by Stuart Woods
“I’m looking for a yacht named Breeze,” she said.
“Right over there,” he said, pointing at a huge shed, the bow of a yacht sticking out.
“And where would I find Captain Todd?” she asked.
“Aboard Breeze,” he replied.
Sherry looked out the window and saw Hurd making his way toward the dock, followed by the policeman. She got out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a woman said.
“There’s an abandoned green van behind a filling station and Subway south of here. I thought you should know.” She watched through the rain-spattered window and saw the cop reach to his belt for a radio and say something, then he shouted something at Hurd, who turned and followed him back to the car. They turned the car around and drove away.
“Thanks for your help,” Sherry said to the young man, then grabbed her bag and headed for the huge shed, which had a pair of rails out front that ran toward the docks. Near the stern, a half dozen men had taken shelter. “Captain Todd?” she asked. One of them turned around.
“That would be me,” he said.
“I’m Sherry.”
“I was told to watch out for you.” He led her to a platform, then up the ship’s stairs to the deck, then down below to a cabin.
“Right now,” he said, “we have no electricity, but when the rain eases up we’re going to launch her. And when the engines are started, all the systems will be working, and you can take a shower. Towels and a robe in the locker there.” He pointed and left her to it.
Sherry stripped off her sodden clothes and put them in the head, in the shower stall, then toweled her hair as dry as she could get it. Then she got under the bedcovers to get warm.
* * *
• • •
Not much later she was awakened by the yacht moving. Shortly after that they were afloat, and the engines were starting. Lights came on in her cabin, and she got into a hot shower, then used the hair dryer. The yacht was moving, but she didn’t know where to. She got into some dry clothing, then called Van and left a message that she was aboard the yacht.
She went up a deck, through a large saloon, then through a dining room, forward, until she found the bridge. Captain Todd was at the helm, and two young women were with him.
“Hi, there,” Todd said. “You get a nap and a shower?”
“Both,” she said.
“I’ve let Bob know you’re aboard.”
“Where are we headed?”
“To Islesboro. We’re going to put you ashore at Barrington’s dock, where you’ll be met.” He switched off the windscreen wipers. “We’ll have some sunshine shortly,” he said.
“Was something wrong with the yacht?” she asked.
“Just the annual inspection and bottom painting. Your timing was good.”
One of the girls spoke up. “We’re Jean and Jennifer. We’ll be taking care of you. I take it you have some wet clothes somewhere?”
“In my shower.”
“We’ll launder and dry them for you,” Jean said, and they both went aft.
Sherry’s throwaway buzzed, and she answered it. “Van?”
“Call me Bob,” he said. “I take it you’re safe.”
“Yes. They were looking for me, but I’m safe aboard Breeze now.”
“They’ll give you some lunch, then drop you off at Stone’s house in Dark Harbor. We’re on the way to the airport now, and we’ll be at the house almost as soon as you will. See you then.” He hung up before she could ask who “we” was.
“Have you had any lunch?” Todd asked.
“No, I haven’t.”
He picked up a phone and gave some instructions. “Be ready shortly.”
Soon, Jennifer appeared with a mug of hot clam chowder and a ham and cheese panini, and Sherry settled into a seat and watched their progress as she ate. The sun came out, and Penobscot Bay became more beautiful.
“This is a spectacular yacht,” she said to Todd.
“She certainly is. Built just a few years ago. Stone and his partners bought it from the estate of the owner. They got a bargain. It would cost twice what they paid to build her now.”
* * *
• • •
An hour later the yacht dropped anchor, and she was taken ashore in a tender to a dock. There a man introduced himself as Seth Hotchkiss and took her into the house. He answered his phone, said a few words, and hung up. “Stone and Bob are taking off from Rockland now. I’m going to meet them at our little airstrip.”
“May I come along for the ride?” she asked.
“Sure.” He led her downstairs and outside to a very old but very well-restored Ford station wagon. “She was built in 1938,” he said. They drove to the airstrip where a Cessna 182 was setting down. It taxied to the car and cut its engines. Two men got out.
“Hello, Sherry,” the taller of the two said. “I’m Stone Barrington and this is Bob Cantor. I believe you know him as Van.”
They all shook hands and got into the car. Ten minutes later, Stone was pouring drinks in the living room of his house.
“I’ve heard both your names,” Sherry said, “taken in vain.”
They laughed.
“I’m not surprised,” Stone said.
“And, Bob, you look better without the beard.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling.
“Now,” she said, “can you tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Well,” Stone said, “the first thing I can tell you is that if you hadn’t been smart enough to get out of that house when you did, you’d probably be dead by now.”
“I had that feeling,” Sherry replied.
14
They dined that evening on Lobster Newburg, prepared by Mary, Seth’s wife, and a fine French white Burgundy. When Mary had served the food and left them, Stone began to talk.
“Now we have to decide what to do next,” he said. “Sherry, would you feel more secure here or back in New York?”
“Here,” she said immediately, “if I can have a gun.”
“Do you have any experience handling guns?” he asked.
“Yes, my father owned guns, and when I was a teenager he often took me to the range with him.”
“So you know how to load a gun, fire it, and reload?”
“Yes, and I pretty much hit what I aim at.”
“I will supply you with a gun.”
“Thank you.”
“Bob is going to stay here, too, since he faces pretty much the same threat that you do.”
Sherry turned to Bob. “Did you engineer the explosion at H. Thomas?” she asked.
Bob drew a breath, but Stone held up a hand. “We won’t ask that question,” he said, “because we don’t want to hear the answer, whatever it is. We could be asked about it later, and we don’t want to have to lie.”
“I understand. Excuse me, Bob.”
“Quite all right,” Bob replied.
“Bob is going to be armed, too, and so is Seth. Let me tell you something about this house. It was built by a first cousin of mine, Richard Stone, who, at the time, was the London station chief of the CIA. He was promoted to be head of covert operations, and on his way back from London to Langley, he stopped here with his family for a couple of weeks. During that time Dick, his wife, and daughter were murdered.”
“In this house?” Sherry asked.
“Yes. Are you superstitious?”
“No. Why were they murdered?”
“Because of a family disagreement—nothing to do with his work for the CIA, which nobody here knew about, anyway. His older brother died as a result, and the man’s two sons are in prison for life without parole.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.
“But, as a result of Dick’s r
ank in the Agency, this house was built to their high security standards. Underneath the shingled siding and roof is half an inch of steel plating. And the windows can stop a high-velocity round. The fire and security systems are the best available. My point is: with the doors locked and the windows closed, this house is a fortress.”
“Sounds like where I want to be,” Sherry replied.
They finished dinner, then Stone led them across the living room and around a corner, where he moved a small picture aside to expose a keypad. He gave Sherry the combination and asked her to enter it. A door, part of a bookcase, opened, and the lights inside came on automatically. They went inside. “This room was where Dick did Agency business. His computer was, and probably still is, connected directly to the Company mainframe.”
The room was about nine by twelve, and the wall at the short end was covered with mounted weapons. “Take your pick,” Stone said.
Sherry looked around and picked up a smaller-than-usual Model 1911 .45 Colt.
“That’s an officer’s Colt,” Stone said.
“I know. My father preferred a .45 to a 9mm, mostly because he considered the .45 beautiful. He disliked Glocks because they weren’t. I like this one because it’s smaller and lighter than the original.”
Stone opened a cabinet to reveal stacks of loaded magazines. “Take as many as you want.”
She took a half dozen magazines, and he put them into a small case and handed it to her.
“I brought my own pistols,” Bob said, “but I’d like a rifle.” He took down an AR-15 and a half dozen magazines.
“Then you’re ready for war,” Stone said. “Let’s go have an after-dinner drink. I’m expecting company.”
They went into the living room, and Stone poured them each a cognac. “Our guest is Ed Rawls, who should be here shortly—and who has an interesting background. You’ve never met Ed, have you, Bob?”
“No, but I’ve heard about him.”
“Ed was a CIA lifer until, while serving as station chief in Stockholm, he was caught in a honey trap and compromised by the KGB. He never gave them anything of importance, but he got arrested and sent to federal prison. The officer who nailed him was one he had mentored, Kate Rule, now Katharine Lee, President of the United States.
“Later, Ed, even in prison, was able to dismantle a plot against the reputation of Kate’s husband, Will Lee, a Georgia senator who was running for president. As a result, after he was elected, Will gave Ed a presidential pardon, which was sealed. Ed returned here, where he owned a house and has lived here and in a couple of other places, pretty much happily ever after.” Stone paused. “And that, I think, is the cue for the doorbell to ring.” He turned and looked at the door, waiting. The bell rang, and Sherry and Bob laughed.
“I could do that,” Stone said, “because Ed always arrives precisely on time, and it’s eight-thirty.” He went to the door and admitted a beefy, heavily mustachioed man of indeterminate age.
Stone made the introductions and brought Ed a cognac, then he threw another log on the fire.
“Sorry I couldn’t join you for dinner,” Rawls said. “I had a date at the yacht club for dinner with an attractive widow. Lots of them hereabouts.”
Stone gave Rawls a rundown on what Sherry and Bob were doing in Dark Harbor.
“Sounds like you two lead exciting lives,” Rawls said. “Not much excitement around here, but that seems to change when Stone is on the island.”
“Well,” Stone said, “I’ll stick around a few days and see if I can drum up some.”
“Who knows you two are here?” Rawls asked.
“Nobody,” Sherry said.
“Nobody,” Bob echoed.
“That’s the first rule of personal security,” Rawls said. “Invisibility. Is either of you traceable?”
“In my experience,” Bob said, “everybody is traceable these days.”
“You have a point,” Rawls said. “Sherry, how did you get to this house?”
“I was staying at another house down the coast, one owned by my employer, who is suspicious of me. I felt uncomfortable with the circumstances there, so Bob and Stone arranged for me to come here.”
“How did you travel?”
“I left Teterboro in a private plane, was met at Rockland Airport and taken to the house. This morning, I hit the man guarding me with a rock and stole his van. I abandoned that outside Rockland and got a taxi to Camden, where I met Stone’s yacht, Breeze, which brought me here.”
“Have the police taken an interest in you?”
“They have, but I avoided them.”
“I think we have to assume that you’re traceable,” Rawls said, “if your employer is willing to make the required effort to locate you. Is he?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m a small fry to him.”
“Bob, how about you?”
“I abandoned my residence and workshop a few weeks ago. I lived in Brooklyn for a while, then at Stone’s house in Manhattan. We flew to Rockland in Stone’s airplane, then flew a small Cessna to Islesboro.”
“Then you are traceable,” Rawls said. “There’s no cutout.”
“What’s a cutout?” Sherry asked.
“That’s a point where you disappear before you continue to your destination. You both have traceable paths. Sherry, a taxi driver and, no doubt, a person or two at the Camden marina saw you. Bob, Stone’s airplane is traceable to Rockland, and you were no doubt seen leaving Rockland in the Cessna, which is known around here. A good private detective could find you both in a couple of days.”
“That’s depressing,” Sherry said.
“Maybe not,” Rawls replied. “Now all we need to know is how badly your pursuer wants you. I expect we’ll find out before long.”
15
They were just saying good night to Ed Rawls and one another when Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Jamie. Where are you?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but I’ve been traveling. I’m at my house in Maine.”
“You’ve abandoned me?”
“Only for a few days. Would you like to join me here?”
“Is it a business or pleasure trip?”
“You could turn it into a pleasure.”
“Well, that’s enticing. How do I get there?”
“I’ll arrange a flight for you from Teterboro. It’ll take an hour, a little more, if I can find a single-engine plane. It’s a short runway, too short for a jet.”
“What do I do?”
“Ask Fred to drive you to Jet Aviation, at Teterboro tomorrow morning at nine. You’ll take off at about ten and land on Islesboro an hour or so later.”
“What clothes will I need?”
“I like you in as little as possible.”
“On the occasions when I’m not naked?”
“Casual stuff. A sweater for the evenings. I’ll see you for lunch, then.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” she replied, then hung up.
Stone called the Strategic Services hangar and learned that an old airplane of his that he had sold to them was available, and so was a pilot. He scheduled it, then went upstairs to bed.
* * *
• • •
Stone drove to the airport, arriving a little after eleven and waited. A few minutes later his old JetProp, a single-engine turboprop, set down and disgorged Jamie and a couple of bags. He got her into the station wagon and headed for the house.
“Have we got time for a tour of the island?” she asked.
Stone glanced at his watch. “Sure, lunch isn’t until one.”
“Are there other guests?”
“Bob Cantor and a woman who’s on the run from the Thomases.”
“Why?”
“She worked there, near where the bomb went off, and she was s
uspected of being involved. She was not, but they shipped her up to a Thomas house near Rockland. I think she might have disappeared if she hadn’t escaped and called Bob.”
“Did Bob set the bomb?”
“We don’t ask that question. When you know the answer to an awkward question, sooner or later somebody you don’t want to lie to will ask you about it.”
“Got it,” she said.
Stone drove her around the periphery of the island, showed her the lighthouse and where a couple of movie stars lived, then took her home and installed her in the master suite. “Lunch in half an hour,” he said, leaving her to unpack.
Stone settled into a chair in the living room and answered his cell phone.
“It’s Joan.”
“Hi, any calls of importance?”
“Maybe. I’ve followed instructions and said you were unavailable. You might want to call Dino back.”
“Dino has my cell number. Anybody else?”
“Somebody who said he was a stockbroker—sounded like a cold call. He called twice.”
“Give me the number,” he said, and wrote it down. “Talk to you later.”
Jamie came down, then Bob appeared with Sherry from the direction of the hidden office. He introduced Sherry to Jamie.
“That’s some computer setup in there,” Bob said. “There was a password next to the machine, so I wandered around in there for a while. It’s like a cross between the Library of Congress and FBI headquarters. You can find out just about anything.”
The landline rang, and Stone picked it up. “Yes?”
“Who’s speaking, please?”
“You, first.”
“This is the communications center at Langley. I’m Evan Tilley, the duty officer. We’ve seen some activity on your computer station. Are you Stone Barrington?”
“Yes. I’ll be in the house for a few days, and I might use it again.”
“I’ll make a note of that for the next shift,” the man said.
Stone thanked him and hung up. Then Mary called them to lunch.