D.C. Dead (Stone Barrington 22)

“How much are you paying for this?” Dino asked.

“I don’t want to know,” Stone said. “I never again want to know how much anything costs.”

“Let’s keep this gig going as long as we can,” Dino said. “How about some lunch on our terrace?”

They ordered from room service and were soon sitting on their terrace, allowing the air-conditioning to waft through the French doors to combat the August heat in Washington. They ate, and stared at the White House.

“There are people on the roof,” Stone said.

“Well-armed people, no doubt,” Dino replied, popping a French fry into his mouth. “And I’ll bet those box things conceal ground-to-air missiles.”

“Don’t do anything threatening,” Stone said. “They could put one right through the French doors.”

“You still have no idea why we’re here?” Dino asked.

“I haven’t received any messages from the ether,” Stone replied.

STONE WAS STRETCHED OUT on his bed, watching MSNBC on the large flat-screen TV, when the bellman returned with his clothes and hung them in the closet.

“I hope you’ll be very comfortable here,” the man said, doing the bellman shuffle.

Stone gave him a twenty. “We’ll struggle through,” he said.

“Just let me know if you need anything at all, Mr. Barrington.” The man left, taking the room service table with him.

Stone drifted off, and Holly came into his head. He was caressing her ass when Dino rapped on the doorjamb.

“We’re due over at the neighbors’ house in an hour,” he said. “You’d better shake your ass.”

Stone reflected that that was what Holly had been doing when he had last imagined her. “Right,” he said, putting his feet on the floor. “I’ll grab a shower.” He did so, freshened his shave, and got into clean clothes.

THE VALET BROUGHT THE SUV under the hotel portico, and Stone walked around it once. The license plate contained only a four-digit number, 4340, and there were no manufacturer’s badges on the car, just black paint. He checked out the door locks as he got into the passenger seat. “All the locks are beefy,” he said as Dino got in. “And I’d be willing to bet that this is one of Mike Newman’s armored vehicles. The Agency is one of his clients.” Mike Newman was the CEO of Strategic Services, Stone’s biggest client, on whose board he served.

“That makes me nervous,” Dino said, closing his door. He looked at the key in his hand and pressed a button on it. The car started. “That makes me nervous, too. You think they think somebody’s going to shoot at us or put a bomb in the car?”

“It’s the CIA, Dino,” Stone replied. “It’s probably all they had.”

They made their way to Pennsylvania Avenue. “Which gate do we use?” Dino asked.

“There,” Stone said, pointing. “That’s the one you see in the movies all the time.”

Dino swung into the drive and stoppiv>ve and ed at the gate. Two uniformed officers wearing Secret Service badges approached, one on each side. Stone and Dino presented their White House IDs.

“Names?” an officer asked.

“Barrington and Bacchetti,” Dino replied. “Sounds like a delicatessen, doesn’t it?”

The officer maintained a stone face as he checked a clipboard. “Right, Mr. Barrington,” he said.

“Bacchetti,” Dino corrected him.

“Right. Straight ahead, under the portico. Somebody will meet you.”

The gate opened and Dino drove through.

“Slowly,” Stone said. “I want to take this in.”

“It’s not our first time here, you know.” They had attended a White House dinner a couple of years before.