Shoot First (A Stone Barrington Novel)

by Stuart Woods

  “You will be hearing from me, Mr. Barrington!” Beria shouted, as he was frog-marched from the room.

  46

  Joan came into Stone’s office as he was inserting the little .45 back into its nest under his arm. “What the hell was that all about?” she asked. “You should excuse the expression.”

  “Should those two return,” Stone said, “you have my permission to shoot them.” Joan kept a .45 of her own in her desk drawer.

  “It would be my pleasure,” she replied. “I hate rudeness in a man.”

  “Should you decide to do so, shoot first and think about it later,” Stone said. “And I wouldn’t be shocked if we received another such visit from a man named Owaki.”

  “Selwyn Owaki?” Joan asked, as if he were someone she had met at a bar.

  “How is it that you know that name?” Stone asked.

  “I read the New York Post,” she said. “On occasion.”

  “And from your deep research, what is your impression of Mr. Owaki?”

  “That he has an enormous amount of money, none of it honestly earned, that he is personally responsible for roughly half of everyone on the planet who dies of a gunshot wound, that he eats innocent babies for breakfast.” She thought about it. “Have I left out anything?”

  “A great deal,” Stone replied. “For instance, you failed to mention that he uses the Russians’ UN mission as sort of a branch office, which is the rock from under which our two recent visitors crawled, and that he derives a great deal of personal pleasure from the deaths of those whom he considers to be his enemies, which is pretty much everybody.”

  “Why hasn’t someone killed him?”

  “Because he makes that work almost impossibly difficult. He dwells in an aerie of a building he owns, not all that far from here, that no one can enter without a full body scan and considerable goosing of the private areas.”

  “Doesn’t anybody know how to kill with their hands anymore?” she asked.

  “Apparently not.”

  “I don’t know what the world is coming to,” she said sadly. “In my day select people—secret agents, hired guns, Girl Scouts who expected to sell their cookies without getting raped—were taught to kill with a single thumb.”

  “Were you a Girl Scout?” Stone asked.

  “Of course. How do you think I know this stuff?”

  “Go bolt the front door and guard it with your life,” Stone said, “and tell Fred to be on his guard.” He picked up the phone and called Dino.

  “Now what?” Dino asked, sounding exasperated.

  “Well, for a start, the Russian gorilla Ivanov has definitely not left the country.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “He just left my office in the company of Stanislav Beria and four of Mike Freeman’s finest.”

  “Why was he in your office?”

  “He was supposed to intimidate me into giving Beria what he wants.”

  “Which is what?”

  “A computer thumb drive containing all of Meg Harmon’s greatest hits.”

  “The car without a driver?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And why does he think you have this thing?”

  “Because I got it from Gino Bellini, shortly before he was dispatched by these same two gentlemen.”

  “I would get rid of it, if I were you.”

  “I have already returned it to its mother.”

  “Then I would get her out of town.”

  “I tried that once, remember?”

  “I remember very well that your leaving town kept that awful thing from happening on my turf.”

  “That’s your only concern, isn’t it? Moving it off your turf?”

  “You guessed it, pal.”

  “You’re not concerned about my personal safety?”

  “That’s what Strategic Services is for. It’s not my job to provide you with a personal police force, though you often seem to think it is.”

  “I’m hurt.”

  “Well, I hope you’re ambulatory, so you can get your ass moving. You do remember who Beria works for, don’t you?”

  “If I had forgotten, Beria and Ivanov were anxious to remind me.”

  “Why didn’t you have Joan shoot them?”

  “I have already given her instructions to that effect, but a little late.”

  “Timing is everything,” Dino replied. “That’s why I’m telling you to take Ms. Harmon and visit one of your many residences.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until somebody offs Selwyn Owaki, or you give him what he wants, whichever comes first.”

  “Joan says she could kill him with her thumb.”

  “I believe her,” Dino said. “Viv could probably do that, too. She says the Girl Scouts taught her.”

  “That’s what Joan says.”

  “Enough of this banter,” Dino said. “Pick a house, pack a bag, grab your girl, and get your ass in gear.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Not for too long. I don’t want to have to scrape you off a sidewalk somewhere in my fair city. Call me when you get wherever you’re going.” Dino hung up.

  Stone called upstairs, and Meg answered.

  “Are you all unpacked?” he asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, start packing again, and bring your passport.”

  “Why?”

  “We have to get out of town all over again.”

  “That didn’t work out so well last time, did it?”

  “I thought it worked out very well indeed,” Stone said.

  “People died.”

  “I don’t mind that so much, as long as it isn’t you and me.”

  “You have a point. How long do I have to pack, and what sort of climate have you chosen?”

  “An hour, cool and damp, with occasional sunshine.”

  “I can handle that without major shopping.”

  “Oh, and do you still have that thumb drive of Bellini’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my purse.”

  “Don’t you have any pockets?”

  “Certainly not, I’m a girl.”

  “I forgot.”

  “After last night? You’re not very observant, are you?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Oh, all right. An hour.” She hung up.

  47

  Stone completed his preflight checks and escorted Meg onto the airplane and into the right cockpit seat.

  “Why can’t I sit in the back, like before?” she asked.

  “Because Viv isn’t there to hold your hand, and I don’t want you to be nervous.”

  “What if I’m nervous anyway?”

  “I’ve put you in the cockpit next to me so that you can absorb what goes into piloting a jet airplane.”

  “Well, that’s something I don’t intend ever to do.”

  “One never knows, do one?” Stone handed her the checklist and commanded her to read it aloud to him, one item at a time. This took only about three times as long as if he had done it himself, but at least she was getting an idea of what was involved.

  That completed, he called the tower and asked for a clearance. A company called Pat Frank, after a woman who was a client of his, had already sent him a detailed weather report and filed his flight plans for this day and the next.

  Stone wrote down his clearance and entered his route into the flight computer, then he called ground control and was given permission to taxi to runway 1.

  “When do I get to know where we’re going?” Meg asked.

  “Today we’re flying to St. John’s in Newfoundland,” Stone replied. “Tomorrow will be a surprise.”

  “Newfoundland,” she said. “Brrrr
r.”

  “You’ll find it pleasant this time of year,” Stone said. He was cleared for takeoff, then taxied into position on runway 1 and pushed the throttles smoothly forward. “Here we go.” A little longer than a moment later, he lifted the nose of the airplane and it flew off the runway.

  “That was kind of fun,” Meg said.

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be taking flying lessons,” Stone said, raising the landing gear and the flaps.

  “Why can’t you teach me?”

  “Because teaching you to fly would require reserves of patience and kindness that I do not possess. It’s better if you learn from a professional.”

  “Like learning to drive?”

  “Yes, but there are fewer things to bump into.” At 450 feet, he pressed the autopilot button and took his hands off the yoke.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.

  “I’m turning the airplane over to the autopilot, which does a better job than I.” Stone received instructions to climb on course, and the airplane turned itself to the right.

  “How long a flight?”

  “A little over three hours. Would you like the New York Times?”

  “I’d rather have a drink.”

  “We don’t fly with alcoholic beverages aboard,” Stone said. “The pilot might be tempted to have one, and we don’t want that.”

  “Then I’ll make do with the Times,” she said.

  He reached behind him, retrieved the newspaper, and handed it to her. “Remember to look out the window now and then. The views are nice.”

  “What will we do in St. John’s?” she asked.

  “We refuel and check into a hotel for the night. I want to land in daylight tomorrow.”

  “Why? Can’t you land at night?”

  “Yes, but in the daytime the views are better.”

  * * *

  —

  THEY LANDED on schedule at St. John’s, refueled, checked into a hotel, made love a couple of times, had a good breakfast early the next morning, and lifted off at eight AM.

  After a few minutes Meg looked out the window. “I don’t see anything but ocean,” she said.

  “That’s because we’re crossing it.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “About three and a half hours. We have a tailwind of more than a hundred knots, and that makes it fast.”

  “And where do we land?”

  “That’s the surprise.” Stone leveled off at flight level 410, and the airplane began to pick up speed. Soon they were at a true airspeed of 425 knots, but the tailwind gave them a groundspeed of 650 knots. Stone selected some classical music on the satellite radio. “Eventually we’ll run out of satellite and thus, music,” he said.

  “But it’s calming my nerves.”

  “By that time you’ll be as calm as you’re going to get.”

  Nearly three hours later, he pointed into the distance. “Land, ho!” he said.

  Meg peered into the distance. “I see it. Which land is it?”

  “Ireland.”

  “Are we stopping there?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the next country is England. Are we stopping there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in England?”

  “That’s the surprise.”

  With Ireland behind them air traffic control gave them permission to descend, and soon the south coast of England was beneath them.

  “You’re right,” Meg said, “the views are lovely.”

  “I’m usually right,” Stone replied. “Not always, but usually.”

  They got lower and lower.

  “Are we about to land?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where? I don’t see an airport.”

  “Look dead ahead. You’ll see a long strip of pavement with trees on both sides. There’s a fairly large house to your left.”

  “I see the runway, but there’s no airport.”

  “It’s a private runway. During World War Two it was a bomber base for the RAF.”

  “I see several large houses. Which is yours?”

  Stone pointed. “The tour is over now. I have to concentrate on landing.”

  “But . . .”

  “Shhhh.”

  Stone lined up for the runway, corrected for a slight crosswind, dropped the landing gear, and progressively added flaps, until a woman’s voice said, “Five hundred feet.”

  “Who was that?” Meg asked.

  Stone didn’t answer but slowed to 110 knots and smoothly set down the airplane. “We have arrived at Windward Hall,” Stone said.

  “Who are those people over there?” She pointed.

  “The two gentlemen in uniforms are customs and immigration officials. The one in a suit is Major Bugg, the estate manager.”

  Stone taxied up to the two vehicles, stopped, and shut down the engines. Shortly, they were unloaded and were presenting their passports to officialdom.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Barrington,” one of them said. They got into their vehicle and drove away.

  Stone introduced Meg to Major Bugg, who had already put their luggage into a Range Rover. “And the man driving the tug is George,” Stone said, as George towed the aircraft into its hangar.

  Shortly, they pulled up in front of Windward Hall, and help came to take their luggage to the master suite. Stone gave Meg a tour of the ground floor, and they were served drinks in the library. Major Bugg gave Stone the Times of London and the local paper and excused himself.

  Something caught Stone’s eye at the bottom of the front page of the local paper. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

  “Really? My scotch is very good.”

  He showed her the story, which was about how a billionaire had bought a local car factory and saved the workers’ jobs.

  “Who is this man?” Meg asked.

  “His name is Selwyn Owaki,” Stone replied.

  “And who is he?”

  “He’s the man we came all this way to get away from.”

  48

  Meg stared at Stone. “Who is he, and why did we come all this way to avoid him?”

  Stone handed her the newspaper, and she read the article, then put it down.

  “Selwyn Owaki sells arms to whoever has the money, and he doesn’t care where or how they got it.”

  “He sounds charming,” Meg said wryly.

  “Actually, he has that reputation, when he’s not murdering his competition. All sorts of people—even people who are very rich themselves—are attracted to and deceived by people who have vast quantities of money.”

  “Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “It is one of the great mysteries of human nature. Americans, particularly, seem to suffer from this affliction. Haven’t you noticed differences in the way you are treated by others since you became very wealthy?”

  “Well, now that you mention it . . .”

  “You’ll have to learn to distinguish between people who simply admire your industry and those who hope to take some of it away from you, in one way or another. Selwyn Owaki is one of the latter group.”

  “And what does he want from me?”

  “The designs and specifications of your self-driving vehicles.”

  “You mean he’s the one who bought the stolen files from Gino Bellini?”

  “Yes, but he dealt through Stanislav Beria, an official at the Russians’ UN mission. Owaki always deals through others when doing something illegal, immoral, or both.”

  “Ah, I think I see now why Mr. Owaki has bought an automobile factory.”

  “Yes, and one not five miles from this estate.” Stone tapped out an e-mail to Mike Freeman, asking for protective measures to be taken for himself and Meg. “I’m afraid we’re going to become prisoners in this house un
til the issue is resolved.”

  “Which issue is that?”

  “Whether Owaki is able to lay his hands on your data, and whether he will try to kill us in the process.”

  “I would prefer not on either account.”

  “As would I. Don’t worry, Mr. Owaki has no way of knowing we’re here, and even if he did, by tomorrow morning Strategic Services will have established a cordon around the house to keep out unwelcome visitors.”

  Meg rummaged in her purse and came up with a thumb drive. “So what he wants is this?”

  “Yes.”

  She peered at it. “Sorry, wrong thumb drive.” She went through her bag again and came up with another. “This thumb drive.”

  “Right. What’s on the other one?”

  “A draft copy of our quarterly report,” she said. “Actually, it could be quite valuable to someone with knowledge of it, since it is very favorable, and the stock price will shoot up when it’s released in a few days.”

  “I think we need to put the one containing the designs of the car in a safe place.”

  “Where would you suggest?”

  “A safe,” Stone replied. “Come with me.” He walked across the room and swung out a picture the frame of which was hinged. Behind it lay a safe with a digital lock. Stone tapped in the code, asking Meg to memorize it as he did, then he opened the door, stepped back, and allowed her to place the thumb drive on a shelf. He locked it and returned the picture to its original position, then they returned to their sofa and their drinks.

  “This is a very beautiful house,” Meg said. “How did you come by it?”

  “A friend of mine, Dame Felicity Devonshire, who lives just across the Beaulieu River—spelled the French way but pronounced ‘Bewley.’ I was in Rome on business and I got a call from her, asking me to come and visit her in England, that she had something to show me. That something turned out to be this estate.

  “It was owned by Sir Charles Bourne, a delightful Englishman who was ill and slowly dying, and he wanted to sell the place to keep it from falling into the hands of either of his two children, both of whom he despised. Felicity brought me here to see the place, which was nearing the end of a complete renovation, paid for with money that would otherwise have gone to his heirs.