Stealth

by Stuart Woods

  BOOKS BY STUART WOODS

  FICTION

  Stealth* • Contraband* • Wild Card* • A Delicate Touch* • Desperate Measures* • Turbulence* • Shoot First* • Unbound* • Quick & Dirty* • Indecent Exposure* • Fast & Loose* • Below the Belt* • Sex, Lies & Serious Money* • Dishonorable Intentions* • Family Jewels* • Scandalous Behavior* • Foreign Affairs* • Naked Greed* • Hot Pursuit* • Insatiable Appetites* • Paris Match* • Cut and Thrust* • Carnal Curiosity* • Standup Guy* • Doing Hard Time* • Unintended Consequences* • Collateral Damage* • Severe Clear* • Unnatural Acts* • D.C. Dead* • Son of Stone* • Bel-Air Dead* • Strategic Moves* • Santa Fe Edge† • Lucid Intervals* • Kisser* • Hothouse Orchid‡ • Loitering with Intent* • Mounting Fears§ • Hot Mahogany* • Santa Fe Dead† • Beverly Hills Dead • Shoot Him If He Runs* • Fresh Disasters* • Short Straw† • Dark Harbor* • Iron Orchid‡ • Two-Dollar Bill* • The Prince of Beverly Hills • Reckless Abandon* • Capital Crimes§ • Dirty Work* • Blood Orchid‡ • The Short Forever* • Orchid Blues‡ • Cold Paradise* • L.A. Dead* • The Run§ • Worst Fears Realized* • Orchid Beach‡ • Swimming to Catalina* • Dead in the Water* • Dirt* • Choke • Imperfect Strangers • Heat • Dead Eyes • L.A. Times • Santa Fe Rules† • New York Dead* • Palindrome • Grass Roots§ • White Cargo • Deep Lie§ • Under the Lake • Run Before the Wind§ • Chiefs§

  COAUTHORED BOOKS

  Skin Game** (with Parnell Hall)

  The Money Shot** (with Parnell Hall)

  Barely Legal†† (with Parnell Hall)

  Smooth Operator** (with Parnell Hall)

  TRAVEL

  A Romantic’s Guide to the Country Inns of Britain and Ireland (1979)

  MEMOIR

  Blue Water, Green Skipper

  *A Stone Barrington Novel

  †An Ed Eagle Novel

  ‡A Holly Barker Novel

  §A Will Lee Novel

  **A Teddy Fay Novel

  ††A Herbie Fisher Novel

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Stuart Woods

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9780593083185

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Books by Stuart Woods

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from Treason

  About the Author

  1

  Stone Barrington woke earlier than he should have and was, for a moment, disoriented. Sunlight was streaming through a two-inch gap in the drawn curtains of the room, and he never slept with curtains drawn. Except in England.

  He sat up in bed. He was, indeed, in England, in the house called Windward Hall that he had owned for some years. He had landed in the early evening in the Strategic Services Gulfstream 600, on which he had caught a ride from Teterboro, New Jersey. The company jet was in England or Europe on almost a weekly basis, and the private runway on his land was long enough to accommodate it for landing and takeoff. It was a convenient way to commute between his New York residence and his house in England.

  He looked at the bedside clock: a little after six AM. He fell back onto his pillow, tried for another hour of sleep, and failed. He had come alone to England, so there were no opportunities of an erotic nature to keep him occupied until the kitchen was open for business—and he was hungry. He got out of bed, flung open the curtains in the room, and then got back into bed with yesterday’s crossword puzzle, which he had not finished.

  He regretted not inviting a companion on this trip, but his mind turned to the beautiful woman whose country house was just across the Beaulieu River from his. At that moment, his cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Good morning,” she said with a husky voice. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Good morning, Felicity. I wish you were here to wake me properly.”

  “I’m nearly there, darling,” she replied, chuckling, “just across the river.”

  “Then come and have breakfast with me.”

  “I’d like to have you for breakfast, but I have to be in London at nine-thirty for an important meeting at the Foreign Office.” Felicity was the director of MI-6, the British foreign intelligence service, which came under the purview of the foreign minister.

  “What a pity,” Stone said.

  “Not to worry. I’ll be down tomorrow afternoon for the weekend. Why don’t you host a dinner party?”

  “Well, I didn’t bring any guests with me, so I guess it will just have to be the two of us.”

  “Tell you what,” she said. “I will assemble the guests for a table of, say, eight?”

  “What a good idea. You’re better acquainted with
the locals than I.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll bring the place cards with me, so don’t bother about that. Shall we say seven for eight?” In British parlance, this meant dinner at eight, and show up at seven, if you’d like a drink first.

  “Perfect. I’ll get the cook to work on a menu and I’ll unearth some good bottles from the cellar.”

  “I will look forward to it,” she said.

  “And bring your toothbrush. We’ll make a weekend of it.”

  “What a good idea!” She made a kissing noise and hung up.

  Stone went back to his crossword, a happier man.

  * * *

  —

  The following evening, in his Royal Yacht Squadron mess kit—essentially, a tuxedo with a short, naval-style jacket and the appropriate insignia—Stone inspected the beautifully set table in the small dining room, then went to the library, where drinks would be served. It was about three minutes past seven when he heard the doorbell, and a couple of minutes later, Dame Felicity Devonshire entered the library, followed by three couples. One he recognized as Felicity’s boss, the foreign minister, Sir Oswald Towne, and his wife, Lady Towne; another was a younger man in a proper naval mess kit, sporting quite a lot of braid, and his apparent wife; the third couple looked familiar.

  “Stone,” Felicity said, “of course you know Sir Oswald and Lady Towne—Ozzie and Deirdre.” They all shook hands. “And this is Admiral Sir Timothy Barnes, and Lady Barnes, Tim and Kate.” More handshaking. “Tim is the First Sea Lord,” Felicity added. Hands were shaken.

  Stone knew that that post was the Royal Navy equivalent of the American chief of naval operations.

  “And,” Felicity said, “I don’t know if you’ve met the newly elected commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, Derek Drummond, and his wife, Hildy.” Drummond was also dressed in a Squadron mess kit, which should have been a clue.

  “Congratulations on your election,” Stone said, shaking their hands.

  “Thank you, Stone. It’s good to see an American member here,” the commodore replied.

  “It’s good to be here,” Stone said.

  Geoffrey, the butler, served champagne and cocktails, and there was chat among the guests and their hosts.

  “Do you have a place in the neighborhood?” Stone asked Tim Barnes.

  “No, I had to come down from London for the launching of a new submarine. Ozzie and Deirdre were staying with Felicity, and she asked us to join them, so my barge brought us from Portsmouth to her dock on the Beaulieu.

  “What does an admiral’s barge consist of these days?” Stone asked.

  “A very comfortable Nelson motorboat of forty feet. It’s suitable for a weekend place.”

  Felicity joined them. “Tim has also just come from a visit to our Station Two, in the Scottish Highlands. He was kind enough to give me a lift back in a naval aircraft.”

  “Why does MI-6 have a station so far north?” Stone asked.

  “Station Two is our training facility for new recruits to the service,” she said. “I drove up there last week for my own inspection, but I was called back to London and had to leave my car there and fly back.”

  “Is this the Aston Martin DB11?”

  “It is, and I miss it already.”

  “How will you get it back from Scotland?”

  “A good question. Would you like to drive it back?”

  “That’s a very tempting thought,” Stone said. “I’ve never driven that car.”

  The foreign minister joined them in time to hear that exchange. “You look like a fit fellow,” he said to Stone. “You might enjoy a taste of the training up there.”

  “Good idea,” Tim said. “The place is run by an old chum of mine, a colonel in the Royal Marines. I’d be happy to give him a call and tell him not to be too hard on you.”

  “Is this a sort of boot camp, then?” Stone asked, intrigued.

  “The first two weeks are very much a boot camp,” Tim replied. “Lots of hikes and runs, weapons training, hand-to-hand fighting, that sort of thing. The next two months are all the secret stuff: codes, tradecraft, communications. All the James Bond stuff.”

  “They’re in the first week of training now,” Felicity said. “You could join them for the second week, then drive the car back.” She turned to the FM. “Stone is a consultant to our colleagues at Langley, so he’s a family member, in a way. He’s also been of help to us on occasion.”

  “Then I don’t see why he shouldn’t have a bit of fun at our expense,” the FM said. “Send me an authorization to sign—and, of course, a release for his signature, absolving us from any liability for serious injury or an early death.”

  “You make it sound like such fun,” Stone said, “but . . .”

  “Nonsense,” the FM chortled, clapping him on the back. “It’s all decided and authorized.”

  * * *

  —

  They were called in to dinner, and Stone put the thought of a Highlands vacation out of his mind. He noticed that Felicity had left the table to use her phone for a few minutes, but that often happened.

  She returned to the table. “Good news,” she said. “We’re flying some equipment and a few people up to Station Two tomorrow, and the aircraft will pick you up at your airstrip at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Stone choked on his wine.

  “I envy you the experience,” the FM said. “Just the sort of romp I’d have enjoyed in my youth.”

  “I’m not all that young,” Stone said, and everyone laughed heartily.

  2

  Stone woke up with a warm hand cradling his genitals. He checked the narrow opening in the curtains: still dark outside.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” Felicity said, climbing on top of him.

  “What time is it?”

  “Five AM,” she said. “You’ve time for love, breakfast, and packing. We’re starting with love.”

  They spent a half hour on love, then Stone dove into a shower. When he came out, Felicity was dressed.

  “I’ll call Stan to help you with the boat,” he said.

  “Not to worry. My car is picking me up here in about three-quarters of an hour.”

  “Call down for breakfast,” he said. “Just press the button marked Kitchen. I’ll have the usual. You have whatever you like.” He grabbed a large leather duffel, and began stuffing things into it.

  “Oh,” Felicity said, “just pack what you’ll need for the return drive; Station Two will provide you with everything else.” She picked up the phone and ordered breakfast.

  * * *

  —

  At seven AM Stone stood at the hangar on his airstrip and watched the airplane turn final. To his surprise, it was a Dakota, the British name for the American DC-3 or C-47. It touched down lightly, ran down half the runway, then turned 180 degrees and stopped where he stood. He walked toward the airplane, the propeller whipping his clothes around him. The rear door opened, and a man in fatigues, what the Brits call “battle dress,” clapped his hands together and held them out to receive Stone’s duffel. Stone climbed the ladder and was directed forward past other luggage, each with a green canvas object secured to it. There were no proper seats, so he set himself down on a sort of canvas bench that was affixed to the airplane’s bare metal. There was no insulation.

  He got into his seat harness up front, just aft of the cockpit, which gave him a good view of the pilot and his controls. The rear door was closed, the ladder stowed, and the pilot advanced the throttles slightly, applied right brake, and spun the airplane around. He then shoved the throttles all the way forward, and the airplane left the ground in what seemed to Stone an amazingly short time.

  He was handed a set of ear protectors, like a headset without the wiring, and he gratefully put them on. There was no point in trying to speak to his companions because the en
gine noise was too great, and they were wearing the same earmuffs he wore.

  The man next to him handed him a copy of the New York Times—yesterday’s international edition, as it happened—and in the next hour and a half he read every word of it. They were somewhere over the Midlands, at eight thousand feet, on top of a cloud layer. He started on the crossword, which was challenging enough to engage him for another hour and a half.

  The airplane began a descent, and suddenly, all the passengers were on their feet, strapping on backpacks. A sergeant handed Stone one and helped him get into it. He got close to Stone’s ear and lifted a muff. “Ever jumped before?” he yelled.

  Stone shook his head. “What are you talking about?” he shouted back, but the man couldn’t hear him. Stone could hear him shouting, though. The man took a length of nylon line from behind Stone’s shoulder and clipped one end of it to a steel cable running the length of the cabin. “Static line,” he shouted. “Count to ten. If your chute doesn’t open by the time you’re finished, pull this.” He held up a triangular piece of tubing, took Stone’s arm and moved it out and up from his body. “Rip cord,” he said.

  “Wait a minute!” Stone shouted, but the group of men had started shuffling aft, and the sergeant grabbed Stone’s arm and marched him along, snatching the muffs from his ears. There was a red light over the open rear door, and as he watched it went out, and a green light came on. People began to jump out of the airplane. As Stone approached the open door he craned his neck to get a look outside, and as he did the sergeant pushed him through the door. “Noooooooo!” Stone yelled as he fell into the daylight. Immediately, he felt a hard jerk, and he looked up to see his parachute billowing.

  Suddenly, it was quiet as the airplane flew away. There was no wind, and Stone could hear a dog barking somewhere on the ground. The parachutes of those who had jumped before him were stretched out in a line. Looking down, from what he estimated was a thousand feet or so, he saw a mostly bare, green landscape, with a tree here and there.

  He knew from old movies that he could pull on the straps holding him to alter his direction, but he seemed aligned with everyone else, so he didn’t see any point in experimenting. He began to think about how he was going to handle the landing. The others had their feet together, so he kept his that way.