Choppy Water - Stuart Woods Page 0,54

or some such. I’d need an appointment to see her.”

“Sort of takes the thrill out of it, huh?”

“How do you handle Viv being gone so much?”

“I save up my energy and my precious bodily fluids for her return.”

“Would she mind if you saw someone else while she’s away?”

“Only if she knew about it. The woman is armed, you know.”

“There is that.”

“Anyway, I’m content with things as they are. If she were home all the time I’d be exhausted every morning, and my weight loss would make my suits too big. I couldn’t afford the alterations.”

After dinner they took chairs by the fireplace, and Stone poured them brandy. “I’m glad you don’t smoke cigars,” he said, handing Dino a snifter.

“Right back atcha. What would you do, if you met a highly desirable woman who smoked cigars?”

“Deny her access to the house,” Stone replied without hesitation. “And my body.”

“It’s going to be interesting to see how you handle Holly’s transition period,” Dino said. “And even more interesting after she takes office.”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Stone said.

“Well, after January 20 you’ll at least have solved the geographical monogamy issue.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Stone said. “Though the resolution will not be in my favor. I have already told her that I will not move into the White House.”

“But you will visit, occasionally?”

Stone shrugged. “I’ll probably keep a pinstriped suit and a tuxedo there.”

“Careful, Stone, you’re edging toward commitment.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay well back from the brink.”

“Surely, there are some advantages to living in the White House.”

“Well, let’s see: I’d be awakened in the middle of the night whenever she receives a phone call about an emergency. I can’t think of any others.”

“I understand the service is pretty good.”

“It’s better at my house,” Stone said.

42

There was a note on Tom Blake’s desk to call Mamie Short. He did so.

“Same as before?” she asked.

“Right. Five minutes.” They hung up and he walked downstairs to her conference room and locked the door behind him. “Good morning. Did you find out about Elroy Hubbard?”

“Well, I had a dream,” she said.

“Do I look like Sigmund Freud?”

“No, no cigar. It was more of what you might call a reality dream.”

“Spit it out, Mamie.”

“Did I ever tell you I was employed at the CIA for a couple of years?”

“No, but it’s in your file. You were unhappy there, I believe.”

“It was more like they were unhappy with me,” she said. “Anyway, during my training at the Farm, there was a black guy named Leroy Collins in my class. What I remember about him was that he was good at everything he did, and also he was a good cook. He specialized in Southern cooking, which he said he’d learned from his mother, and he made dinner for a bunch of us a couple of times.”

“So you think that Leroy Collins is now Elroy Hubbard?”

“I think it’s a good enough guess for you to check it out with the Agency before I spend any more time identifying him. Don’t you?”

“I’ll get back to you,” Tom said, then went back to his office and called the director of central intelligence, Lance Cabot.

“Good morning, Tom,” Lance said.

“Good morning, Lance.”

“I’ve got a meeting in half a minute, but if this is important, I’ll hold them at bay for you.”

“Thank you. I believe you have an operative imbedded with a white-supremacist group down in Virginia, posing as a retired Navy cook.”

Lance was silent while he apparently tried and failed to figure out why Tom had this information. “Anything is possible,” he said, finally.

“In that case, I have some information you might find interesting. Are you available for lunch?”

“I am, if we do it at Langley. Anyway, we have a better chef here than you do at the Bureau.”

“We don’t have a chef,” Tom replied.

“My very point. One o’clock?”

“See you then.”

They both hung up.

* * *

—

Tom was waved through the gate at Langley; he had been there before. He liked visiting the Agency; it was a brighter workplace than the Hoover building, and the people seemed smarter than most of his agents.

He was issued a visitor’s pass at the reception desk, and a uniformed guard walked him to the elevator and rode up with him to the executive floor. Lance’s secretary met him and walked him to a small sitting room adjacent to Lance’s office, where a table had been set for two. She inquired if he would like a drink, and he requested iced tea. He was halfway through the glass before