Dirt

Stuart Woods
     
The second book in the Stone Barrington series
Copyright © 1996 by Stuart Woods
     
     
This book is for David and Lynn Kaufelt
     
     
     
Chapter 1
     
    Dinner had been wonderful — twelve around a gleaming oval table of burled walnut in a dining room a dozen stories above the light-flecked carpet of Central Park, the cooking by the chef of a famous restaurant a few blocks away, the wines from the host’s superb cellar, and the company carefully chosen by a couple who could cast a wide net. Amanda Dart felt quite at home among them.
    As they moved from the table into the library next door for coffee and brandy, Amanda reflected that her presence there was as much a tribute to her position as to her personality, though she could certainly hold her own in any company. Of those present — a movie star and his gorgeous companion, a captain of industry and his dowdy wife, and a former British prime minister, her dinner partner, among them — Amanda alone possessed the power to tell the world just who her hosts had attracted to their table, something the couple wanted very badly for the world to know. It was vulgar to drop names; Amanda Dart, queen of gossip columnists, would do the dropping for them.
    Lord Wight, the former prime minister, was taking a keen interest in Amanda, attention that, on another night, would have been a great deal more interesting for her. Tonight, however, she had other plans, other company in mind, and the thought made for a weak feeling in her crotch.
    “I chose my title from the island of my birth,” Lord Wight was saying.
    “Oh, yes, the Isle of Wight,” Amanda said, returning his serve. “I believe the town of Cowes there is the capital of British yachting.” Point made.
    “The capital of
European
yachting,” his lordship replied.
    “And that’s where you sail your little yacht?”
    “Actually, it’s quite a large yacht,” Wight replied testily. “And I don’t just sail it, I
race
it.”
    “Tell me, Lord Wight,” Amanda asked innocently, “just how does someone amass enough of a fortune to buy a
large
yacht during a lifetime of public service?”
    “Fortunately, my dear lady,” Wight said, smiling softly, “in my country the amassing of a fortune is not incompatible with a life in politics. One acquires knowledgeable friends who advise one on how to invest one’s money.” Amanda winked at him. “One understands,” she said.
    Her hostess joined them. “Amanda, dear,” she said, “you made me promise to tell you when it was midnight, and it is. You’re catching a plane?”
    “To St. Bart’s,” Amanda said, moving forward in her seat in preparation for standing.
    “Surely there’s no plane out of Kennedy at this hour,” Wight said, consulting a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. “They do have noise regulations, don’t they?”
    “Not at Teterboro,” Amanda replied. “One is fortunate enough to have friends with jets.” She stood up, bringing Lord Wight with her.
    “My dear,” he was saying, “I do hope I can see you when I’m next in New York.”
    “Of course, Lord Wight,” Amanda replied, fishing in her little clutch purse for a card. “I would be delighted to hear from you.”
Any night but tonight,
she thought.
    She made her good-byes, collected her coat from the butler, and slipped out of the huge apartment.
    Downstairs, her trusty driver, Paul, and her elderly Cadillac were waiting. Amanda slipped into the back seat, and in a moment they were moving. “The Trent, Paul,” she said.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Paul replied.
    It was Amanda’s fiftieth birthday, though no one knew it; she was in spectacular shape, her firm body the product of a regular program with a trainer in her own little gym. Amanda allowed no other person to see her perspire. She placed two fingers on her carotid artery and glanced at her watch. Her resting pulse was normally forty-five; tonight, it was seventy.
    Amanda lived her life in very public view, and she took great care in how she presented herself to her world. Although of a deeply sensual nature, she was known as something of an ice queen, and she was quite happy to keep it that way. Her sexual alliances were few, but athletically maintained, with men who were always wealthy, off her beaten track, very discreet, and usually younger than she. Tonight and for the weekend, she would see her very favorite, a real estate developer from Atlanta named Henry Bell, who made it to New York no more