Choppy Water - Stuart Woods Page 0,25
stopped playing. Kate told me that Will is turning a big chunk of the family farm in Georgia into a nine-hole course. He’s been seen down there, driving a bulldozer.”
“That’s about as much fun as a boy can have,” Viv said.
* * *
—
They were back in Stone’s Bentley, driving home, when Bill, in the front passenger seat, started speaking into his fist.
“Uh-oh,” Holly said.
Bill turned around. “Stone, your security system started squawking a minute ago, so we’re going to take the scenic route home,” he said.
The SUV in front of them started making turns, and a moment later, they were driving into Central Park.
“Central Park is closed to automobile traffic,” Stone said to Bill.
“They’re making an exception for us,” Bill replied. “Fred, pull over here, and we’ll wait for the all clear.”
“Bill?” Holly asked. “Do you think it would be safe for us to take a moonlight walk in the park?”
“I don’t see why not,” Bill replied, “as long as you have an armed guard ahead of and behind you.”
They got out of the car. “Let’s go see who’s awake at the zoo,” Holly said. She led the way to the cages, with an occasional grunt or snort coming from somewhere.
“Isn’t this lovely?” she asked.
“Not really,” Stone replied. “Zoos depress me.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re prisons for animals,” he replied. “And far from their natural homes.”
“And I was going to suggest we take a bench and neck for a while.”
“That works better for me if there’s no scent of elephant dung in the air,” Stone said.
Bill approached from behind them. “We’ve got the all clear at your house, Stone,” he said. “Some sort of electronic glitch.”
They trudged slowly back to the waiting car.
19
The black phone rang, and Elizabeth Potter jumped. She let it ring twice more while she composed herself, then picked it up. “Michael Crow’s office,” she said.
“What position does Mr. Crow hold?” a male voice asked.
Liz knew the voice immediately. “Mr. Crow is the deputy attorney general for criminal prosecution,” she replied.
“Can we talk on this line?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crow is attending a meeting outside the office. May I take a message for him?”
“When do you think he could get back to me?”
“I should think between twelve-thirty and one.”
He gave her a number. “I’ll be waiting for the call.”
She wrote down the number; probably a burner cell phone. “I’ll see that he gets the message,” she said, then hung up. She memorized the number, then dropped the slip of paper into her shredder, which immediately ingested it.
* * *
—
She waited until 12:35 before returning the call.
“Yes?”
“It’s Bess.”
“Ah! Where are you?”
“At a table in a courtyard near my office.”
He gave her some walking directions. “It’s a pub called Shannon’s,” he said. “Ten minutes?”
“Five,” she replied. She put away her cell phone and began walking. Six minutes later she spotted the pub: not the sort that would attract anyone she knew for lunch. She found Sykes in a booth at the back. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she said, sliding in.
“Let’s just say that it doesn’t attract the carriage trade.”
“Nor the Justice trade.”
Sykes looked around, then back at her. “Quite right. I’ve received word that our bird is flying back to Washington for a few days.”
“That’s interesting. Where will she roost?”
“Two possibilities: the residence where your friends last made contact with her, or the family quarters of a large, white residence not too far away.”
Someone set a bowl of something before her. “What is this?” she asked, sniffing at it.
“Irish stew,” he replied. “The best in town.”
“How much competition is there?”
“Perhaps a dozen or so such pubs.”
She tasted it gingerly. “Not too bad.”
“Would you like something else?”
“What would you suggest?”
“Well, the drisheen has been praised by connoisseurs.”
“What is that?”
“Stomach of cow,” he replied, “sliced, seasoned, cooked, and cut into bite-sized pieces.”
“The Irish stew sounds delicious,” she said, filling a spoon and eating it.
“A wise choice,” Sykes said. “What do you think about our problem?”
“Well, let’s see: the last location has probably been fortified since our last visit.”
“Probably so.”
“And the alternative is guarded by a tall fence, dogs, guards armed with automatic weapons, and ground-to-ground missiles on the roof. Does either option sound inviting?”
“They both have the attraction of unexpectedness, one having been previously visited, the other suffering from complacency.”
“‘Complacency’? You think so?”
“I guess that means the previous location.”
“Not unless you can get someone inside, undetected, long enough to plant explosives,” she said. “And that someone will not be me.”
“I thought you bolder,” he said.
“Foolish, more likely.”
He reached out, stroked her forearm,