by Stuart Woods
“You said only that you were on a coast.”
“I said I was on the A coast!”
Stone was baffled, then he got it. “The A coast?”
“Yes!”
“I’m sorry, we didn’t get that, the big A.”
“I’ve been living under a rock. I got out of my room during the night after I talked to you on the phone.”
“That was the night we figured it out. Look, we’ll sit down tomorrow after you’ve had a bath and a good night’s sleep, and I’ll take you through everything we did to find you.”
“Are you saying I need a bath?” Her voice was rising again.
“Well, yes, don’t you think so? Just tell me what you want, Hedy, and I’ll arrange it. Just tell me.”
“All right: I want to be driven back to Rome right now. I want to go to my apartment, where I can have the bath I apparently need so much, and pack my things. I want to be on a plane for New York tomorrow afternoon. Can you handle all that?”
“Just a moment,” Stone said, and snagged the passing Dante. He explained what Hedy needed.
“All right,” Dante said. “Do you have a passport?”
Hedy looked nonplussed. “No, it’s in Paris, in my handbag, in Stone’s house.”
“All right, someone will drive you to Rome now. You’ll be picked up tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock and driven to the American Embassy, which will issue you a new passport, then you will be driven to the airport. I’ll see that you have a seat on the two PM Alitalia flight to New York, and that a ticket is waiting for you. Is that satisfactory?”
“Most satisfactory,” Hedy said.
“You must remember that you will need to return to Rome for Casselli’s trial, in a few months.”
“All right, if I have to.”
“I’ll have your things at my Paris house overnighted to New York tomorrow,” Stone said. He handed her his telephone. “Now call Arthur.”
She took the phone and walked a few steps away. “How do I call the States?” she asked. Stone gave her the code. She was apparently connected quickly, because she spent the next three minutes talking rapidly, then hung up and handed Stone his phone. “Arthur is having me met.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Stone asked.
“I’ll let you know if I think of something.”
“You have my number. Do you still have your cell phone?”
“Yes,” she said, patting her pocket. “And you wouldn’t believe where it’s been.”
Dante stepped up with his female officer. “This is Maria. She will drive you to Rome and your apartment. Are you ready to go?”
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to go,” she said. She grabbed a plate of food and a glass of wine from a kitchen counter. “Let’s go, Maria.”
Stone and Dante watched them walk to the elevator and go down. “What was that all about?” Dante asked.
“Hedy felt that we had taken too long to find her. I’ll explain it all tomorrow, if she’s speaking to me.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Dante said. “She’s pretty angry.”
“What’s going on over there?” Stone asked. Two of his men were sitting at the dining table, speaking to one of the male guests.
“We’re identifying all the men and checking our computer for arrest warrants. At the very least, we’ll be charging them with associating with criminals—that is, Casselli and the other guests. I believe we’ll net a couple of dozen convictions from this crowd.”
Dino walked up. “What’s going on? I just saw Hedy leave with a policewoman.”
“She’s upset with me, says I didn’t do enough to find her quickly.”
Dino shook his head. “Are you ready to get out of here? I don’t think they need us anymore.”
“I’ll get someone to drive you,” Dante said.
“It’s a pity you didn’t speak up sooner,” Stone said. “We could have ridden with Hedy.”
Dino laughed. “From the look of her, she’d probably go for my gun.”
“What about your drums?”
“I gave them to Guido—they’re his problem now.”
“Viv will be so relieved.”
59
There was no one available to drive them, so they were given a car with a GPS and Dino drove.
“So, what are your plans now?” he asked Stone.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to go over the hotel plans with Marcel, and see if there’s anything else to help him with. The day after, I’m going to fly the airplane to England. I have an invitation from Felicity Devonshire. She says she’s got something she wants to show me.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet she does.”
“Something besides that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know—she says it’s a secret.”
“And you’re willing to fly to England for that?”
“It’s got to be important, or she wouldn’t have insisted I come. Anyway, it’ll be nice to see her, especially since Hedy is never going to speak to me again.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll fly the airplane back to Teterboro, via Lisbon and the Azores. I should be back by the end of the week, at the most. Are you leaving tomorrow?”
“I spoke to Viv. She’s making our travel arrangements now.”
“You might be on the airplane with Hedy,” Stone pointed out. “Dante is putting her on the Alitalia flight at two PM.”
“That’s our flight, I think.”
“If you get the opportunity, tell Hedy what we’ve been doing for the past few days, will you?”
“I’ll let Viv handle that, I think.”
“Smart move.”
It was past midnight before they were back at Marcel’s place and in their beds.
—
The following morning Stone called Felicity, and he was put through immediately by her assistant.
“Hello, there.”
“Hi. I can be there tomorrow, if that’s okay.”
“Wonderful. Do you have a dinner jacket with you?”
“Yes, I played in a band last night. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Good. We’ll go across the Solent and have dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron. There’s someone I want you to meet who’ll be dining with us.”
“You’re not handing me off to another woman, are you?”
“Perish the thought. What time will you arrive?”
“Where should I land?”
“At Southampton. I’ll arrange hangar space and fuel for you.”
“Okay. Shall we say two PM?”
“I’ll meet you on the ramp at Signature Flight Support, and I’ll arrange your prior permission to land. What’s your tail number?”
“November One Two Three Tango Foxtrot.”
“See you then.” She hung up, before he could ask about the secret.
Stone went downstairs and found Marcel in his office. “I’m sorry about the past few days,” he said, “all those people in your apartment.”
“Not at all,” Marcel said. “I’m just glad everything turned out so well.”
“How are things proceeding with the hotel?”
“Suddenly very well. I tell you the truth, if that had turned out to be Hedy’s finger in that box, I would have walked away from everything here.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t.”
Marcel took him through a list of things he was getting done at the building site. “By tomorrow, we’ll be under construction again. Grand opening in about ten months. We’ll set a date when we’re further along.”
“Sounds good. I expect I’ll have to come back for Casselli’s trial at some point.”
“You will always be a welcome guest here. What are your plans now?”
“If yo
u don’t need me further, I’ll fly to England tomorrow morning to visit a friend for a few days, then on to New York, via Lisbon and the Azores.”
“You have the range for that?”
“Ample range, 1,850 miles, 2,000 if I use less than full cruise power. Don’t worry.”
“You’ll be alone?”
“I’ve done a lot of flying alone. I’ll be just fine.”
“Whatever you say, my friend. Now let’s go upstairs, say goodbye to Dino and Vivian, and have some lunch.”
“Good idea,” Stone replied, and followed him to the elevator.
60
Stone landed his airplane at Southampton Airport, in England, and taxied to the FBO, Signature Aviation. As he came to a halt and shut down his engines, an Aston Martin coupe drew up alongside the airplane, closely followed by a sinister-looking black Range Rover with darkened windows, as was Felicity’s due as director of MI6, the British foreign intelligence service. As Stone opened the cabin door and came down the steps, Dame Felicity Devonshire got out of the Aston Martin and flung herself into his arms.
After a kiss and a hug, Stone stowed the cabin steps, closed and locked the door, and got his bags out of the forward luggage compartment. A man in a dark suit got out of the Range Rover, took his luggage, and stowed it in the SUV.
“What airplane is this?” Felicity asked.
“The new one: a Citation CJ3 Plus.”
“I love the paint job.”
“Thanks, it’s my own. You can always spot me on a ramp by the stars on the tail.” He walked around the car. “And what Aston Martin is this?”
“It’s the DBS, brand-new. I recently sold my father’s estate in Kent, so I splurged.”
“You certainly did.” Stone got into the passenger seat. “I should check in at the FBO.”
“Don’t bother, it’s taken care of. They’ll put it in the hangar straightaway and refuel it whenever you like.”
“So what’s the big surprise?”
“You’ll have to wait a little while and take a boat ride, before all is revealed.” She drove quickly out of town and onto a motorway for a short distance, which she covered in record time. Soon they were driving through the village of Beaulieu, then down the eastern side of the Beaulieu River, a tidal estuary that flowed into the Solent, the body of water separating the Isle of Wight from the mainland. Soon she used a remote control to open a wrought iron gate, hung on old stone pillars, and drove down a driveway lined by ancient trees until a large stone cottage with a slate roof revealed itself.
“Come with me,” she said. “My housekeeper will take your bags upstairs and press your dinner suit.” She led him through a handsomely decorated living room and out a rear door, and they walked down a stone path to a dock, where a charming old wooden cabin cruiser was moored. She got the engines started while Stone dealt with the lines, and they proceeded downstream half a mile and tied up at another dock, where a sign read: WINDWARD HALL. They walked up from the floating pontoon and were met by a man in an electric vehicle who took them down a shaded drive.
“Stop here, Stan,” Felicity said. “Come on, Stone, we’ll walk.”
Stone got down from the cart and followed her farther along the narrow road. Without warning they emerged from the trees, and there before them, in a lovely meadow, dotted with old oaks and half a dozen grazing horses, was the most beautiful Georgian house Stone had ever seen. It was large and symmetrical, with wings extending from either side. In the center was a white portico supported by four slender columns. Stone’s breath was taken away. “I’ve never seen anything so perfect,” he said.
“That was my reaction, too, when I first saw this house as a child. The owner was a friend of my father’s.”
“Who lives here?”
“Sir Charles Bourne,” she said. “Come, let’s go inside.”
“Is he expecting us?”
“He’s in London this afternoon. He’ll join us for dinner at the Royal Yacht Squadron in Cowes tonight, but someone else is expecting us.” They walked up the steps, and the door was opened by a butler in his shirtsleeves and an apron, who stuffed a cleaning cloth into his pocket. “Hello, Geoffrey,” she said. “This is Mr. Barrington. He’s come to see the house.”
“Of course, Dame Felicity,” the man said in a beautifully modulated voice. “Ms. Blackburn is in the library. Shall I escort you?”
“No, Geoffrey, we’ll find our way.” They entered a central hall; the pictures had been removed, and scaffolding set up. “It’s undergoing a major renovation, which is not yet quite done,” she said, showing him a drawing room to his left and a library to his right, which had had all the books removed. “He’s having many of the books rebound at a country bindery nearby, and the paneling sanded with two new coats of varnish. There are probably ten or twelve coats present already.”
Another woman walked into the room, bearing a canvas carryall and a large drawing pad.
“Stone, this is Susan Blackburn, one of Britain’s finest interior designers.”
Stone took her hand. “I know your work from pictures in magazines,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”
“How do you do, Mr. Barrington?” she said coolly. She was tall, perhaps five-ten, and was wearing jeans and a chambray work shirt. Somehow, she made the clothes look elegant.
“Susan, will you show us what you’re doing?”
“Of course.” She walked them through the library and the drawing room, then took them to a lovely old kitchen with brand-new appliances, then upstairs and to the master suite, which was without furniture or curtains. “We’ve taken a small bedroom next door and turned it into a dressing room and bath, so there will be two of each. I think that arrangement preserves relationships.”
“I agree,” Stone said. “I have a similar arrangement in my New York house.”
“There are four other bedrooms, each with en suite baths. The present house is the third on a very old property and was built in the 1920s. During the war, the RAF requisitioned it for a bomber base. They didn’t give it up until the sixties. Sir Charles bought the place at that time and gave it a thorough systems upgrade, and all mod cons were installed, even air conditioning. The house got pretty run-down and is now undergoing its first full renovation since that time.” Some of the rooms were very nearly complete and Stone was impressed with the beauty of the fabrics and wallpapers the designer had employed. “The original estate was more than two thousand acres, in the eighteenth century, but now it’s only around a hundred and twenty. There are four cottages, a stable, and a greenhouse on the property.”
They spent an hour seeing the house and the beautifully tended gardens. “The renovation is on schedule to be completed in six months’ time,” Susan said. “Sir Charles has moved into one of the cottages for the duration. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to return to London for a meeting.” She shook hands and departed.
“There’s one more thing I want to show you,” Felicity said. She took him back to the waiting cart, and they drove half a mile or so, through a grove of large trees, and emerged into a wide space bisected by a runway.
“I didn’t know Brits had private airfields,” Stone said.
“As Susan said, the RAF built it as a bomber base during the war, and Charles has maintained it as a fully functioning airfield. It even has a published GPS instrument approach, I’m told. Charles owned and flew a King Air, which he has recently sold.”
“Is he getting too old to fly?”
“Too ill,” Felicity said. “His doctors have given him only a few months to live. You wouldn’t know it to see him, but he’s really quite sick: his heart. They’ve told him that when the end comes, it will come quickly.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Stone said. “It’s sad that he won’t get to enjoy the house when the work is complete.”
“Yes, it is.”
�
�Does he have family who will inherit?”
“He has a son and a daughter from whom he has been estranged for at least twenty years. Both are childless, and he won’t leave the house to the National Trust, which he regards as some sort of communist institution that robs the wealthy of their property.”
Stone waved a hand. “And this is your secret?”
“Not anymore.”
“And why are you showing it to me?”
“Because I expect you to buy the place.”
—
To be continued . . .
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I am happy to hear from readers, but you should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.
However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my website at www.stuartwoods.com, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.
If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is probably because you are among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.
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Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of Writer’s Market at any bookstore; that will tell you how.
