Stuart Woods

by Stone Barrington 18 - Lucid Intervals (v5)

  “Are you going to tell them?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “If you do tell them, are you going to have to resign?”

  “Very likely so.”

  “I wish I knew some way to get you out of this,” Stone said.

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Felicity replied. “Just deliver a living, breathing Stanley Whitestone to any British immigration officer.”

  “Or his corpse.”

  “If it can be authenticated, and since we don’t have any photographs or fingerprints, that will be extremely difficult.”

  “Whom do we have to convince?”

  “Only the foreign secretary, the home secretary and their appointed authenticators.”

  “Only them?”

  “Only them.”

  “Order dinner,” Stone said, handing her a menu, “while I think about it.”

  They ordered dinner and another glass of Champagne.

  “Have you thought about it?” Felicity asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And have you thought of a way to accomplish this?”

  Stone sighed. “What I need to do is to speak to Jim Hackett and tell him to accomplish this.”

  “Hackett has already tried and failed, which destroys his credibility in the eyes of my masters.”

  “There is that,” Stone agreed.

  “Soon they will begin to erode his company’s position in the UK, and eventually they will destroy his business there.”

  “Does Hackett have important contracts in the UK?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Government contracts?”

  “A few. Those will go first, then the government will begin to let Hackett’s clients know that it would be unwise to continue to engage Strategic Services, and the fruits of Hackett’s labors will wither and die on the vine.”

  “Perhaps he should be told that,” Stone said.

  “Perhaps so, though I should be very surprised if he hasn’t already thought of it. Will you call him?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Hackett has disappeared,” Stone replied.

  “What do you mean, disappeared?”

  “Just that. He’s gone, and I don’t know where. I doubt if anyone else does, either.”

  “Then he may have signed his own death warrant,” Felicity said.

  49

  Stone was in his bathroom, brushing his teeth, when the phone rang. He closed the door and sat down on the toilet lid. “Hello?”

  There was a sort of scraping noise, and then a voice seemed to come through a long tunnel. “Stone?”

  “Jim?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about the quality of this thing, but we’re still working out the kinks. When we do, it will be a hot new product for us.”

  “I can understand you,” Stone said. “That’s hot enough for me. Can you tell me where you are?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, but you may consider that I am at a sufficient remove to prevent unexpected events.”

  “How did you travel there?”

  “In someone else’s transport,” Hackett replied.

  “That’s what I was thinking; they could have tracked your tail number.”

  “I have reason to believe that I arrived here unnoticed by anyone.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it, because, I have to tell you, I have even more reason to believe that your life is in danger.”

  “Is Felicity hunting me?”

  “She is the least of your problems.”

  “Then what has changed?”

  “I’m not sure that anything has changed, but I know more now than I did before. I should tell you that your ruse in the churchyard has been uncovered, so to speak, and that if that news makes its way to London the danger will become acute.”

  “That news has not made its way to London yet?”

  “No, but that could change.”

  “I’m sorry I had to lie to you, Stone, but I did not consider you as much a friend as I now do.”

  “Let’s put that behind us. I believe that your business interests in the UK may be in as much danger as you are.”

  “I had anticipated that, and I’ve done what I can to minimize the risk.”

  “Tell me, Jim, why was there no fingerprint record in the dossier you sent?”

  “I don’t know; I received it exactly as you saw it.”

  “And why does your dossier and that of Timothy Timmons bear the same photograph?”

  Silence.

  “Hello, Jim?”

  “I’m still here. I didn’t know the two dossiers had the same photo. I assure you that the photo you saw on my dossier was of me. I can’t answer for Tim’s dossier, because I never saw it. Where on earth did they find it?”

  “At a storage facility for old records.”

  “Was there anything of interest found in it?” Hackett asked.

  “What would you expect to be found in it?”

  “I’ve no idea what’s in it,” Hackett replied, “and I’m very surprised that there would be any interest in Tim’s dossier.”

  “Why not? He was your partner,” Stone pointed out.

  “I suppose I should have expected that.”

  “Jim,” Stone said, “are you Stanley Whitestone?”

  Something like a sigh could be heard down the long tunnel. “Stone, I won’t lie to you, but I can’t answer that question now. Perhaps later, I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to accept that I can’t answer you. I’m going to have to go now.”

  “Jim, is it possible for me to contact you if I need to?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. If you have something important to tell me, you’ll have to wait for me to call you again. Good-bye.” Hackett hung up.

  Stone hung up and walked back into the bedroom, where Felicity was waiting for him, sitting up in bed, reading something from her briefcase.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

  “A client.”

  “Do clients often call you at this hour?”

  “Sometimes. I can’t refuse to speak to a client, whatever the hour may be.”

  “Was it Hackett?” she asked.

  “Go to sleep,” Stone said, kissing her on the cheek.

  She closed the file, put it back into her briefcase, reset the combination lock, then switched off her bedside lamp.

  “You’re fired,” she said. “I hope that will make it easier for you to deal with this.”

  “Maybe it will,” Stone said, switching off his lamp.

  STONE WOKE UP later than usual, and Felicity was gone. She had left a note on the bed, saying that she would meet him for dinner at Elaine’s.

  Stone showered, shaved, dressed and went down to his office, where Helene brought him a light breakfast at his desk.

  Joan buzzed him. “Mr. Fisher to see you.”

  Stone sighed. “Send him in.”

  Herbie came in and sat down. “It’s going very well with Stephanie,” he said. “I may have to get you to do a prenup yet.”

  “Herbie, slow down,” Stone said. “You’re going to have to learn to restrain yourself sometimes if you’re ever going to grow up.”

  “You think I’m not grown up?”

  “Not quite yet, Herbie.”

  “I want to buy a jet airplane,” Herbie said. “I can afford it.”

  “How much money do you have left, Herbie?”

  “A little over ten million.”

  “You could buy a used jet airplane for around two million,” Stone said, “but flying it and maintaining it would cost a lot every month. You’d have to hire a pilot, maybe a copilot, too, depending on which airplane you bought, and when something breaks on a jet, Herbie, it is very, very expensive to repair.”

  “Oh,” Herbie said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I suggest you explore the idea of first class on the airlines.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t like the airport experience,” Herbie replied. “I especially don’t like going through security. They always suspect me of something.”

  “Then join one of the share programs,” Stone suggested.

  “I’ve seen those in magazine ads. Which one should I join?”

  “I don’t have any experience with that, Herbie. I suggest you call, say, three of them, then compare the deals.”

  “How much does it cost?”

  “Again, I don’t know, but it will depend on the size of the jet you buy into.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it,” Herbie said, getting up. “I’ll tell Stephanie to come see you about the prenup.”

  “Herbie,” Stone said, “tell her attorney to call me. Please.”

  IN THE EARLY afternoon, Joan came into Stone’s office and handed him a sheet of paper with a number on it. “The bank called,” she said. “We received a wire transfer from London in that amount, which is, I assume, your fee from Felicity in dollars.”

  Stone looked at the number. “I see the dollar is down against the pound,” he said, smiling. “First time I ever got a good deal on a currency exchange. Go spend it.”

  Joan did so.

  50

  Stone met Dino at Elaine’s for dinner, and they were on their second drink before Felicity arrived, looking oddly happy.

  “I was going to ask what’s wrong,” Stone said, “but I suppose, given your mien, I should ask what’s right.”

  “You are very perceptive,” she said. “What’s right is that I appear to have won.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to say what you’ve won in the presence of Lieutenant Bacchetti,” Stone said, nodding at Dino.

  “My lips are sealed,” Dino said.

  “I don’t distrust your lips, Dino,” Felicity replied, “but forgive me if I talk in riddles.”

  “Riddle away.” Dino went back to his drink and ogled a young woman at the bar.

  Felicity leaned in close to Stone. “I’ve won the argument with my betters.”

  “Whitestone?” Stone mouthed.

  “Have you ever heard of lip reading?” Felicity asked. “And you’re facing the window.”

  “Whitestone?” Stone whispered without moving his lips.

  “Yes, that argument,” she replied. “I believe the contretemps involving my former colleague has abated, to the point of nonexistence.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “My hint that I might discuss the situation with those outside my service seemed to do the trick.”

  “You mean your betters are afraid of being exposed?”

  “Exactly. I don’t think anyone in my position has ever even hinted at a public discussion of any matter.”

  “You got their attention, then,” Stone said. “I congratulate you. I tried that with the NYPD once, and it got me early retirement.”

  “I’m too young to retire,” Felicity said, “but my betters are not. I think visions of questions in Parliament followed by lurid headlines finally did the trick.”

  “Should I let my client know?”

  “I think you may do so,” she said. “Do you know how to reach him?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.”

  “Well, next time he reaches you, then.”

  “Will do.”

  “Tell me, did you tell him that his little trick with the cemetery plot didn’t work?”

  “I can’t divulge a conversation with a client,” Stone said, “or even that such a conversation has taken place, but I have reason to believe that he is aware that that little jig is up.”

  “Good. I shouldn’t like him to think that he can fool me so easily.”

  “If I should ever speak to him again,” Stone said, “I will convey that thought to him.”

  “Yes, please.”

  WHEN STONE GOT home, the message light on his bedside phone was blinking. He pushed the necessary buttons to get the recording and heard the now-familiar voice from a barrel.

  “A flight plan will be filed for you tomorrow morning for a departure at ten a.m. local,” Hackett said. “You may get your routing from Teterboro Clearance Delivery. Pack for two nights.” Hackett hung up.

  “Was that your client?” Felicity asked from the other side of the bed.

  “If it were, I couldn’t tell you,” Stone replied.

  “Well, if you’re finished with your telephonery, would you kindly devote your attention to me?”

  Stone got out of his clothes and did so, taking her in his arms and kissing her.

  “I received payment from the Foreign Office today,” he said between kisses.

  “I’m so glad our business has been concluded,” Felicity said, moving his hand to a receptive part of her anatomy, while taking a part of his in her hand. “Is there lubricant available?” she asked.

  Stone reached for a bedside drawer and produced a small bottle, squirting it at the appropriate places.

  “Much better,” she said, moving her hand.

  They continued until both of them had achieved a satisfactory conclusion.

  “By the way,” Stone said before they fell asleep, “I’m going to be away for the next couple of nights.”

  “I have only a few days left in New York,” Felicity said, “so don’t be away too long.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Stone drove to Teterboro, did a thorough preflight inspection on Hackett’s Mustang, then got into the cockpit and started the engines. When he had run through the lengthy checklist, he called Clearance Delivery. The controller gave him a routing that took him north for a few miles, then northeast across Connecticut and Massachusetts and into Maine. To his surprise, his destination was Islesboro, where his own Maine house was.

  He got taxi instructions to runway 1, then took off and followed his routing. An hour later he was lined up for landing on the little paved airstrip on Islesboro. As he touched down and began to roll out, applying the brakes, he saw a car parked beside the runway.

  He got the airplane stopped, then taxied back toward the car. As he shut down the engines, a window rolled down, and Hackett beckoned.

  Stone secured the airplane, then locked it and tossed his bag into the rear seat of the car and got into the passenger seat.

  “How are you?” he asked Hackett.

  “I’m very well, considering that I’m cut off from all my usual contacts,” Hackett replied. “Let’s not talk now; I’ll devote my attention to driving.”

  He drove into the village of Dark Harbor and turned toward the Tarrantine Yacht Club.

  For a moment, Stone thought he was driving to his own home, but Hackett turned into a driveway a mailbox short.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Stone said, getting out of the car before a shingled cottage. “We’re next-door neighbors, but from my house I can’t see this place for the trees.”

  “I couldn’t go to my own home on Mount Desert,” Hackett said, “so I chose your location instead, almost.”

  “Who would have thought it?” Stone asked, getting his bag from the rear seat and closing the door.

  Inside, Hackett directed him to an upstairs room. “I’ll see how lunch is doing,” he said.

  Stone went upstairs, hung his jacket in the closet and unpacked his bag. His room was small but comfortable, and he had his own bath.

  Hackett called from downstairs, “Lunch is ready!”

  “Be right down,” Stone called back.

  51

  They sat at the kitchen table, where a housekeeper served them a lobster salad, Stone’s favorite, and Hackett cracked a bottle of good California chardonnay.

  “I have news for you,” Stone said.

  “Good news, I hope.”

  “Yes, indeed. You’re off the hook.”

  Hackett stopped eating and looked at him. “The Whitestone thing?”

  “That very thing.”

  “Tell me all.”

  “It is my understanding that the people in London …”

  “The
home secretary and the foreign secretary?”

  “Yes, those people—have called it off.”

  “Do they accept that I’m not Whitestone?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I am reliably informed that they have no further interest in you.”

  Hackett put down his fork and rested his forehead in a hand, his elbow on the table. “Thank God,” he said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “I was beginning to think I’d be on the run for the rest of my life.”

  “Not anymore. Tell me, do you really think that British intelligence has the wherewithal to track you anywhere and cause your demise?”

  “Well, they’re not the CIA, but they do have a long arm. As you have seen, finding one man is not all that hard, especially if he has as many business interests as I do.”

  “Somehow I think of them as a smaller, cozier operation.”

  “Again, compared to the CIA, perhaps they are. But over the years they have built up very good resources. Remember, they were in business before the United States had any kind of intelligence service.”

  “I suppose so,” Stone said, “seeing that ours only goes back to World War II and the OSS.”

  “Which became the CIA after the war,” Hackett pointed out.

  “Do they have assassins on the payroll?” Stone asked.

  “I should imagine so, though that service would be used rarely enough that they could rely on contract agents.”

  “Are there really contract assassins in the world of intelligence?”

  “Oh, yes,” Hackett replied. “I could put you in touch with two or three, should you ever require their services. Not that I have ever used them, of course.”

  “Jim, from what you and Mike Freeman have told me about Strategic Services, you seem to be running your own private intelligence agency.”

  “Yes, we are, but not on a governmental scale. And no national intelligence service would have our divisions for manufacturing, like our armored vehicle operation and our electronics section. Just between you and me, those divisions sell to several intelligence services on a regular basis.”

  “Things like the telephone scrambler that we’ve been using?”

  “Yes, but we still have a little more work to do on that,” Hackett replied. “In a few weeks we should have a prototype with much-improved sound quality on the level of, say, a cell phone.”

  “I would imagine there would be a big demand for that from the business community,” Stone said.