by Stuart Woods
“We’re off,” Stone said to Gala.
“What a relief!”
“He won’t know we’re on this airplane, so he won’t know where we’re going.”
“Wonderful. I think he’s been tracking me with my cell phone, so I went to the Apple store yesterday and had the number changed. Only a few people have the new number.”
“Good move.”
Half an hour later they were at flight level 510—fifty thousand feet—and headed toward the Atlantic. As they leveled off, the captain turned off the seat belt sign, and Mike excused himself. “Gotta go to work,” he said. “We’re having a planning meeting for the opening of the Rome Arrington.”
Stone opened his briefcase and dug into the envelope of paperwork that his secretary, Joan Robertson, had put there for him, next to his new flask. He looked up at Gala, who was already asleep, a light cashmere blanket tucked around her. He checked the moving map display for their routing, which took them over Newfoundland, south of Greenland and Iceland, making landfall in Scotland. From there they would be cleared to the old World War II bomber strip on Stone’s property, near Beaulieu (pronounced “Bewley”), seven thousand feet of well-kept concrete runway. They were flying higher and faster than the airlines, and with a tailwind of more than a hundred knots, their time en route would be only another five hours and change. Stone settled down to work, e-mailing his responses to letters, with a copy to Joan, all handled by the on-board Wi-Fi.
—
They were off the southern tip of Greenland, in severe clear weather, when the flight attendant brought him a cordless phone. “Satphone for you,” she said.
“Hello?”
“It’s Joan.” She sounded breathless.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so. We just had a . . . disturbance here.”
“What kind of disturbance?”
“A man walked through the street door—I hadn’t locked it—and demanded to see you.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know—fiftyish, thick gray hair, some sort of accent.”
“Boris Tirov.”
“If you say so. Who is he?”
“Gala’s ex-husband.”
“Not another one of those. You have a collection.”
“What happened?”
“I told him you were not available, and before I could stop him, he barged into your office. I went after him with my .45.” Joan kept the pistol in a desk drawer. “He was trying to take it away from me when Fred walked in from the garage and saw what was going on. He kicked the guy in a knee, bringing him down, and I got in a lick to his head with the .45. Fred got him in some sort of armlock and hustled him out onto the street, where the guy made a run for a car, as best he could with a sore knee. I called Dino and left it with him.”
“That was exactly the right thing to do,” Stone said. “You and Fred handled yourselves perfectly. I doubt if he’ll come around again, but he does have some muscle at his disposal, so keep the street door locked, and don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”
“I already figured out that part.”
“I hope you didn’t mention where I was.”
“Nope, just that you were unavailable.”
“He’ll probably have somebody keep an eye on the house. If you see anybody suspicious, call Dino. Tirov’s people tend to be big Russian guys with bald heads, though some of them I’ve seen have hair.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Joan?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to shoot anybody, if you can help it. The paperwork would be awful to deal with.”
“And I’d be the one dealing with it?”
“There is that, too.”
“Next time, a heads-up would be nice, if you’re expecting rough visitors.”
“I wasn’t expecting it, and that’s my fault. You and Fred handled it beautifully.”
“Thank you so much. That makes me feel almost human again. That guy scared the shit out of me.”
“I know how that must have been. Tell you what, I’ll get Mike Freeman to station a couple of men over there for a few days.”
“I would really appreciate that. Otherwise, I’d have to make Fred sit in my office all day.”
“Consider it done. You okay now?”
“Much better,” she said. “I might have a little of your bourbon.”
“Feel free—you’ve earned it. Bye.”
“Bye.” They both hung up.
He looked at Gala and found her staring at him. “I think I got the gist of that from your end of the conversation.”
“Good, then I won’t have to repeat myself. You didn’t hear Joan’s description of how she and Fred dealt with Boris. Fred kicked him in the knee, and Joan clipped him with her .45.”
“Clipped him?”
“Hit him in the head. Then Fred threw him into the street.”
“Oh, good.”
“Excuse me a minute, I need to talk with Mike.” He got up and went forward to where the Strategic people were holding their meeting, whispered his request to Mike, and got a quick nod. Mike picked up a telephone and dialed a number.
Stone returned to his seat and found Gala asleep again. Soon, he was asleep himself.
12
The G650 set down on the Windward Hall landing strip in the long English twilight. The crew shut down one engine while Stone, Gala, Bob, and their luggage were taken off, then as they got into the estate’s Range Rover, the engine was restarted and the aircraft took off on its short flight to Le Bourget, Paris.
“Oh, look!” Gala said as the house hove into view. Bob seemed to have pretty much the same reaction, putting his head out the window and barking at the house. All the lights were on, and the place glowed. “It’s so beautiful!” Gala said.
They were settled into the master suite, then went down to the library, where a table had been set for their dinner. They had had only a sandwich on the airplane.
Stone phoned home and got Joan. “Everything all right there?”
“No further disturbance,” Joan said, “and Mike’s people are camped out in my office. We’re happy as clams here.”
“Good. We’re just sitting down to dinner, so I’ll say goodbye.”
Geoffrey, the butler, had left a selection of wines for their dinner; Stone chose one and uncorked it, then decanted it to rid the wine of its sediment. They had a drink before the fire while the wine took a breath.
“It’s another world,” Gala said, looking around, “and one without Boris in it.”
“The best kind.”
Dinner was served, and they enjoyed themselves.
—
The following morning, after a perfect night’s sleep, Stone decided that they should attend the grand opening of the Rome Arrington, a few days hence. At noon he called Pat Frank, who ran the aircraft management service that took care of his airplane, and asked her to have his Citation CJ3 Plus flown to his home in England.
“I can arrange that,” Pat said. “How soon do you need it?”
“A couple of days will be okay, but do something else for me, please.”
“Sure.”
“Have my tail number blocked from the various flight-tracking services.”
“Is someone too interested in your movements?”
“That is the case.”
“I’d better get on that now, then, it takes a day or two to get it done.”
“Tell your pilot he’ll be driven to Heathrow for his flight home.”
“Will do. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.” They both hung up.
“That was easy,” Gala said.
“Everything is easier when you’re organized.”
Stone looked out the window at the sky. “The f
orecast is good for today. How would you like a ride and a picnic lunch?”
“Sounds perfect.”
—
The horses were brought from the stables, and they cantered across the estate, jumped a stone wall, and were on the property next door. “That’s our Arrington country hotel,” Stone said, pointing at the larger house as they rode past. “The two properties together run to something over five hundred acres.”
“What a nice neighbor to have.”
They rode along the Beaulieu River, which was at flood tide, and found a spot for lunch in the shade of some trees. The horses nibbled at the grass while they spread a blanket and unpacked their lunch. Stone opened a bottle of cold Chardonnay, and they lunched on smoked salmon sandwiches and a salad.
“Two days ago we were in the high desert of Santa Fe,” she said, “and suddenly, we’re in England, picnicking.”
“A miracle of modern-day air travel.”
“A miracle of some sort. I feel safe for the first time since my divorce was final. I don’t think I had realized the extent to which Boris was eating at my sense of well-being. I confess to you that I considered shooting him once. My sister, Susannah, dealt with an ex-husband that way.”
“Do you remember what a hassle that was for her, and especially for Ed, who had to deal with the legal consequences?”
“I remember, and she told me it was worth it to be rid of him.”
“Self-defense is an effective motive for a shooting, but killing someone, for whatever reason, is a pain in the ass. That will haunt Susannah for her whole life.”
“At least she has a life.”
“You have a point. Just remember that killing somebody is never an easy solution to your problems. Between Ed and me, we can sue Boris into submission. It will take a while, and it will be expensive, but it can be done.”
“The problem is, Boris doesn’t understand your logic. He considers revenge a reasonable motive for anything, and between his money and his connections with the Russian mob, he has the means to carry it out. I can tell you from experience that right now, he’s very angry, and he’s plotting.”
“He’s also on the other side of a very large ocean, and he will have plenty of time to cool off before we cross it again.”
“You don’t understand, Stone. Boris doesn’t cool off, he just simmers until the next time he comes to a boil.”
“How has he managed to succeed in Hollywood if he’s that kind of person? He’s going to have a very hard time finding another studio deal, after what’s happened over the past ten days.”
“Hollywood doesn’t much care what kind of person he is, as long as he makes money for them, and his series of thrillers have brought in something like a billion and a half dollars in worldwide ticket sales over the past four years. That kind of cash flow can cause the community to look the other way. I’ll bet you that within a week, in spite of all that happened with Centurion and the Arrington and the Bel-Air Country Club, Boris will have a deal with another studio.”
“I won’t take that bet, because you could be right,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s ride down to the mouth of the river, and I’ll show you the Solent.”
“What’s the Solent?”
“It’s the body of water that separates England from the Isle of Wight. It’s only a couple of miles wide, but it’s the capital of yachting in England, maybe in Europe.”
“Do you have a boat?”
“I have one on order that’s due for delivery here any day, now.”
“What sort of boat?”
“A Hinckley 43, a very nice little motor yacht. It will be good for pottering around the Solent and up and down the English Channel, and it’s easily managed by one or two people, so it doesn’t require a professional crew.”
“Is it American-made?”
“Yes. I didn’t know enough about British boats to be comfortable ordering one, but I know Hinckley very well. Their factory is an hour’s drive from my house in Maine.”
“Can we go out on it when it comes?”
“That’s what it’s for.” Stone’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he glanced at the phone. A message appeared on-screen: Tracking Tirov. Stone pressed a button, and a map of the British Isles appeared on the screen. A green ball appeared over Ireland, and it was moving toward England.
“What is it?” Gala asked
“Just a text message,” Stone replied, and put away the phone.
13
They rode back to the house, gave the horses to the groom, and went upstairs for a jet lag–defeating nap. Gala was sleeping soundly in minutes. Stone switched on his phone and chose the tracking app. The green dot was at Heathrow.
—
She woke him from his nap in the late afternoon with a gentle touch, followed by more caresses. He rose to the occasion, and soon they were entwined. Recovery required another, shorter nap, afterward they showered together, then dressed for dinner.
While Gala did her makeup, Stone checked his phone again. The green dot was in the West End of London, and by zooming in, he could place it at Claridge’s Hotel.
They were having drinks when Geoffrey came in with a telephone. “Dame Felicity Devonshire for you, Mr. Barrington.”
Stone took the phone from him. “Good evening,” he said.
“My spies told me you were back.”
“An unexpected trip. I’ve brought a friend. Where are you?”
“I just got to my Beaulieu River house.”
“We’re just having a drink. Why don’t you join us for dinner?”
“Sold. I’m assuming your friend is female?”
“Quite right.”
“No matter. I’ll be at your dock in half an hour.”
“You’ll be met.” He hung up and rang for Geoffrey.
“Yes, sir?”
“Dame Felicity will be at our dock in half an hour. Will you have her met, please? And we’ll need another place set for dinner.”
“And who is Dame Felicity Devonshire?” Gala asked.
“An old acquaintance. You’ll enjoy her.”
“And why does her name sound familiar?”
“She is the director of MI6, the British foreign intelligence service, the equivalent of our CIA.”
“Ah, I expect I’ve read that name in the papers.”
“Her name used to be a deep dark secret, but things have loosened up a bit.”
“And how did you come to know her?”
Stone thought about that. “Let’s see. . . . Ah yes, MI6 retained me once to help them locate a former operative of theirs in the States.”
“And did you locate the operative?”
“I did, but I didn’t know it for a while. He had changed his identity.”
“It all sounds very mysterious.”
“Mysterious and confidential. I had to sign the Official Secrets Act, which means I could be jailed if I blabbed.”
“So you won’t tell me more?”
“What, do you want to see me in Wormwood Scrubs prison?”
“You make it sound ghastly.”
“All British prisons are ghastly. Hardly any of them have proper plumbing, last time I heard.”
“How do they . . . ?”
“Slop buckets.”
“Ugh.”
“Yes, I think they haven’t updated because they consider the conditions to be a deterrent to criminals.”
“It’s enough of a deterrent for me.”
“And for me, too, so don’t wheedle me into compromising myself.”
“Was I wheedling?”
“You were about to, weren’t you?”
“Well, yes, though I like to think I would have wheedled charmingly.”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“I should have wheedled wh
en we were in bed, then I would have had more leverage.”
“So to speak.”
She laughed. “So to speak.”
—
Felicity bustled in on schedule, introductions were made, and a stiff whiskey and soda placed in her hand by Geoffrey, who had not had to ask her pleasure.
“I feel so at home in this house,” she said, and behind her, Gala rolled her eyes.
“You’ve known it far longer than I,” Stone said, letting himself off her hook. He turned to Gala. “It was Felicity who insisted I fly here from Rome. She made me buy the house.”
“What happened to the previous owner?”
“He was ill at the time and died a few weeks later.”
“It all looks so fresh,” she said.
“Yes, a well-known London designer completely redid it for the previous owner. It was nearly done when I first saw it.”
“She is a very good designer,” Gala said, casting an eye around the room.
“She is, indeed,” Felicity said. “Stone and his French partner had her do the big house next door, too. It’s now an Arrington.”
“We saw it this afternoon while riding,” Gala said.
“Stone, has your new boat arrived?”
“It’s due any day. Hinckley is sending over a team to launch it and to educate me in its operation.”
“Wasn’t your last boat a Hinckley?”
“Yes, but the layout and equipment are all new to me. I’ll need to know how to handle light maintenance.”
“And who will do the heavy maintenance?”
“Hinckley has arranged that with a Southampton yard.”
“How convenient.”
“Do you live nearby, Dame Felicity?” Gala asked.
“Oh, yes, just across the river.”
“How convenient.”
Stone cringed a little.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? And you must drop the Dame—I’m just plain Felicity.”
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, Gala.”
Geoffrey called them to table, and they polished off their drinks. They were given a pâté of smoked mackerel to start, with a glass of very dry sherry, and a crown roast of lamb to follow, with potatoes au gratin and haricots verts.