14

Kate Lee was dropped by her driver at the White House entrance, and, led and followed by her Secret Service agents, she took the elevator to the family quarters. The two agents remained at the downstairs elevator door. It was nearly eight o’clock, and she was exhausted.

As she got off the elevator she was grateful for the smells coming from the family kitchen. She flung her coat at a living room chair, dropped her bulging briefcase on the floor beside it, then walked into the kitchen.

“Excuse me,” she said to the man in the apron with his back to her, “who do I have to fuck around here to get a drink?”

Will Lee looked over his shoulder, turned the steaks on the grill of the Viking stove and came toward her. “You’re looking at him,” he said, kissing her and dragging a stool up to the kitchen island for her. He went to the freezer and extracted a full bottle of premade, very dry martinis, poured her one in a crystal glass and dropped in two olives. He handed her the drink. “My new speciality,” he said, picking up his own glass. They raised their glasses, gazed into each other’s eyes and took large sips.

“Mmmmm,” she said, “and what is the secret of this libation? What gives it that interesting something?”

“That interesting something is that the olives are stuffed with anchovies.”

“But I hate anchovies,” she said.

“That’s why it was a secret.”

“This is the second time you’ve fooled me with anchovies: the first was when you put pureed anchovies into a hollandaise sauce.”

“You’re forgetting the caesar salad dressing,” Will said. “Anchovies are an important ingredient of that. I think that what you are learning here is that you absolutely love anchovies.”

“Only when I don’t know I’m eating them,” Kate said.

Will turned the steaks. “How was your day?”

“Like all my days: unrelenting.”

“Anything special?”

“I spoke with Lance Cabot about the business in St. Marks.”

“And?”

“He says things are going swimmingly. Holly Barker has made contact with Irene Foster; in fact, she and the others are having dinner at her house, presumably as we speak.”

“Well, I’m glad they’re all getting along together so swimmingly. Is this going to help find Teddy Fay?”

“Maybe, and we should never speak that name. The Republicans may have bugged our kitchen.”

“I find a little paranoia a good thing in a director of Central Intelligence,” Will said, “but not that much paranoia.”

“I’ll try to tamp it down,” Kate said.

Will put the steaks on large plates, added baked potatoes and haricot verts and motioned for Kate to follow. He led her into the living room to a table for two in an alcove overlooking the White House grounds, their favorite place for dining alone. He seated her, lit the candles and poured the California cabernet that he had already opened, then sat down. They raised their glasses and dug into their food.

“This is the best steakhouse in the world,” Kate said.

“You certainly know the way to a fellow’s heart,” Will replied.

“Did the new polls come in today?”

“Yes, and we’re looking good. I’ve got at least a twelve-point lead over any one of the three likely Republican challengers.”

“I wish it were more.”

“Who doesn’t? But I’ll take twelve points.”

“That lead could vanish in the blink of an eye if it became known that…what’s-his-name is alive, having escaped two huge federal efforts to capture him, especially since the public has been repeatedly assured that he’s dead.”

“If that happens, I’ll deal with it,” Will said. “It will help that the ranking Republican senator on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence knows the truth.”

“It won’t help if he decides to leak the information to some right-wing talk show host.”

“If he does that, he’ll have to explain why he waited for so long after he found out to tell anybody. I don’t think he would enjoy that; he’s up for reelection too, you know.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I know you don’t like to talk about this, Kate, but suppose Lance’s people find Teddy and capture him? What then?”

“We could build a special prison for him at Guantánamo Bay.”

“He’d break out of it inside a week. What instructions have you given Lance in the matter?”

“I’ve given him no instructions whatever.”

“And is he going to interpret the lack of instructions as a license to do whatever he feels like doing?”

“I haven’t told him to do that, either.”

“You’re hoping Lance will just make it go away.”

“I’m hoping all sorts of things: I’m hoping Teddy is in a block of ice in Antarctica; I’m hoping he was eaten by a shark the last time he went swimming; I’m hoping he’ll put a bullet in his brain, then fall into an active volcano.”

“Yes, Teddy is an inconvenient person.”

“I’m also hoping he wishes to remain dormant, because if he took it into his head to start killing people again…Well, I don’t know how we would handle that.”

“Perhaps leaving him alone wherever he is is the best move.”

“We’ll have that option, if Lance’s people find him on St. Marks. We could just keep him under surveillance and hope for the best.”

“I like that option best,” Will said, “except the surveillance part; he’d twig immediately.”

“You never give me official orders when we’re drinking.”

“Just think of it as a firm suggestion.”

“I think that, tomorrow morning, when we’re both entirely sober, you might give me a written finding to that effect that I can log and store in my safe at Langley.”

“But then I would be on record as saying that a murderer, having been found, should remain free. God knows,” Will said, “I would hate to see him tried. I think I’d rather invade Iran or Korea.”

“Remember, we don’t have an extradition treaty with St. Marks, yet.”

“State has been working on that since their new prime minister took over.”

“Do you think you could possibly slow them down?”

“I think it would be impossible to slow them down, since they’re already going as slowly as possible, with no help from me.”

“If Teddy is in St. Marks, and we sign an extradition treaty, he could bolt for other, less arresting climes.”

“And then we’d have to start all over again?”

“Exactly.”

“It’s the perfect conundrum, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

15

Thomas arranged for Stone to rent a car for the remainder of their stay, and early in the evening they drove up Black Mountain for dinner at Irene Foster’s.

“Funny,” Holly said as they climbed the steep road, “I didn’t notice before but there are underground power lines running alongside the road, and a pipeline, too. See the markers?” She pointed them out.

“Odd for a small island to go to the expense of putting power and water underground in what seems to be a fairly sparsely populated area.”

“The houses may be sparse, but they’re expensive,” Holly said. “The rich usually are willing to pay for preferential treatment.”

Irene’s gate was open, but after they drove through, it closed behind them. An SUV and a smaller car with a rental sticker were parked in the paved parking area, and as they got out of their car, Harry Pitts appeared on the front porch to greet them.

“I see you found the place,” Harry said.

“It was easy,” Stone replied. “There’s only one mountaintop in St. Marks.”

“You have a point,” Harry said. “Come on in, and let me get you a drink.” He led them into a fairly large, comfortably furnished living room and waved them to seats. “Irene’s busy in the kitchen; she’ll be out in a little while. Are you still drinking those vodka gimlets? I made some.”

“You betcha,” Holly said. “It’s easy to sell this crowd gimlets.”

Harry produced martini glasses and a frosty Absolut bottle, the liquid inside tinged with green, and poured for everyone. “Cheers,” Harry said, raising his glass.