Three Stone Barrington Adventures

by Stuart Woods

  “Was he badly hurt?”

  “We had the police and an ambulance, and he was taken to an emergency room. He’ll be back at work tomorrow morning.”

  “And you . . . How are you?”

  She held up her teacup. “Joan has kindly administered the cure-all for any British subject,” she said. “A nice cup of tea. I’m just fine.”

  “Does Eduardo know about this?” Stone asked Joan.

  “I called him as soon as it was over. He was shocked, of course, but he took it well. He said he would do everything possible to see that such an incident not happen again, but he advised you to leave the house for a few days while he takes care of it.”

  “I can go back to the embassy,” Felicity said.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Stone replied. “What do you need to work besides a phone, a fax machine and a computer?”

  “Those are my basic tools while I’m here,” she said.

  Stone went to the phone and called Jim Hackett’s direct office line.

  “This is Heather Finch,” a voice said.

  “Ms. Finch, this is Stone Barrington.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Barrington. Congratulations on your success with the jet. Dan Phelan has faxed us a glowing report on your performance.”

  “I’m calling because Jim kindly offered me the use of the airplane if he didn’t need it.”

  “He’s out of the country at the moment and won’t be back for another week or ten days, so I’m sure that will be all right. Just leave me a number where I can reach you.”

  Stone gave her the number and his cell number, thanked her and hung up. He walked back to where Felicity sat. “Pack a bag,” he said. “I’m taking you away from all this tomorrow morning.”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Stone backed out of his garage and drove Felicity to Teterboro Airport, with a black SUV in tow, containing two armed guards. An hour later they were in the air, headed to the Northeast.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t tell me where we’re going,” she said, when they were at 33,000 feet and Stone was no longer so busy with navigating his way out of New York airspace.

  “If I didn’t tell you, then you couldn’t tell anybody else,” he said, “and I didn’t want anybody else to know. Once we’re there, you can tell whoever needs to know.”

  “Once we’re where?” she demanded.

  “I expect that, in the course of your work, you must have met Richard Stone.”

  “Of course. Dick was the CIA station chief in London some years ago,” she replied. “He directed the agency’s European operations from there. I was very sad to hear of his death.”

  Stone nodded. Dick Stone and his wife and daughter had been murdered on an island in Maine. “Dick was my first cousin,” Stone said, “and in his will he left me the use of his Maine house for my lifetime. After I’m dead it will be sold, and the proceeds will go to an agency foundation set up for the widows and orphans of personnel killed in the line of duty.”

  “I had heard that you two were related and that you were responsible for the solving of the murders.”

  “I was able to help,” Stone said.

  “Where is the house?”

  “It’s on the island of Islesboro, in the village of Dark Harbor, in Penobscot Bay, the largest bay in Maine. Dick had a very well-equipped office there, with everything you’ll need.”

  “I can establish secure computer and other communications links with my office, then.”

  “I rather thought you could,” Stone said. A little later, as they were descending through 11,000 feet, he pointed to the airport at Rockland before turning for Islesboro and beginning his final descent through the last 3,000 feet to the airfield, which lay dead ahead several miles.

  “Can you land a jet on that little strip?” Felicity asked.

  “We’re about to find out,” Stone replied. “I’m going to make an approach, and if I don’t feel good about it, we’ll go back to Rockland and get someone to fly us to Islesboro in something smaller.”

  “Nothing like experimentation,” Felicity said.

  Stone canceled his flight plan with Augusta Approach and descended toward the Islesboro airfield. He retarded the throttles, lowered the landing gear and put in a notch of flaps to lose speed. “The key is to cross the threshold at Vref,” he said, “which is the final approach speed, given the landing weight of the airplane. We’ve burned off a thousand pounds of fuel, and there are just the two of us, so we’re light.”

  “That’s terribly reassuring,” she said, looking unconvinced. “Exactly how long is that runway?”

  “Two thousand four hundred and fifty feet,” Stone said.

  “Have you ever landed on a runway that short?”

  “No, but I’ve landed on several that were only three thousand feet and with plenty of room to spare. Our speed is right on the money, and it takes only twelve hundred feet to stop the airplane once it’s on the runway, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Trust the airplane.”

  “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 unlo
cked 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 t
o 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.