Free D.C. Dead by Stuart Woods

What’s in these olives?”
    “Anchovies,” Stone said. “I didn’t want to tell you before you tasted one. Lots of people blanch at the thought of anchovies.”
    “A perfect combination,” she said. “It’s fairly cool tonight, let’s sit on your terrace.”
    Stone opened the door and followed her outside. She leaned against the railing and looked toward the White House. “Much of what happens in the world starts there,” she said. “It never ceases to amaze me how well our government works.”
    “Sometimes,” Stone said.
    “A lot of the time, because the government is full of people like me who love the country and want it to do well.”
    “Does the Agency work well?”
    “Again, a lot of the time. We probably make more mistakes than a lot of government agencies, but then we’re working in a world that’s full of surprises.”
    “Isn’t it the Agency’s job to figure out what the surprises are before they happen?”
    “Then they wouldn’t be surprises,” she said. “Lance and I do the presidential intelligence briefings when Kate is away, and we’re always able to warn him about two or three things that are about to happen.”
    “And then,” Stone pointed out, “the Soviet Union collapses and Egypt erupts, and the Agency didn’t predict those.”
    “The big ones are harder to predict than you’d think. We get more than our fair share right.”
    “I won’t argue the point,” Stone said.
    “You’d better not, if you want hot sex tonight.”
    “This is my mouth closing,” Stone said, making a zipping motion.
    Holly tossed off her martini and popped the last olive into her mouth. “I’m hungry,” she said, “and you have to feed me more than olives.”
    “Where are we dining?” Stone asked.
    “At an old D.C. favorite,” she replied. “Maison Blanche, next door to the White House, where the old guard goes, and some of the new guard, too. You’ll see movers and shakers.”
    Stone drained his glass. “One more of these and I’ll be unable to either move or shake. I hope you’re driving.”
    “We’re being driven,” she said, “courtesy of the Agency. There’s a little flap on, and we’re battening a few hatches, just in case, and mine is one of the hatches.”
    “I place myself entirely in your hands,” Stone said, “except that I’m still buying dinner.”
    “You talked me into it,” she said, heading for the door.
    They took the elevator to the lobby and walked out to the portico, where the usual black SUV awaited.

    “I’m going to ham iv width=ve to give you a leg up,” Stone said, “what with the tight dress.”
    “I’ll manage,” she said, “and remember, don’t talk shop in front of the driver—not your shop or mine.”
    “Didn’t I already shut up?” Stone asked, opening the door for her.

17
     
    THE RESTAURANT WAS NOT SMALL, BUT INTIMATE NONETHELESS. They were seated at a banquette, back-to-back with another. “I’m surprised that the place is so full at this early hour,” Stone said.
    “Washington, like L.A., is an early town, because everybody goes to work at the break of dawn,” Holly said.
    Stone ordered a second drink for them, and they relaxed. He was vaguely aware of some people being seated behind them, but his attention was on Holly. “I like you with your hair up,” he said. “You have a lovely neck.” He leaned over and kissed it.
    “Careful,” she said, “you’ll attract attention.”
    “I’m sorry, I forgot we were being discreet. I guess that rules out what I was going to do with my hand.”
    “Do it later,” she said. “Look across the room: see the man squeezed into the booth with that distinguished-looking couple? His name is Lyle ‘Scooter’ Hardin. He’s a social columnist, has a blog. He’ll work the room, then move on to Georgetown, and everyone will see their name online tomorrow morning.”
    As Stone watched, the man left the booth and crossed the room, headed directly for them.
    “Watch