“Can’t you be my accountant?”
“Certainly not. I’m your lawyer; I have little financial expertise. That guy can tell you how to hang on to your money and to live on the income from it.”
“Okay, I’ll call him. By the way, I want the apartment in Sheila’s and my names.”
“Too late,” Stone said. “All the documents are in your name; it would take a long time to change them, and you couldn’t move into the apartment today.”
“Oh, we moved in last week,” Herbie said.
“How did you do that?”
“I swiped a key from the real estate lady.”
“Herbie, we close today, with the apartment in your name.”
“But I told Sheila …”
“You tell Sheila to call me for an appointment. I’ll sort it out.”
Joan buzzed. “The seller and his attorney and the real estate agent are here.”
“Send them in,” Stone said, moving to the conference table. “Herbie, say nothing during these proceedings. All you do is sign your name where I point, and keep your mouth shut.”
Somewhat to Stone’s astonishment, Herbie did just that, and in a little over half an hour everything was signed and the transaction completed. The seller’s team left.
Stone handed Herbie two sets of keys. “Here are the keys you’re supposed to have. You can move in now.”
Herbie pocketed the keys and shook Stone’s hand. “Thanks, Stone, you’ve been great.”
“See that accountant, Herbie, or soon you won’t have any money left.”
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” Herbie promised and then ran out of the office.
Joan came in. “How’d it go?”
“Very smoothly,” Stone replied. “Good job on the document package.”
“It’s what I do,” she said.
“Among many other things. Felicity was very impressed with how quickly you put together the dinner party for tomorrow night.”
“It was easy, once each guest knew who the other guests would be.”
“Oh, you’d better hire a waiter and somebody to help Helene in the kitchen.”
“I have already done so.”
“I suppose you’ve planned the menu, too.”
“Hot hors d’oeuvres, then crab soup to start, followed by beef Wellington, pommes soufflées and haricots verts. Crème brûlée for dessert. You can pick the wines.”
“Thank you very much, and give yourself a ten percent raise.”
“Oh, good!” she squealed and gave him a big hug.
Stone reflected that if she quit, he’d have to shoot himself.
33
Stone went into the dining room to check the table setting and to distribute the place cards. The hired waiter came into the room, and Stone took him to the chair where Hackett would be sitting. “Is Bob Cantor here yet?” Cantor was coming to handle the fingerprinting.
“Ten minutes ago,” the waiter replied.
Stone picked up the three wineglasses at Hackett’s place and polished them with his linen handkerchief. “Now these three glasses are free of fingerprints,” he said. “When you clear away each course, take the empty wineglass into the kitchen, holding it by the stem, not touching the bowl, and give it to Bob, understand?”
“Got it,” the waiter said.
BILL EGGERS AND his wife arrived exactly on time for dinner, which meant ten minutes before anyone else. The waiter served them drinks.
“I wanted to tell you, before the others arrive, that Jim Hackett met with our intellectual property people this afternoon, and they pleased him. He’s on board with Strategic Services, and he’s said that if we do a good job, he’ll give us more business.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone said.
“You’ll find your rainmaking reflected in your bonus.”
“I’m delighted to hear that, too.”
“Jim has also said that he’d like you to take on some projects for him.”
“I’m glad to do that as long as you’re on board with it.”
“I am.”
“Did he say what sorts of things he’d like me to do?”
“No. In fact he specified that, while nothing he assigns you will be a conflict of interest with Woodman and Weld, the details of your assignments would remain strictly between you and him. I’ll rely on you to avoid conflicts.”
“I will do so.”
Felicity came downstairs and was reintroduced to the Eggerses, then the doorbell rang, and the former commissioner and his wife, Mitzi, walked in. It was the first time Stone had seen them since the wedding. Stone shook the commissioner’s hand, and Mitzi offered him a cheek while Felicity observed, then was introduced.
Jim Hackett was the last to arrive, with a beautiful woman called Vanessa, to whom, Stone surmised, Hackett was not married. They settled in for cocktails, while the waiter brought hot hors d’oeuvres.
“Stone,” Hackett said, “I expect Bill has told you I met with his people this afternoon.”
“Yes, he has.”
“I was pleased with what I heard, and I thank you for arranging it,” Hackett said. “Dame Felicity, it’s good to see you again after so much time has passed.”
“I’m pleased to see you, Mr. Hackett,” Felicity replied.
“It’s just plain Jim, please.”
“And it’s just plain Felicity.” Her gaze seemed to be boring into Hackett. “We met at a dinner party in London some years ago, as I recall.”
“That’s correct.”
“I thought at the time you seemed familiar. Had we ever met before that?”
“No, I don’t believe so, though I did meet your father once, at lunch at the Garrick Club. He was a very impressive gentleman.”
“The Garrick was his favorite,” Felicity said. “I understand you are a native of the Shetland Islands.”
“I am.”
“You grew up there?”
“Yes. My father was a crofter—he tended the sheep—and my mother was the weaver.”
“You’ve made quite a leap from those days, haven’t you?”
“From those days to these required a number of leaps,” Hackett said. “The army got me out, and then I got out of the army.”
“How did you come to be in the security business?”
“I was in the Paratroop Regiment, and on occasion we served as armed guards for various high-ranking officers and other dignitaries. A mate of mine left the regiment and joined a security firm, and then invited me to join when my enlistment was up. The two of us were adept at devising new security procedures, and eventually we went out on our own. My partner was killed in a car-bomb explosion, and I was left with the business.”
“What was his name?” she asked.
“Tim Timmons,” Hackett replied. “He had no family, so his half of the business came to me.”
Stone could practically see her memorizing this information.
STONE HAD PICKED particularly good wines from his cellar, and they went down well at dinner. Even Felicity and Mitzi seemed to take to each other, and Hackett went out of his way to be charming to Felicity. Stone tried to just watch and listen. The waiter appeared to be doing his job with Hackett’s wineglasses.
WHEN THE GUESTS had gone, Stone went into the kitchen and found Bob Cantor. “How did it go?” he asked.
“I’ve got clear prints of the thumb and four fingers of his right hand,” Bob said, handing Stone a sheet of paper. “I’ve scanned and printed them for you.”
“Great job,” Stone said. “Talk to you later.” Stone went back into the living room and handed Felicity the prints. “All five fingers, right hand,” he said.
“Perfect,” she replied. “I’ll get them checked in the morning.”
They went upstairs and undressed for bed. “Well,” he asked, “what did you think about Hackett?”
“I was mesmerized,” she said.
“Was there anything about him that reminded you of Stanley Whitestone?”
/> “Everything and nothing. First I would think that I had detected some word or movement that was Whitestone, then it would be gone, submerged in Hackett’s personality. He gave a bravura performance.”
“So you think it was a performance?”
“At least to the extent that everyone performs at a good dinner party, and, by the way, it was a good dinner party. You’re an excellent host.”
“I suppose your people will be checking out this Tim Timmons?”
“Oh, certainly,” she said, “and I expect we’ll find that the facts will jibe with Hackett’s account of them.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because everyone makes mistakes, even James Hackett, and when he does, I want to be on top of things.”
“I have to tell you that I’m convinced Hackett is who he says he is.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody could so completely morph his identity into that of another. I mean, you knew Whitestone, and Hackett had no hesitation in talking to you all evening.”
“You know the films of Laurence Olivier, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s what Olivier did—submerge himself into character—and I think that’s what Hackett has done. I think Hackett is the Olivier of liars.”
“What is Whitestone’s background?”
“You’ve heard some of it: Eton and Cambridge, recruited there.”
“Who was his father?”
“The bastard son of a marquess who was sent into the church and served out his years as a small-parish vicar.”
“Has all that been substantiated?”
“Of course. When one is at both Eton and Cambridge, one leaves indelible footprints that anyone can follow.”
“Hackett says that when Whitestone met him, seeking employment, he said he was Harrow and Sandhurst, son of an army colonel.”
“A person with such a background would leave equally indelible footprints and if he lied would easily be found out. It is impossible to believe that Whitestone would have invented such an easily penetrated legend.”
“What about Hackett’s ‘legend,’ as you put it?”
“More difficult, at least his early years. The Paratroop Regiment is another thing, though. After all, they keep records.”
“And you’ve already read them?”
“It’s being looked into,” Felicity said.
Stone reflected that he would not enjoy Felicity looking into some lie of his own.
34
Stone was at his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed him. “Mr. Jim Hackett on one,” she said.
Stone picked up the phone. “Good morning, Jim,” he said.
“A perfectly wonderful dinner last night, Stone, and with very fine company.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Jim. We were happy to have you.”
“Dame Felicity turned out to be much more … approachable than I had surmised from our first meeting.”
“A couple of glasses of Champagne will do that.”
“Well, thanks again. Now to business: you’re mine for the next two, two and a half weeks. I’ve cleared this with Bill Eggers, so clear your decks.”
“All right. What do I do?”
“Someone is sitting in your outer office at this moment who will explain everything. I probably won’t speak to you again until you’ve completed your assignment, so have a good time.”
“I’ll try,” Stone said, but Hackett had already hung up.
Joan buzzed. “A Ms. Ida Ann Dunn to see you, representing Mr. James Hackett.”
“Send her in,” Stone said.
A handsome woman of about fifty entered his office carrying a satchel and followed by Joan, who was carrying two other cases. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington,” she said, dropping her heavy satchel on his desk and opening it.
“Please call me Stone.”
“And you may call me Ida Ann,” she replied, hefting a large three-ring notebook from her satchel and dropping it with a thump before him. “Over the next five days or so, you will memorize this,” she said. The cover read Operators Manual, Cessna 510. “And this,” she said, placing a smaller book on top of it, the title of which was Garmin G-1000 Cockpit Reference Guide.
“After the five-day study period with me, you will meet Mr. Dan Phelan, who will instruct you in the actual flying of the Cessna 510. After thirty or forty hours in the airplane, you’ll take a check ride with an FAA examiner, who will issue you a type rating for the 510. Any questions? No, never mind. I’ll ask the questions; you start reading.”
Stone opened the operator’s manual. “Why am I doing this?” he asked.
“If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Barrington—Stone—that’s a rather stupid question. You are doing this because Mr. Hackett is paying you to do so.”
“Of course,” Stone replied. He picked up the phone and buzzed Joan.
“Yes?”
“Clear my schedule for the next two weeks,” he said. “Make that two and a half weeks.”
“That will be easy,” Joan replied. “The only thing we have scheduled for the next two and a half weeks is a visit from the Xerox man and, probably, several visits from Herbie Fisher.”
“You deal with the first fellow, then tell Mr. Fisher I’ll be unavailable. And hold all my calls, except those of Felicity Devonshire.”
“You betcha,” she replied and hung up.
Ida Ann Dunn now had a laptop projector set up on the conference table and a screen hung on a wall. “Come over here, please, Stone, and bring the operator’s manual with you.”
Stone took a seat at the conference table, and Ida Ann began. By the time Stone was allowed to have a sandwich at the conference table, she had covered structural systems, electrical systems and lighting with slides and animation, while he kept up the pace in the manual. She ate wordlessly, flipping through her notes.
After lunch, Ida Ann covered the master warning system, the fuel system, auxiliary power system and power plant. Promptly at five p.m., Ida Ann switched off the projector and handed Stone several sheets of paper.
“Quiz time,” she said. “As you will note, the examination is multiple choice. You have forty minutes.”
“May I be excused to go to the restroom?” Stone asked.
“Be quick about it,” she replied.
Stone was quick, and then he tackled the exam.
Ida Ann ran quickly through it. “You missed a question,” she said. “Let’s review the fuel system again.”
Twenty minutes later, satisfied that he understood his error, she dismissed him, said she would see him at nine the following morning, then was gone.
Stone stood up and stretched, rubbing his neck.
“And what was that all about?” Joan asked from the doorway.
“I’m being taught to fly a jet airplane,” he said.
“At the conference table?”
“First, ground school, then flying.”
“And Hackett is paying you to do this?”
“He is. Call Eggers’s office later this week and find out how much to bill him.”
“Will do. Oh, Felicity called and said she’d meet you at Elaine’s at eight-thirty.”
“Then I have time for a nap,” Stone said, heading upstairs, exhausted.
STONE ARRIVED AT Elaine’s to find Dino already there, as usual, and the two ordered drinks while they waited for Felicity.
“How was your day?” Dino asked amiably.
“You won’t believe it,” Stone replied. “I spent it in ground school, learning to fly a Cessna Mustang.”
“Isn’t that a jet?”
“It is.”
“But you don’t own a jet.”
“I do not.”
“Are you planning to buy one?”
“I have a new client, Jim Hackett, who says that if I come to work for him, I’ll be able to buy one next year.”
“You’re leaving Woodman and Weld?”
“No. Hackett is hiring me t
hrough the firm for special projects.”
“And the first special project is learning to fly a jet?”
“You guessed it.”
“And he’s paying you for this?”
“You guessed it again.”
“How long will it take?”
“Two, two and a half weeks.”
“You can learn to fly a jet that fast?”
“You forget, I already know how to fly; I’m just learning a new airplane.”
Felicity made her entrance forty minutes late. “Apologies,” she said. “Drink.”
Stone waved at a waiter and secured a Rob Roy.
“How was your day?” she asked.
Stone gave her a brief account of it.
“And it takes only two weeks to learn?”
“If I’m lucky.”
“I’m not flying with you,” she said. “Let me know when you have a hundred hours.”
“I already have three thousand hours,” he said.
“A hundred hours in type.”
“Right. What have your day’s investigations produced?”
And she began to complain.
35
Felicity took a sip of her Rob Roy. “Turns out that the records of the Parachute Regiment at the time Hackett alleges he was a member are stored in an army warehouse in Aldershot, south of London.”
“So?” Stone asked. “Are they available?”
“They are available,” she replied, “but they are a sodden, mold-infested mess, having been placed in a corner of the warehouse that has been flooded twice by huge rainstorms in the past two years.”
“What can you do about that?”
“I’ve been able to spare two document specialists who are trying to dry and extract the relevant pages,” she replied, “but quite frankly, if I had a dozen people to spare for a year, that might not be enough manpower or time to find Hackett’s and Timmons’s records.”
“In this country,” Stone said, “if you are fingerprinted for anything—military service, for instance—your prints end up in the FBI database. Is the same true in Britain?”
“Yes, and we’ve already been to the police, but that far back, none of the records have been computerized, so a search of paper records has to be done by hand. The problem that arises is that hardly anyone with the police is old enough to know how to accomplish such a search, as opposed to a computer search. We are being defeated by the lack of old skills among younger employees. What’s more, the records from that time have also been stored in a warehouse in boxes that were poorly labeled.”
Stuart Woods Page 13
