55
T
he three of them sat at dinner, prepared by Seth’s wife, Mary, eating quietly. Mike Freeman’s reticence seemed to affect them all.
“Did you call all your clients?” Stone asked him, in an effort at conversation.
“Just about,” Freeman replied.
“How are they taking it?”
“Shock, mostly.”
“Did you tell them he was murdered?”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Freeman replied. “It’s probably already on the evening news.”
Stone polished off his wine and set down the glass. “Let’s go find out,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s almost six-thirty.”
He led Freeman and Felicity into the living room and switched on the lights and the big flat-screen TV.
“Earlier today,” the anchorman was saying, “James Hackett, the head of the worldwide security firm Strategic Services, was shot to death by a sniper at a friend’s home on an island in Maine.”
There followed an interview with Captain Scott Smith. “We have no suspects at this time,” he said, “but the case bears the earmarks of a professional killing.”
They watched as various experts were interviewed. All suggested a contract murder. The news show moved on to other stories.
Freeman turned to Felicity. “What about you?” he asked. “Any idea who might be responsible for this?”
“Listen,” Stone said, pointing at the TV.
“This breaking news just in,” the anchorman said. “A London newspaper is reporting that the director of MI6, the British foreign intelligence service, is charging that Foreign Minister Douglas Palmer and Home Secretary Eric Prior are jointly complicit in the murder of James Hackett. The paper goes on to say that Palmer and Prior believed that Hackett was a former MI6 agent named Stanley Whitestone, who disappeared twelve years ago, and that the two cabinet ministers held him responsible for the deaths of Palmer’s daughter and Prior’s son at that time. We hope to have more on this before the program’s end.”
Felicity turned toward Stone. “Can I get to your fax machine in Dick’s office?” she asked. “It’s late in London; I may have something by now.”
Stone unlocked his cousin’s little office. Felicity went to the fax machine and came back with a couple of sheets of paper. The headline screamed:
FOREIGN MINISTER AND HOME SECRETARY BLAMED BY MI6 IN MURDER OF U.S. SECURITY FIRM CHIEF
Felicity handed the other sheet to Freeman.
Freeman read it. “And I thought Jim was being paranoid,” he said. “He predicted what would happen.”
Stone spoke up. “You mean, when he told you about this you didn’t believe him?”
“Jim had a way of drawing worst-case implications from any problem,” Freeman said. “It worked for him in business a lot of the time, but I’ll admit, this sounded a bit far-fetched to me. Obviously, I was wrong.”
“You can take some comfort in the fact that he acted on his instincts by coming up here,” Stone said. “Have you any idea how the assassin might have located him?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Freeman said. “How did he contact you and ask you to come up here?”
“He gave me a prototype of a phone scrambler your people are working on,” Stone replied. “I got a call from him last night.”
“Then that has to be it,” Freeman said.
“You mean a scrambled message was intercepted? Didn’t the thing work?”
“It worked between landlines and landlines,” Freeman replied, “but I just learned this morning that some cell towers have not yet been equipped with the requisite electronics to scramble every call when one end of the conversation is from a cell phone.”
“But how could they intercept a cell phone call from up here? They wouldn’t have known where it was.”
“They could intercept it from your phone,” Freeman said.
“Remember,” Felicity interjected, “the foreign secretary knew you were in touch with Hackett.”
Freeman looked at Stone. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Felicity spoke up. “I hired Stone to help find Stanley Whitestone,” she said.
“Was Jim Whitestone?” Stone asked.
Freeman shook his head. “I don’t know. If he was, he never confirmed it to me.”
“Tell me,” Stone said, “if Jim were Whitestone, would he have had the resources to establish an identity as Hackett twelve years ago?”
“Yes, but he would have had to establish that identity longer ago than that. Still, he could have done it.”
Felicity went to the bar and poured herself a brandy, then went and stood at the window, looking out on the harbor. A big moon was rising as the sun set, illuminating the boats at their moorings.
There was a slapping noise, and Felicity emitted an involuntary shout and fell to the floor.
Stone dove for the light switch, and the room went dark. He crawled across the floor past Freeman to where Felicity lay and turned her over.
“I’m all right,” she said. “What was that? There was this noise right in front of me.”
Freeman spoke up. “I can see from here,” he said. “The window is broken, but it didn’t shatter.”
Stone crawled out of the living room and found a flashlight in a kitchen drawer. He got down and crawled back to Felicity, then played the light on the broken window. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “There’s a bullet stuck in the glass.”
“Impossible,” Freeman said.
“No, all the glass in this house is armored. The CIA installed it when Dick was building the house.” He held the light steady, so Freeman and Felicity could see.
“Well, thank God for the CIA!” Felicity said.
Stone got out his cell phone and called Captain Scott Smith’s office and was transferred to his cell.
“Captain Scott Smith,” he said.
“Captain, it’s Stone Barrington. Our assassin is still out there; he just took a shot at my house. Fortunately, the armored glass stopped the bullet.”
“I’ll get a chopper over there right away,” Smith said.
“Hang on,” Stone said. He crawled to the back door and opened it. The sound of a boat’s engine could be heard leaving the harbor. He looked outside. “Captain, there’s a boat leaving the harbor right now. It’s just turning the point, headed south. It’s not wearing any nav lights.”
“We’re on it,” the captain said. “I’ll call you if we have any luck.” He hung up.
Stone stood up. “I think we’re all right now,” he said, helping up Felicity, who was still clutching her glass of brandy. “You didn’t spill a drop,” he said.
“Well,” she replied, “it’s awfully good brandy.”
56
I
t was past midnight by the time the state police had cleared the house. “You folks had better get some sleep,” Captain Scott Smith said as he left.
Stone shook his hand and closed the door behind him. “How is everyone?” he asked.
“Wide awake,” Felicity replied.
“I’m wired,” said Freeman.
“I’m not sure this is over,” Stone said. “Why don’t we get out of here right now and fly to Teterboro?”
“I’ll pack,” Felicity said.
“I’ll arrange a car to meet us,” Freeman said. “And I think you two should stay again at our company suite at the Plaza.”
“That’s good for me,” Stone said.
LESS THAN AN
hour later Stone taxied to the end of the short Islesboro runway. He switched on the pitot heat, centered the heading bug and turned on the landing light and strobes.
“Want me to call the speeds for you?” Freeman asked. He was in the copilot’s seat, while Felicity sat in the rear of the airplane.
“Please do,” Stone replied. He set the takeoff speeds so that they would appear next to the airspeed tape on the primary flight display, then he stood on the brakes and shoved the throttles all the way forward to the takeoff detent. The ribbons on the power display rose and stopped at full power. Stone released the brakes, and the airplane leapt forward.
“Airspeed’s alive,” Freeman said. “Seventy knots. V1, rotate!” Stone put both hands on the yoke and pulled it sharply back, and the Mustang began to climb.
“That is a very short runway,” Freeman breathed.
At 700 feet Stone pulled the throttles back to the climb detent, switched on the autopilot and turned the heading bug to the southwest. Then he went into the flight plan and tuned in ENE—Kennebunk—their first waypoint, pressed direct, enter, enter and NAV on the autopilot. The airplane picked up the GPS heading for Kennebunk, and they climbed at 3,000 feet per minute into the cool Maine night.
At flight level 330, 33,000 feet, Stone let the airplane gain some airspeed, then pulled the throttles back to the cruise detent. There was nothing more to do until they picked up the Automated Traffic Advisory Service, ATIS, at Teterboro.
“Are you enjoying flying the Mustang?” Freeman asked.
“I am,” Stone said.
“Then continue to use it whenever you like,” Freeman replied.
“Did Jim plan for a succession?” Stone asked.
“He did. The documents are signed and in the safe in his office. I’ll present them to the board in a few days, but as of right now, I’m CEO, and it will stay that way.”
“What about you?” Stone asked. “Do you have a succession plan?”
Freeman chuckled. “So soon?”
“As I said, I don’t think we’re out of this yet.”
“There are a couple of younger men, one in London, the other in Johannesburg, who’ll be competing for the COO slot.”
“How long have you been with Strategic Services?” Stone asked.
“Just passed the ten-year mark,” Freeman replied.
“How did you happen to come aboard?”
“Jim hired me to work out of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I had spent some time out there, and I had the language.”
A little bell went off in Stone’s brain, and he remembered the last thing Jim Hackett had said to him before he was shot. “Except for that business about the Somersville churchyard,” Hackett had said, “I never lied to you about anything.”
Stone looked over his shoulder. The moonlight that was coming through a window illuminated Felicity, fast asleep in her comfortable seat, a cashmere blanket over her. He took a deep breath. “I remember now,” he said. “Jim told me about how Lord Wight recommended a man to him, someone with experience in North Africa and the Middle East.”
“Yes, that’s how I found my way to Jim,” Freeman said.
Stone turned and looked at Freeman. “And he told me the man’s name.” He saw Freeman wince. “Stanley Whitestone, I presume.”
Freeman’s shoulders sagged. “Can Felicity hear us on the intercom?” he asked.
“No, she’s not wearing a headset,” Stone replied, “and she’s asleep.”
Freeman sighed. “I thought that, with Jim’s death, I’d be safe. I should have known that someone would figure it out. I’m sorry it was you, Stone.”
“So you arranged Jim’s death?”
Freeman turned to face him. “I most certainly did not! My, God, I loved the man!”
Stone shrugged. “I had to ask.”
“Does Felicity believe that Jim was Whitestone?”
“Pretty much,” Stone said.
“Are you under some ethical obligation to tell her the truth?”
“I’m no longer employed by her service,” Stone said. “She paid me off and fired me the day before yesterday.”
“I think it might be best for everyone if she continued to believe what she believes,” Freeman said.
Stone thought about that for a few minutes as they moved through the night at 400 miles an hour. Finally, he spoke. “I concur,” he said.
They flew along for another ten minutes without talking. Stone wondered if Freeman had fallen asleep, but then he stirred.
“Since we don’t know what’s waiting for us in New York,” Freeman said, “I think we have to get Felicity back to London, and quietly.”
Stone thought about it. “Once again, I concur. How are we going to get her home quietly?”
“Leave that to me,” Freeman said. “I think it would be best if you accompanied her.”
“I can do that,” Stone said.
“Have her ready to go tomorrow night. You’ll be picked up at nine at the Plaza. Someone will call your suite and ask if the package is ready for pickup. You reply, ‘Not until tomorrow at noon.’ He’ll give you instructions.”
Eighty miles out of Teterboro, Stone tuned in the ATIS and jotted down the information. He loaded the Instrument Landing System for runway 19, and as soon as he was handed off from Boston Center to New York Approach and got his first vector, he activated the approach. He got graduated instructions to descend to 3,000 feet and was cleared for the approach. His was the only airplane on the air at that time of night.
The Mustang’s autopilot flew the airplane down the ILS, and Stone made one of his better landings. Shortly, they were in a Mercedes headed for Manhattan and the Plaza.
57
S
tone woke a little after nine and ordered breakfast sent to the suite’s living room, leaving Felicity to sleep. He showered, shaved and dressed, then went downstairs and got a taxi.
He was dropped off in the block behind his house and entered the Turtle Bay Gardens through the rear entrance, then walked to his own back door and let himself into the kitchen. Helene was surprised to see him. “I think Miss Joan has someone waiting to see you,” she said.
Stone grabbed a mug of coffee and went into his office. Joan buzzed him immediately. She always seemed to know when he was there. He pressed the button.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“There’s a Mr. Smith to see you,” she said.
“Send him in.” Stone wondered what Captain Scott Smith was doing in New York.
“I’m going to the bank,” Joan said. “Be back in a few minutes.”
Stone was about to reply when his office door opened, and to his surprise, the little gray man from Felicity’s office walked into the room, closed the door behind him and leaned on it. “Oh, you’re
that
Mr. Smith,” Stone said.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Where is who?” Stone asked back.
“Dame Felicity. Where is she?”
“She checked out of here the day before yesterday,” Stone replied, “and she didn’t leave a forwarding address. I assumed she’d gone back to London.”
Smith unbuttoned his jacket and introduced a Walther .380 to the conversation. It was equipped with a silencer. “I’ll ask you just once more,” Smith said quietly, “and if I don’t get a satisfactory answer I will shoot you in the head.”