1
Stone Barrington awoke slowly on a Sunday morning. The evening before had been spent with his good friend Dino Bacchetti, and had involved good beef, good wine, and various spirits before and after dinner. Stone was alone in his bed, which was not his preference.
He was alone in his house, too, he recalled, since he had given his cook and housekeeper, Helene, and her husband, Fred Flicker, the weekend off. There was, he remembered, a housemaid stationed in the kitchen to meet his culinary needs. He picked up the phone and dialed an extension.
“Yes, sir?” an accented voice responded. “This is Gilia.”
Gilia was Greek, being one of a number of Helene’s nieces who occasionally landed in his employ.
“Breakfast,” he said huskily.
“Your usual, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Only a little minutes,” she replied.
“Good.” He hung up.
* * *
—
Gilia had been taught well. The eggs were soft and creamy and properly salted, the sausages were tender and juicy, and his Wolferman’s English muffin was perfectly toasted and buttered. By the time he had wolfed it all down, he felt restored. He was searching for an old movie to watch on TV and had just selected a John Wayne western, John Ford’s Rio Grande, when his cell phone rang—the secure one. He picked it up. “Speak,” he said. It was likely to be one of two people on the line; he hoped it was the tender gender one.
“What kind of greeting is that?” she asked.
“A cautious one,” Stone replied. “I was hoping it was you and not Lance.” Lance Cabot was the director of Central Intelligence, for whom Stone served as a special adviser. The woman on the line was the President of the United States, Holly Barker, with whom Stone had had an affectionate relationship for many years, off and on.
“I was thinking of coming to New York,” she said. “When would be convenient for you?”
“How about right this minute?”
“You understand there are arrangements to be made.”
“I thought we had that all ironed out and given a code name, ‘Turtle Bay.’” That was the name of the neighborhood surrounding a private garden on which his house was located. “All you have to do is dial a number, speak those words, and you’ll be here in time for lunch.”
“I know that’s supposed to be how it works,” she said, “but I’ve never actually used it. And things have a way of going awry when their operation depends on the workings of the federal government.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Stone said, reprovingly.
“My faith in my government, or lack of same, is based on long experience.”
“But your experience at the top of it is brief,” he replied. “Try it and see.”
“Hang,” she said, picking up another phone and dialing an extension. She held the other phone so he could hear the conversation.
“Yes, Madam President,” a male voice said after a single ring.
“Execute Turtle Bay,” she said.
“Your helicopter will arrive in thirty minutes,” he replied. “ETA, East Side Heliport in one hour and forty-two minutes. Weather is favorable all the way. A three-car SUV group will greet and transport you to your destination.”
“Excellent,” she said, and hung up. “You get that?”
“I did. Sounds as if it should work as planned,” he said. “Do you want to go out for dinner?”
“You know we can’t appear in a New York restaurant without causing a press riot.”
“Then I’ll have you all to myself.”
“You could invite the Bacchettis,” she replied.
“Done.”
“I’ll look forward to that. Tell Viv I’m dressing to kill. See you soon.”
Stone looked forward to it as well. He called another number.
“Bacchetti,” a gruff voice replied.
“Which one?”
“The one who didn’t have to go through menopause.”
“Holly’s on her way. Dinner here this evening?”
“Viv will want to know what we’re wearing.”
“You and I are wearing tuxedos. Tell Viv to let her imagination run wild.”
“I can’t do that. It would mean an all-afternoon shopping trip and a big dent in her credit card.”
“C’est la guerre, pal. Six-thirty for drinks.” He hung up. Then, as he did, he remembered that Helene was away for the weekend, and he was not cooking in a tuxedo, or out of one, for that matter. He called Fred’s cell phone.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Fred,” Stone said, “but our friend Holly is coming to dinner, as well as the Bacchettis, and I don’t know if Gilia can handle that.”
“One moment, sir.” He came back a moment later. “Helene says Gilia can manage with what’s in the fridge and the pantry. She’ll call her with instructions. Not to worry.”
“Thank you, Fred,” Stone said and hung up, feeling relieved.
* * *
—
Holly arrived with four pieces of luggage and one Secret Service agent, a woman named Midge. The other agents had to loiter in the garage or around the neighborhood.
She flung herself into his arms. “I want you,” she said, “but I need a nap.”
“You know where the bed is,” he said, leaving Midge to get Holly’s luggage aboard the elevator. Stone looked in his study for a book he had been reading but didn’t find it; so he went downstairs to his law office and did. He was about to leave the room when there was a trumpet fanfare, and a message appeared on his desktop computer screen. Stone walked over, sat down, and read it.
Dear Sir,
Your computer, its hard disk, and all your programs and files are now frozen. Please understand that I have been reading them for weeks and, as a result, I know everything there is to know about you—your address and phone numbers, your social security number, your tax returns, and all your financial information are at my fingertips. I can dump your stock portfolio and deposit the funds in any bank account, anywhere. I can publish your tax returns in your local newspaper. I can print and distribute all the deeply personal e-mails you have sent to women over the years, some of them well-known to the public. In short, I can make your life a permanent hell.