Collateral Damage (Stone Barrington 25)

“I wanted you all to know that your security forces are working hard and effectively to protect the nation from such plots, and that, once again, we have foiled and weakened al Qaeda. Thank you for your attention and good night.”

The anchorman came back to the screen. “Well, that was a breathtaking announcement,” he said. “Anybody have any thoughts about why the president went public with this?”

“Scott,” the White House correspondent said, “I’m inclined to think that he made the announcement because he thought the story might break anyway, and he wanted to get out in front of it. And that’s just what he has done. I think it’s reassuring that the president seemed so relaxed in saying what he did—not even sitting behind the Oval Office desk. He seemed perfectly comfortable and confident. And I have to say that I can’t remember any time, ever, that a president has promoted a manhunt—or, in this case, a womanhunt—for a fugitive terrorist. I expect they must want her very badly.”

The anchorman nodded. “And I expect that the president’s participation will make it much harder for this terrorist to elude the authorities. Her photograph has already been widely circulated in New York, and the president has just made it impossible for her to feel safe anywhere in the United States. Every law enforcement officer, airline ticket agent, and gas station attendant in the country is going to be checking every face that appears before him, not to mention ordinary citizens who are interested in collecting a five-million-dollar reward.”

Stone switched off the TV. “Well, he was right, it was a breathtaking announcement. I expect Kelli Keane is already on the phone to her editor, dictating her story.”

“No, she isn’t,” Holly said. “The court order permanently enjoined her from ever speaking or writing about the events in L.A., and right this minute, I can assure you, she is wringing her hands and bemoaning her fate.”

“How about Jim Rutledge?”

“He was enjoined as well, and they both took it seriously. I have it on good authority that, after I left their apartment, they swore never to discuss the events with anybody, even with each other.”

“And how could you know that?”

“Let’s just say that there was a witness to their conversation.” She set down her glass. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Let’s go out for some dinner.”

“We’ll celebrate,” Stone said, joining her.

Habib watched from across the street as a man and a woman left the Turtle Bay house and hailed a cab. He sat in a parked black Lincoln Town Car, hundreds of which infested the streets of Manhattan and the suburbs, and many of which could be hailed and taken anywhere. The owner of this particular car rested uneasily in the trunk, bound and gagged, as Habib started the car and fell in behind the taxicab.

The journey led past the black SUV, with government plates, parked in front of the house, around the block to Third Avenue, then uptown, past Bloomingdale’s a block or two, where it stopped and disgorged its passengers into an Italian restaurant called Isle of Capri.

—

Holly looked around as they were seated. “Somehow it feels like an earlier decade,” she said. “Late twentieth century.”

“It’s one of the last family-owned Italian restaurants alive in this city. There are two, maybe three generations at work here.”

The owner came and greeted them and, with their drinks, a waiter brought chunks of Parmigiano-Reggiano, olives, and a jug of extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

“There’s enough here for dinner,” Holly said.

“Think of it as your first course.”

“Is the veal good?” she asked.

“Everything is good,” Stone replied. “Order whatever you feel like.”

“I feel like veal, maybe the piccata.”

“Good choice. I’m having the osso buco, in memory of Elaine.”

“That’s where we would be now, isn’t it? If she were still alive?”

“Certainly. It used to be that we didn’t have to think of a place to dine, we just went to Elaine’s. I went to her memorial service at a concert hall on the West Side last November, and Bill Bratton told a wonderful story about her.”

“Bratton, the former police commissioner under Giuliani?”

“Right—the one Giuliani forced out because he was getting the credit for his own work, which was making New York the safest big city in the world. Giuliani hated that he went to Elaine’s, because Bill’s picture would turn up on Page Six along with a description of what a great job he was doing, and that drove Giuliani crazy.

“Anyway, on Bill’s last day at work, Giuliani stopped by his office and gave him the key to the city. Bill and his wife, Rikki, were headed to Elaine’s for dinner with friends, and Elaine sat down with them and asked what was in the box on the table.

“Bill told her that Giuliani had given him the key to the city. She opened the box, looked at the key, and said, ‘I’ll bet the son of a bitch has already changed the locks!’”

“Oh, that sounds just like her!” Holly said, laughing.