Hot Pursuit (3 page)

STONE ARRIVED
at the address, a double-width town house in the East Sixties, and rang the bell. He noticed a security camera high and to his left. Almost immediately a man in a black suit and green tie opened the door. “Your name, please?”

“Barrington.”

“Please come in, Mr. Barrington, and follow me.” The man took his overcoat, then led him to an elevator, and Stone was ushered in. “Press five,” the man said.

Stone pressed five, the doors closed, and when they opened, Senator Everett Salton stood waiting in a small foyer. He shook Stone’s hand.

“Good to see you, Stone.”

“And you,” Stone replied.

“This way.”

Stone followed him to one of several doors opening off the foyer, and into a sort of sitting room with a table set for two.

Salton indicated where Stone should sit. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve ordered for us—saves time.”

“That’s fine,” Stone said, taking a seat. His place was set with elegant china and crystal and a huge, starched Irish linen napkin.

“Would you like a drink?” Salton asked.

“Thank you, just some fizzy water.”

Instantly, a waiter entered the room and took their drink orders.

“What is this place?” Stone asked.

“It’s a sort of club, I suppose,” Salton said.

He supposed? “Does it have a name?”

“It does not. The members refer to it vaguely as ‘the club’ or ‘the association’ or ‘the East Side House.’ To what clubs do you belong, Stone?”

“Only a small golf club in Washington, Connecticut, where I have a house.”

“No city clubs?”

“None.”

“I find that remarkable,” Salton said.

Stone didn’t ask why. “Are all meals taken in this setting?” Stone asked, indicating the room.

“No, there is a proper dining room downstairs, but only members are permitted to use it. As a group, they guard their privacy jealously. Guests are received in these private rooms.”

“I see,” Stone said, overstating his understanding.

“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time,” Salton said.

Stone wrinkled his brow. “Why now?”

“Because, until last evening, we had not been introduced.” He smiled. “I realize that’s a bit old-fashioned of me, especially since I’m a politician, but it has been my experience that the means by which one makes acquaintances is almost as important as the acquaintance.”

“That’s not only old-fashioned, it’s very selective,” Stone said.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Last evening you were in the company of two men I know fairly well, and that spoke well of you.”

“Is either of them a member of this club?” Stone asked.

“One is. I proposed the other this morning, along with you.”

Stone was dumbfounded. This man, who professed to be so selective, had proposed a man he didn’t know for what was obviously an extremely exclusive club. “I’m not sure I have the qualifications for membership,” Stone said. “What are they?”

“Substance, character, and to a lesser extent, cordiality,” Salton replied.

“And influence?” He thought he was beginning to see what this was about.

“Sometimes. Many members acquire more of that here than they bring to the party. And we are more inclusive than you might imagine. There is an unspoken rule—virtually all the rules here are unspoken—that no candidate is discriminated against for any of the usual exclusionary traits—race, religion, et cetera. The membership is quite broad in that regard.”

“Is it also large?”

“Given that the membership is worldwide, not terribly. There are no more than a couple of hundred members who have their main residence within a fifty-mile radius of the city, and you know more of them than you think you do. Several of them joined you in a group whose contributions started Katharine Lee’s campaign for the presidency.”

And that, Stone thought, is why I am here. Their lunch arrived—a fish soup, followed by poached salmon and a glass of a flinty white wine.

“You’re going to the inauguration, of course,” Salton said.

“Of course.”

“Will you be staying at the White House?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to impose on the Lees at such a frenetic time for them. I’ll be at the Hay-Adams Hotel.” He didn’t mention that he had declined an invitation to stay at the White House because his date was his friend Holly Barker, who ran the New York station of the CIA. Holly had felt it was inappropriate for her to stay there because of her position.

“My wife and I would be delighted to have you stay with us at our home in Georgetown,” Salton said.

“That’s very kind of you, but there will be four in my party.”

“Then perhaps you, your companion, and the Bacchettis would be our guests for a buffet dinner before the Inaugural Ball?”

“We’d be delighted,” Stone said. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Salton spoke up. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m not pumping you for more information about yourself, but you see, I already know a great deal about you—your background, parentage, education, police service, and law practice. There are at least a couple of members here whose fat you pulled from the fire during your early career.”

Stone laughed. “I used to do quite a lot of that,” he said.

“And you did it well and discreetly,” Salton replied. “I admire that.”

“I know a fair amount about you, too,” Stone said. “You’re that rare person whose first public office was the United States Senate. I liked, when you first ran, that you didn’t seem to scramble for the seat.”

“Oh, I consumed my share of rubber chicken,” Salton said, “but my way was eased somewhat by members of this club.”

The waiter returned to take their dishes.

“Would you like dessert?” Salton asked.

“Thank you, no.”

The waiter came back and poured coffee. Shortly another man in a black suit and green tie entered and handed Salton an envelope, then departed.

Salton opened the envelope, took out a sheet of stationery, and read what was written on it. He tucked the paper into his inside pocket. “Congratulations,” he said. “You have been elected to membership, as has Michael Freeman.”

Stone blinked. “Do you mean that Dino Bacchetti was already a member?”

“Dino was your co-proposer, as was Bill Eggers. You mustn’t blame them for not telling you. Another of our unwritten rules is that we may not tell any non-member that we belong, or even confirm that the association exists.”

Stone laughed. “I’ll blame them anyway.”

“This is how it works: for a year you will not receive a bill from the group. After that, you’ll be billed annually for a sum that is the cost of our previous year’s operating expenses, divided by the number of members, plus a sum—usually around ten percent—to account for inflation and new expenses. Occasionally, the board will authorize an assessment to cover some large expense—a new roof, renovation, et cetera. There is no initiation fee. If you do not receive a bill on the first day of your thirteenth month of membership, then enough of the membership will have thought ill of you to cancel it, and no more will be said.”

“How often does that happen?” Stone asked.

“Rarely. There have not been more than two such cases in any year.”

“How long has the club existed?”

“Since 1789,” Salton replied, “more than a century in this building, which was purpose-built from a rough plan drawn by Thomas Jefferson, who was a member, along with Washington and Benjamin Franklin. Now, come, and I’ll give you a tour of the house.”

SALTON LED
the way to the stairs. “We’ll walk down,” he said. “By the way, there’s a lovely roof garden above us, but it won’t open until spring.” They didn’t pause at the fourth floor. “There are some rooms here, which are sometimes used by out-of-town members—or members who have found their domestic arrangements temporarily inhospitable.”

“Are there women members?”

“About twenty percent of us,” Salton said, “and the number is growing. Kate Lee is among them, elected many years ago, as is our future first gentleman.”

They came to the dining room, which, at that hour, was thinly populated. Stone spotted a couple of familiar faces there, lingering over coffee.

Another floor down and they entered the most beautiful library Stone had ever seen, paneled in American walnut with white accents and two stories of bound volumes. “We have a very fine collection of American history,” Salton said, “including some volumes from Jefferson’s library.” They continued past the first floor and emerged into a garage, albeit a very elegant one.

“I didn’t notice the garage door when I entered,” Stone said.

“The garage extends into the building next door, where our administrative staff are located and which provides the entry for cars. We find it convenient, because driving in means that members won’t be seen to come and go so often. We wouldn’t like to encourage curiosity.” They approached a slightly stretched Lincoln town car, where a chauffeur stood with the rear door open. “Come,” Salton said, “I’ll give you a lift home.”

They got into the car, and Stone found it had a non-standard interior of tan Nappa leather and burled walnut.

“I can’t be seen in a Bentley or a Mercedes,” Salton explained, “so I bought an old town car and had it renovated. There are so many in the city, no one notices.”

They drove up a ramp to street level, and Stone noticed that there were two garage doors: one closed behind them before the other opened to the street. Now,
that
was discreet, he thought.

“The building is open twenty-four hours a day,” Salton said, handing him a gold key. “This will get you in between midnight and six
AM
, should you feel the need for a quiet drink or just to remove yourself from the world for a few hours.” He reached into a compartment, withdrew a handsome envelope, and handed it to Stone. “This will tell you something of our history and perhaps mention a few of those unwritten rules. If you wish to bring a guest, call the front desk and book a dining room on the fifth floor. It’s a privilege best used rarely.”

The Lincoln drew up at Stone’s front door. “Would you like to come in for another cup of coffee?” Stone asked.

“I’d love to another time, but I’m expected downtown for a meeting,” Salton said. He handed Stone a card. “Here are my private numbers in both New York and Washington, along with my Georgetown address. Drinks at six on Inauguration Day, dinner early. If you decide you won’t attend the ball, there’ll be entertainment at the house.”

“Thank you, Senator,” Stone said, shaking his hand.

“From now on it’s Ev,” Salton replied. “We’re very happy to have you among our number.”

“I look forward to it,” Stone said. He got out of the car, and it drove away. He entered the house through his office door.

“Good afternoon,” his secretary, Joan, said as he walked past her office. “Would you like your messages, or would you prefer a nap?”

Stone took the pink slips from her hand. “I’m wide awake, thank you.” He handed Joan the senator’s card. “Put all these numbers into the system, please.” The system would populate his iPad and his iPhone, as well.

“Oh, was he your lunch date?”

“He was.”

“He’s such a handsome man,” she said. “And so well spoken.”

“He’s all of that and more,” Stone said, and went into his office. Dino’s call was first. He dialed the private number.

“Hello, new boy,” he said.

“You son of a bitch,” Stone said. “You never said a word about it.”

“That’s because I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Dino replied, “when it’s desirable to do so. You should work on that.”

“How long have you been a member?”

“I guess that’s not classified: since shortly before I made commissioner. By the way, I was having lunch with Mike Freeman next door, while you and Ev were talking. He’s very pleased to be among us.”

“So am I,” Stone said.

“It’s a good place to lunch when you’re alone,” Dino said. “There’s a big table where the stags sit. You’ll meet some interesting people.”

“That’s good to know. Ev didn’t mention it.”

“There’s too much to mention in one lunch. Did you like the guy?”

“Very much. He seemed very like what I thought he’d be. He invited us all to dinner inaugural night.”

“I know.”

“Tell me, Dino, have you been much put upon for favors from other members?”

“Hardly ever,” Dino said. “That’s frowned upon, unless a member has invited you to call upon him. I try not to offer that courtesy to many people. Listen, I gotta run—speaking date.”

“Talk to you later.”

His next call was to Holly Barker.

“Well, hi there,” she said. “Are we still on for the inaugural?”

“You bet your sweet ass we are. And you should wear that green dress you bought in Paris. It’s perfect for a ball.”

“How’d you guess?”

“Oh, and we have a dinner invitation before the ball: Senator and Mrs. Everett Salton, at their house in Georgetown.”

“That sounds very grand.”

“It should be.”

“I have some news, but I’m sitting on it until we’re in D.C.,” she said.

“You’re being secretive.”

“I’m secretive for a living, remember?”

“Well, there is that.”

“I’ll send Fred to pick you up: Home or office?”

“What time?”

“Ten
AM
?”

“Oh, home, I guess. How much luggage can I bring?”

“As much as you need, and not a bit more.”

“Oh, shoot, I wanted to bring a selection of things.”

“Select before you pack.”

“If I have to.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Stone hung up and made his other calls. Finally, he got to Pat Frank and dialed the number she had left.

“Hello?”

“It’s Stone.”

“How was your lunch?”

“Very interesting. First time I’ve had lunch with a senator. How was your move-in?”

“Not bad. I had the movers take everything out of the boxes and then take them away. I’m already half done with putting things away. When do you leave for Washington?” He had told her about the trip.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Need a copilot?”

“I’ve got to fly the thing alone sometime—when better than when a thousand other private airplanes are simultaneously diving on the capital?”

“Try not to bump into any.”

“You betcha. I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll call you.”

“You’ll be only one of a hundred clients by then.”

“Yeah, but I’ll still be the first, and deserving of special attention.”

“And special attention you will get.”

He hung up laughing.