Stone Barrington was sitting up in bed watching last night’s recording of The Rachel Maddow Show, while skipping Joe Scarborough’s rant during the first half hour of Morning Joe, which was on a subject he had heard about too often: small government. His cell phone rang, and he picked it up. “Hello?”
“Scramble,” a female voice said.
He paused. This was the secure cell phone on which he only got calls from Lance Cabot, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, who always scrambled. It was a CIA iPhone, given to Stone when he was appointed special adviser to the director, with the putative rank of deputy director, though he was no such thing.
“Scramble, goddammit!” she said.
Stone pressed the button. “Scrambled,” he said. “Now who the hell is this?”
“It’s Holly, you complete ass,” she said. “You don’t recognize my voice anymore?” They had been lovers for years.
“Of course I do, but how did you get this number?”
“You gave it to me,” she said, “to use for the most confidential calls, and all of my calls to you are most confidential.”
“Oh,” he said. Holly was the secretary of state and about to announce a run for the Democratic nomination for president. She was very, very careful about being seen or heard communicating with Stone; the press would have far too much fun reporting ad nauseam that she was sleeping with someone.
“‘Oh’? Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Now it’s your turn: What have you got to say?”
“I’m coming to New York, and I want to spend the night at your house, doing what we always do there.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“Oh, of course. I look forward to seeing you. What time?”
“We’re landing at the East Side Heliport at noon. Can Fred meet me?” Fred Flicker was Stone’s factotum, a pint-sized veteran of Britain’s Royal Marines Commandos.
“Sure. What did you mean by ‘we’?”
“The presidents will be aboard, too, since it’s the presidential helicopter.” The presidents were Katharine Lee, the current president, and her husband, Will Lee, the former president.
“Invite them to dinner.”
“I don’t want to dine with them, I want to dine with you. Alone. I need your advice on something.”
“Something that can’t be discussed on a scrambled CIA iPhone?”
“Certainly not. Do you trust those people?” Holly had once been the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and she knew them well.
“Well, yes, I trust them. Sort of.”
“You’re hopeless,” she said. “See you later.” She hung up.
Stone hung up, too, and the other phone rang again almost immediately. “Hello?”
“It’s Dino. Dinner tonight? Viv is traveling again.” Dino was Dino Bacchetti, Stone’s former partner on the NYPD and now the police commissioner of New York City.
“Can’t. Holly’s on her way in for the evening.”
“What, I’m not allowed to see Holly now?”
“She wants us to dine alone. She needs advice about something.”
Dino made a snorting noise. “Advice? From you?”
“I give very good advice,” Stone said. “My friends’ lives would be so richer, fuller, and happier if they would just take it.”
“You’re delusional,” Dino said. “Tomorrow night?”
“Sure.”
“Patroon, at seven?”
“Sure.”
Dino hung up.
Stone was at his desk at noon, waiting for Holly to arrive. Joan Robertson, his secretary, buzzed him.
“Yes?”
“Some woman claiming to be the secretary of state is on one. Shall I tell her to buzz off?”
“You know very well who that is,” Stone said, pushing the button. “Where are you, Holly?”
“Out of the chopper and into the car. Since I spoke with you earlier I’ve been saddled with three pre-campaign chores that I have to take care of this afternoon. May I keep your car—and Fred?”
“You may. What time do you expect to finally land here?”
“By six, probably, which means maybe.”
“I’ll look for you when I see you coming.”
“Great, bye.” She hung up.
Stone called Helene, his housekeeper/cook and ordered dinner for seven o’clock, probably, perhaps later.
Helene understood. “It’s moussaka; I can serve whenever.”
“Good.” Stone hung up and tried to find some work to do.
At seven-thirty, Holly called. “I’m on the way, there in ten.” She hung up.
Stone called Helene and alerted her, then went up to his study to wait.
Sure enough, ten minutes later, Fred delivered her to the study, then took her luggage up to the master suite.
Stone and Holly wrapped themselves around each other and kissed noisily. She finally broke away. “Bourbon, now,” she said breathlessly.
Stone poured them both one, and they settled onto the sofa before the fireplace, where a cheery blaze burned.
“Why don’t we just down these drinks, strip off, and fuck each other’s brains out right now?” Holly asked.
“Because Helene will be here shortly with our dinner, and we don’t want to shock her and make her drop the dishes.”
“Oh, well,” Holly said, squeezing his genitals. “I’ll just have to wait.”
Dinner arrived, they sat down at the table, and Fred decanted the wine Stone had chosen. They tucked into their first course, Pâté Diana: goose liver with lots of butter.
“Okay, what advice do you need?” Stone asked.
“I have what you might call an administrative problem at State,” she said.
“And we both are aware that I know absolutely nothing about the administration of the State Department, so why are you talking to me about it?”
“Because I trust your judgment.”
“What judgment?”
“Judgment about everything.”
“Even things I know nothing about?” Stone took a sip of his wine. “The reason some people trust my judgment is because I never give advice about things I know nothing about.”
“Are you willing to listen?”
“Yes, of course. Shoot.”
“I have reason to believe that there is a Russian mole in a trusted position at State.”
Stone took a gulp of his wine and looked at her. She seemed absolutely serious.