget about it, to the extent that our conversation never took place.”

Holly took a large swig of her wine, which was instantly replaced by the waiter. “It’s like this: what’s-his-name’s name appears on a CIA watch list. Do you understand now?”

“Ah, yes. An NSA computer caught someone mentioning his name.”

“Exactly. Now I’ve shown you mine, you show me yours.”

“Love to. Oh, I’m sorry, not that.”

“No. Not right now.”

“Later, then. All right, a friend of mine, in a privileged conversation, mentioned that he might, in the course of his wide travels, bump into what’s-his-name somewhere or other. I suggested that if such a bumping-into occurred, he might convey my warm good wishes to what’s-his-name.”

“And why are you so warmly disposed toward what’s-his-name?”

“Well, to begin with, unlike the Agency, I have never thought of what’s-his-name as a villain, a threat to national security, a mortal enemy, or even a bad person.”

“Come on, there’s more.”

“Beyond that you and I will have to rise to that level of confidentiality that surpasses even Agency security or attorney-client privilege. Agreed?”

“All right, agreed.”

Their Dover sole arrived, was presented, boned, and served.

Stone took a bite and savored it. “I owe what’s-his-name a great debt of gratitude for saving the lives of my son, his best friend, his girlfriend . . . and his father,” he said finally.

Holly stared at him, mute.

“I kid you not.”

“And how did this heroic benevolence occur?”

“Ah, now we’re straying into the realm of ‘need to know.’ And you do not need to know.”

Holly chewed a chunk of sole thoughtfully. “But I want to know,” she said.

“Tell you what,” Stone said, “when we’re old and gray—all right, older and grayer—and when your Agency and my privilege are no longer chips in the game, and when we are far from recording devices and vulture computers, I will tell you all. After, of course, extracting your promise of eternal silence.”

“I have to wait that long, do I?”

“You do. I will, however, offer you some very genuine and very serious advice, based on solid fact and sound truth. Are you interested?”

“Always.”

“If I were you, serving in your post, I would contact the official at the NSA who sent you this message, and I would tell him to remove what’s-his-name’s name from the CIA watch list, and from any other watch list with which he is acquainted.”

“That would be really, really sticking my neck out,” she said.

“No, it would not. I can tell you that, to the contrary, you would be shielding yourself from further tsuris connected with what’s-his-name.”

“How do you know this?”

“I can’t tell you, but I’ll give you a tip: when you return to your warren on the Upper East Side, sit down at your computer and search every law enforcement database at your disposal and use key words corresponding to what’s-his-name’s name. But, since I know how busy you are, I’ll save you the time and tell you what results you may expect: a big fat zero.”

“That is absolutely impossible,” she said. Then she screwed up her forehead. “Unless . . .”

“Well, yes,” Stone said. “Let’s leave it at ‘unless.’”

“But how did you . . . ?”

Stone held up a warning finger. “Ah, ah.”

“Oh, all right!”

And they parted the best of friends.

Holly went back to her office and sent the following e-mail:

To: Scott Hipp

Deputy Director

National Security Agency

Your transmission of this date is acknowledged.

Please permanently delete the subject name from any and all watch lists, including the one in question.

Please acknowledge having done so.

Holly Barker

Assistant Director of Central Intelligence

She clicked on the SEND button and hoped that was the end of it.

27

Kate Lee’s helicopter, on loan from a wealthy supporter, landed on the White House pad, and a Marine helped her down the stairs and escorted her to the nearest entrance. Three minutes later, she was in the family quarters and stripping down for a shower. She was fully soaped when the shower door opened and the president of the United States, appropriately dressed for a shower, entered and pressed her against the tile wall, holding her head by the hair and kissing her ravenously.

When they had had their way with each other and were sufficiently unsoaped, they repaired to the living room, both dressed in terry robes, and Will poured them both a stiff bourbon on the rocks.

“What’s this horseshit I hear about you fucking Stone Barrington?” he asked with a