by Stuart Woods
“I hardly know the airplane,” she said.
“Shhh, I have to concentrate now.”
“Please do,” she muttered.
As Stone cleared the treetops near the end of the runway, he pulled the throttles back to idle and aimed just under the numbers. The little jet settled onto the paved strip, and Stone deployed the speedbrakes and stood hard on the brakes, which were excellent. They turned off the runway and taxied to a parking spot.
“May I open my eyes now?” Felicity asked.
“Of course,” Stone said. “We had about seven hundred feet to spare when we turned off the runway.”
“I suppose you’re very pleased with yourself,” she said.
“I am,” he replied, setting the parking brake and working through the shutdown checklist. He turned off the last switch, got out of his seat, opened the door and deployed the little set of stairs. A man stood outside the door, and Stone handed him his briefcase. “Hello, Seth,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. Seth Hotchkiss was the caretaker of the Stone property, and he drove a 1938 Ford station wagon, beautifully restored.
“Hello, Mr. Stone,” Seth replied. “You have a new airplane, I see.”
“I’m afraid it’s only borrowed,” Stone replied, unlocking and opening the forward luggage compartment.
Felicity appeared at the airplane’s door. “Is there actual earth I can set foot on?” she asked.
“No, there’s just tarmac,” Stone replied, taking her hand. “Seth, this is Felicity Devonshire.” The two shook hands.
He put the engine plugs in place, the pitot covers on, and switched off the airplane’s battery to preserve its charge.
TEN MINUTES LATER they were at the house, a handsome and roomy shingle-style home, and Seth’s wife was giving Felicity the tour. Stone dug a card from his pocket and called an extension at state police headquarters in Augusta.
“Captain Scott Smith,” a deep voice said.
“Captain, it’s Stone Barrington.” The two had met when Stone was investigating his cousins’ murders.
“Mr. Barrington, how are you? Are you in Maine?”
“I’m well, and I’m on Islesboro.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’ve just flown a friend here from New York. Yesterday she and her driver were attacked outside my house by a woman of my acquaintance wielding a knife. The driver was hurt, and the woman got away, but in the past she has been unusually persistent in finding me.”
The captain asked for her description, and Stone gave it to him. “Tell you what,” the captain said. “I have a regular patrol in the Camden-Lincolnville area. I’ll have the car swing by there whenever the outbound ferry is boarding and keep an eye out for her. They’ll see that nobody matching that description gets on until they’ve contacted you. I assume you’re at the Stone house.”
“That’s correct, and I appreciate it, Captain.”
“Glad to be of help.”
Stone hung up as Felicity entered the room. He unlocked Dick’s little office and showed her the room, with its computers and other equipment.
“This will do nicely,” Felicity said, taking a seat at the desk. “Now, if you’ll give me an hour or so, I’ll start letting my people know I’m still alive.” She looked at him over her reading glasses. “I hope the takeoff will be less exciting than the landing,” she said.
39
Felicity was taking a nap when the phone rang, and Stone picked it up. Must be a wrong number, he thought. Nobody knew he was at this number in Maine. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Jim Hackett.”
Stone was stunned. How on earth had he been found? “Hello, Jim. This is quite a surprise. I’m at what Dick Cheney used to call ‘an undisclosed location.’ ”
“You’re at Dick Stone’s house on Islesboro,” Hackett said. “Did you think I wouldn’t have a locator on my airplane?”
“I should have known,” Stone said.
“I have a satellite photograph of it on the ramp at Islesboro, too. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your type rating,” Hackett said. “Dan Phelan was impressed with your ability to learn quickly, and so am I. Frankly, I thought it would take you at least another week to pass your check ride. And congratulations on your landing in Islesboro; I wouldn’t have attempted that.”
“It’s an easy airplane to fly, once you know the avionics,” Stone said.
“You’re too modest. Are you and Dame Felicity all right?”
“I’m very well,” Stone replied. He wasn’t going to play that game.
“I understand your former wife took exception to Dame Felicity’s presence in your life.”
“How do you come up with this stuff?” Stone asked, baffled.
“Stone, give me a little credit,” Hackett replied. “I own one of the largest private security firms in the world; I have access to all sorts of information.”
“I’m impressed,” Stone said.
“Does Dame Felicity still think I’m Stanley Whitestone?”
“I can’t tell you what she thinks.”
“I understand she’s having some difficulty verifying my identity,” Hackett said. “I would have thought my fingerprints would have helped, but you’ll get a package tomorrow that may help.”
“A package of what?” Stone asked.
“Hang on.” Hackett began a muffled conversation with someone else in the room and then came back on the phone. “I have to run,” he said. “Stay in Maine with the airplane for as long as you like. If you need to contact me, call Heather Finch at my office, and she can patch you through to wherever I am.”
“Where are you?” Stone asked, but Hackett had already hung up.
THEY DINED AT the Dark Harbor Inn, a handsome house on the outskirts of the village. There were only two other couples in the dining room, and neither of them, Stone thought, looked like anyone who would be surveilling them.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Felicity said.
“What?”
“About our fellow diners. I shouldn’t worry; no one has any idea where we are, except my office in London, not even the ambassador.”
“I’m afraid that’s not so,” Stone said.
“What? You told someone where we were going?”
“Only Joan, and she’s completely trustworthy.”
“Who else could know, then?”
“While you were napping I had a phone call on the house phone from Jim Hackett.”
Felicity nearly choked on her Rob Roy. “Then we’re blown?”
“Not exactly; the airplane is blown. Jim has a locator on it, and he knew about the house. I told him about it when we visited his place on Mount Desert Island.”
“My God,” she said, “if Hackett knows where we are, then what’s the point in coming up here?”
“To keep Dolce from killing you,” Stone said. “Remember?”
“Well, there is that, but if Hackett can find us, maybe she can, too.”
“She is not acquainted with Hackett, and she doesn’t have the resources to find us. She doesn’t even know of the existence of the house here.”
“Well, if Hackett knows, then Stanley Whitestone knows.”
“We don’t know that Hackett is Whitestone, but I have to tell you I have underestimated Jim Hackett. He knows of your people’s difficulties in confirming his identity. He knew that you were running his fingerprints.”
“That’s impossible.”
“He told me he’s sending a package that will be here tomorrow that will be helpful.”
“How could he possibly get a package here tomorrow?”
“That part is easy; Federal Express delivers five days a week.”
“He told you he was going to help confirm his identity?”
“I’ve told you exactly what he said. After all, as he pointed out, he owns one of the largest private security companies in the world; he has access to all sorts of information.”
“He knows too much,” Felicity said. �
��If he knows about my running his prints, then there’s a leak in my service.”
“From what little I know about him,” Stone said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he has one or more of your people on his payroll and maybe some CIA employees, too, as well as the FBI and the NYPD. He knew about Dolce’s attack on you, and the department is the most likely source of that information.”
“Good God! Next, he’ll have sat shots of us in bed together.”
“I doubt that; Dick’s house was built to be very, very secure. He does, however, have a sat shot of his airplane sitting on the tarmac at the airport here.”
She made a small moaning noise.
“That’s my fault; I could have as easily flown my own airplane, but I wanted to fly the jet.” He managed a rueful grin. “I wanted to impress you with my newly acquired skills.”
She laughed. “Well, you certainly did that with your landing. Frankly, I thought you were mad.”
“No, as part of my training I practiced short-field landings, so I was pretty confident we wouldn’t end up in the trees.”
“I think you’re the most confident man I know,” she said, taking his hand across the table.
“I don’t always feel that way,” he admitted. “Only when I know what I’m doing, which is only some of the time.”
“If you were British, I’d be trying to recruit you, just as Hackett is.”
“You mean, I’d have to be British to be recruited as a spy? You have a very narrow view of the work of espionage, don’t you?”
“Oh, we have an American or two on the payroll, but they’re not on the inside, just as you couldn’t be.”
“It has occurred to me that, if the American government knew what I’m doing for you now, I might be arrested for spying for a foreign government.”
“Should I conceal your payment for this job?” she asked. “I can, easily.”
“Please don’t. I don’t think it’s treason for me to do an investigative task for you, but if you concealed the source of the payment and someone stumbled on that, well…”
“It wouldn’t look good, I suppose.”
“I’ll be sure to declare the income on my tax return, too, and list the source as the Foreign Office.”
“That should put a stop to any inquiry,” she laughed.
THEY DINED ON filet of venison and drank a bottle of a very good Australian Shiraz, then went home and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Stone dreamed that Jim Hackett was downstairs, waiting for them to wake up.
40
They both must have been exhausted, because they slept until nearly noon, showered together, then had a late breakfast that Seth’s wife, Mary, prepared. They had no sooner finished than Felicity headed for Dick Stone’s little office and sat down at the computers while Stone tagged along.
Felicity typed in a few keystrokes and was connected with a security program that demanded her staff number and palm print. She turned toward Stone, who was standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I have work to do.” She reached over and closed the door in his face.
Chastened, Stone went into the living room, sat on the sofa and picked up The New York Times, which had come over on the ferry earlier. The doorbell rang, and Stone got up to answer it. There was a FedEx truck parked in the driveway and a young woman in a FedEx uniform at the door holding a box emblazoned with the company’s logo. “Ms. Felicity Devonshire?” she asked. “I need a signature.”
“I’ll sign for it,” Stone said.
She allowed him to do so and then left.
Stone took the box into the living room and examined it. The sender’s address was a Mount Street, London, number. Stone knew Mount Street, because it was where his tailor’s shop was located, and the Connaught Hotel was just down the street. Should he open it? He thought not; it was addressed to someone else.
He read the Times for an hour and was about to start on the cross-word when Felicity emerged from Dick’s office.
“Everything all right?” Stone asked.
“Pretty much,” she replied. “Is that the package from Hackett?”
“I assume so; it’s from a London address in Mount Street, and it’s addressed to you, so I didn’t open it.”
“That’s very discreet of you,” she said, patting his cheek. “Open it.” Stone pulled the tab, opened the box and shook out a heavy, dun-colored envelope of the sort that British businesses used.
“Open the envelope,” Felicity said, resting her cheek against his shoulder, as if she didn’t want to touch the package.
“You were expecting a bomb, maybe?”
“If I were expecting a bomb, I would be in another room,” she said. “Open it.”
Stone ran a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. A thick, brown file folder fell into her lap.
“Don’t touch it,” she said. “We need latex gloves. I saw some in a drawer in Dick’s office. I’ll get them.” She got up, ran to the office and returned with two pairs. She handed Stone one, and they each pulled theirs on. “Now,” she said, “open the folder.”
Stone opened the folder and was presented with what appeared to be the Royal Army Reserve service record of one James Hewitt Hackett, aged twenty upon enlistment. A photograph of a young man with a very short haircut was stapled to the upper right-hand corner. The photograph, yellowed with age, appeared to be the twenty-year-old Jim Hackett, whose nose had not yet been broken. “Looks like Jim,” Stone said.
“The folder and the paperwork look well aged,” Felicity said. “I’ll have that checked into. Keep turning pages.”
Stone went very slowly through the dossier, finding reports on the initial training of the young Hackett; his marksmanship scores, all of which were at the expert level; his physical training results, which pronounced him fit and fleet; his medical records, including the setting of the broken nose suffered during training, which pronounced him hale; and his annual evaluations by his superiors, which pronounced him of good character and high intelligence. He had been steadily promoted to his final rank of company sergeant, and the dossier included a recommendation that he be sent to Sandhurst and, upon graduation, be commissioned into the Royal Army. The file ended with a copy of a letter from the regimental commander regretting Hackett’s decision to leave the army at the end of his enlistment, imploring him to reconsider and, finally, wishing him well in civilian life.
“That’s quite a record,” Stone said.
“You notice,” Felicity replied, “that this dossier and everything in it appear untouched by water, whereas all the other regimental records lie, sodden, in a warehouse in Kent?”
“That seems to be the case,” Stone admitted.
“So, if the dossier is genuine, it was removed from the regimental records before they were shipped to Kent.”
“Apparently. How long ago were they shipped?”
“That information is as damp as the files themselves,” she replied, “but we estimate the transfer as having taken place about twenty years ago, leaving Sergeant Hackett about a five-year window for the appropriation of his dossier, which is, of course, the property of the Royal Army. He could be done for that.”
“Surely there’s a statute of limitations for such a crime,” Stone said, “which doesn’t seem of any great magnitude.”
“Perhaps there is such a statute, but I assure you, the Royal Army would not look kindly upon such a theft.”
Stone picked up the FedEx box to be sure it was empty and then extracted another, folded FedEx box and a sealed envelope addressed to Dame Felicity. Stone handed her the envelope, but she motioned for him to open it. Stone did so and extracted a letter, which he read aloud:
My Dear Dame Felicity,
I hope the enclosed dossier will be of help to you and your people in your endeavors to ascertain my identity. Perhaps you are wondering if it is genuine? It is. Perhaps you are wondering how I came to possess it? Some years after leaving the regiment I visited its headquarters on Salisbury Plain for luncheon, at the i
nvitation of my former colonel. After a good lunch, during which much wine and port were consumed, the colonel took me into the regimental offices, where many boxes of old records were being packed to be sent for storage. He instructed a corporal who was working there to unearth my dossier, which the young man did with dispatch. We then returned to the colonel’s office, where he read the dossier to me and then presented it to me as a gift, saying that, since I was now an alumnus of the regiment, they would have no further use of it.
Having read it yourself, and no doubt having copied it into your service files, I would be grateful if you would return the dossier to my New York office in the box and with the FedEx waybill provided, since I hold a sentimental attachment for the history.
Cordially,
The letter was signed “Jim.”
“Well, he’s right about one thing,” Felicity said, standing and picking up the dossier. “It’s going to be copied into our files.” She went back into the office and closed the door behind her.
41
They packed a lunch, then walked down Dick Stone’s dock to where two boats awaited them: a Concordia and a Hinckley picnic boat. “Do you sail?” Stone asked.
“A little as a child, but that’s all,” she replied.
“Then we’ll take the picnic boat,” he said, stepping aboard and helping her to follow. He put their lunch in the galley, got the engine started, and Felicity cast them off. They motored slowly past the little Tarrantine Yacht Club and its dock and moorings, then Stone pressed the throttle forward and, with the warm sun on their backs, they ran across the open water of Penobscot Bay to a little cove called Pulpit Harbor, where Stone slowed the thirty-six-foot runabout and, finally, dropped anchor in the sheltered waters. Two other small sailing yachts also were anchored there, but there was room for everyone with privacy to spare.