Choppy Water - Stuart Woods Page 0,2
things,” Stone said, as her cell phone rang. She switched it off. “I can return calls later.” She snuggled next to him.
“What’s in the big briefcase?” Stone asked.
“Three big briefcases,” she said. “The rest are in the SUV, on their way. They contain lists of potential cabinet appointees and their dossiers, appointments to the Supreme Court and others, legislative proposals, executive orders to be signed on inauguration day, et cetera, et cetera. We’ve taken a whole motel in Rockland for staffers, and some of them will show up each day with briefing papers. There are two press pool people, sworn to secrecy and not to publish until we leave here. A press announcement is being made that I’m bound for an undisclosed location in Florida for a few days of rest and planning and will have no visitors. Everybody in Washington wants to visit.”
“I can imagine.”
They had lunch, just the two of them, and the Secret Service people were invisible, as promised. After lunch, Stone went into the village to the store to pick up a New York Times. “You want me to order it daily for you, Stone?” Billy, the owner, asked.
“Sure, Billy.”
“What’s going on over at your place?” Billy was also the head selectman and a human switchboard for local news and gossip.
“Just a few friends up from New York,” Stone replied. “We’re working on a new business proposal for next year.”
“Dino and Viv along?”
“They’ve been invited, but it will be later in the week before they turn up.”
That seemed to satisfy him, and Stone went home with his paper and a quart of ice cream.
* * *
—
Stone backed out of his parking space, just as another car pulled in next to it. When one of the two occupants opened a door, Stone saw a black leather bag full of camera equipment on the back seat. He stopped and, looking up, saw Billy standing on the store’s front porch, greeting them. Stone caught Billy’s eye and did a zipping motion over his mouth. Billy got it. He pointed this way and that, giving directions.
The two men got back into their car and drove off in the wrong direction.
Stone drove quickly back to the house, pulled into the garage, and pressed the button to close the door. One of the Secret Service men was guarding the front door. Stone said, “There are photographers on the island, looking for us, so get all your guys indoors and their car out of sight.” The man spoke into his radio, then followed Stone inside. Stone looked out a window and saw the photographers driving toward them. He got a robe from the coat closet and tossed it to the Secret Service man. “Take off your coat and put this on,” he said. When the man was properly costumed, Stone handed him his newspaper. “Answer the door and improvise,” he said.
Stone heard car doors slamming and ducked back into the living room. A moment later there was the bang of the knocker on the front door. Stone directed the agent with a lift of his chin.
The man unfolded the newspaper, tied the robe, and opened the front door. “Yes?”
“Mr. Barrington?”
“No.”
“May we speak to Mr. Barrington?”
“You’ll need to go to New York for that,” the agent said. “He’s let me have his place for a few days.”
“You mean he’s not on the island?”
“Yes, but it’s the island of Manhattan. Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, what’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?” the agent replied politely.
“For our story.”
“No stories here,” the agent said. “Good day. If you hurry, you can catch the next ferry. Otherwise it could be six or seven hours. It’s a refueling day.”
The two men ran for their car and fled the scene.
“You get an Oscar nomination for that one,” Stone said to the man.
Holly was just coming downstairs. “I heard a car leave. Who was here?”
“A couple of photographers,” Stone replied. “Al here told them a fairy tale, and they bit.”
“Oh, good,” she said.
Stone turned to the agent. “Was that true about the ferry?”
“It certainly was,” Al said, “except for the refueling part. I’ve alerted our people on the mainland to stay out of sight until they’re gone.”
Stone went and sat down next to Holly. “How did they get on to us?”
“Maybe a local ashore,” Al said. “Your airplane’s in the hangar, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and locked up.”
“We can’t have them looking up the tail number. If you like, I can call the FAA and have your number removed