by Stuart Woods
“I got a plate on the SUV.” She dictated it while he wrote it down. “And Dino is on one again. What’s going on?”
“Never you mind.” Stone pressed the button. “Dino, what did Ken have to say?”
“He says you’re in imminent danger, and that I should supply you with round-the-clock cops, though not on his budget.”
“We got a plate number on the black SUV,” Stone said, dictating it. “Run it, will you?”
“Hang.” Dino put him on hold. Two minutes of elevator music later, he was back. “The car is owned by Dominic Rentals, in Little Italy,” he said. “Do I need to find out who owns the company?”
“I can imagine,” Stone said. “Oh, bring a dinner jacket, and tell Viv you’re bringing it, so she won’t come to dinner in a slicker and Top-Siders. And I wouldn’t mind a cop on the door here, day and night, until we have abandoned the premises.”
“Done,” Dino said and hung up.
15
Jack Thomas, CEO of H. Thomas & Son, picked up his phone in response to a buzz. “Yes?”
“Sir,” his secretary said, “the chairman would like to see you—immediately, he says.”
The younger Thomas immediately broke into a sweat. “Right,” Jack said, and hung up. He grabbed a tissue, dabbed at his face and neck and walked out of his office into the vestibule with the private elevator and pressed the PH button. Moments later, he tapped on his father’s office door and received the shout, “Come!”
Jack walked into his father’s office suite, with its commanding view of New York Harbor, and found his father seated in his electric wheelchair next to the leather sofa, a bib tied around his neck, eating what he ate for lunch every day of his life: clam chowder and a glass of ale, followed by corned beef and cabbage from McSorley’s Old Ale House, on East 7th Street, the oldest pub in the city.
“Sit,” the old man said, as if he were a misbehaving dog.
Jack sat. “Good morning, Poppa,” he said.
“Boy,” his father replied, calling Jack what he always called him, “what’s this about a Tommassini file that some lawyer has got hold of.”
Jack was astonished that his father knew about this. Then again, the old man had always had his own private intelligence network at his beck and call. “It’s nothing,” Jack said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh? Then why haven’t you already taken care of it?”
“The lawyer, whose name is Barrington, has been out of the country, in Switzerland, temporarily beyond our reach, but he’s back now, and I am looking for opportunities to do this with some delicacy.”
“I haven’t heard the name Tommassini for more than twenty years, at least not applied to me and my family.”
“It shouldn’t concern you, Poppa,” Jack replied, as if the matter wasn’t worth his attention. “It will be dealt with.”
“And how do you plan to handle it with ‘delicacy,’ as you put it?”
“An accident will befall him.”
“I always knew that Bianchi was my enemy,” Henry snarled.
“Poppa, he was your best friend. He loved you.”
“If he loved me, why did he take notes on my life—and yours—and leave a file where others would find it after his death?”
“I don’t understand it,” Jack replied.
“I understand it,” Henry replied. “He was always drunk with power, had his hands on every lever. He wanted power over me even after he had gone to hell. He loved himself more than anyone, even his children. You know who he loved? His son-in-law, that policeman. He left a lot of money in a Swiss account, and all of it went to that sonofabitch and his son.”
Again, Jack was amazed and not a little appalled at what his father knew. “It’s not so much,” he replied. “His greedy wife is already spending it.”
“So how will you handle this? A falling piano in the street?”
“Please don’t worry, Poppa. It will be done soon and no one will suspect us.”
“Boy,” the old man said, “if that file is published, everyone will suspect us of everything. Don’t you understand that? Sixty years of the most careful planning will be for naught. We will become pariahs. You will go to prison, and your son will never become president or even reelected to Congress. The presidency would be the crowning achievement of my plan. Can you imagine the power that would come to our family with that?”
“The family is doing very well,” Jack replied, hastily adding, “with your brains and leadership.”
“All of that will become dust, if the file becomes public.”
“Only Barrington has it or even knows of it.”
“You blithering idiot!” Henry shouted. “Don’t you even know that the district attorney already has his hands on it?”
Jack did not know that, and he was shocked into silence.
“There are so many ways to bring pressure on him,” Jack said, finally. “He would be destroyed. In fact, if someone must know of the file, he is the best possible person because we can control him.”
“Now that is the first sensible thing you’ve said,” Henry spat.
“And he has the only copy,” Jack added.
“Why on earth do you think that? Is this Stone Barrington a complete fool?”
“Don’t worry, I don’t underestimate him.”
“Unless he is a fool he will have made copies of that file—and the other files—and plans to distribute it, if an ‘accident’ should befall him.”
“‘Other files’? What others?” Jack asked, his voice trembling.
“All the old members of the ruling council and their families. This thing of ours would never recover!”
“That’s impossible, Poppa—not after all the work you’ve done to make our power disappear.”
“How many soldiers do you have on this?” Henry demanded.
“A dozen—top men, all of them, and with no Italian names.”
“It’s not enough,” Henry said, seeming to grow tired. “Double it. Find Barrington wherever he is and cause him to disappear without a trace.”
“I’m hard at work on it,” Jack replied.
His father sagged. “I know where he is. Do you?”
“Tell me, Poppa, and he will disappear.”
“In two days he will be on a beach somewhere, and that policeman will be with him. See that they don’t return.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Leave me.”
Jack rose and bent to kiss his father on the cheek, but the old man turned his head in disgust. Jack got out of the office and leaned on the wall of the vestibule and took deep breaths while he waited for the elevator.
He was not a fearful man, but he was afraid of his father, and never so much as at this moment.
* * *
• • •
THE BLACK SUV, its windows darkened, parked on the street a few doors up from the Barrington residence. A young man named Terrence Pelham, né Tito Profini, sat at the wheel. He was startled to hear a sharp rap on the driver’s-side window, which was so dark he could only see the form of a man. He pressed the button and lowered the window six inches. A uniformed policeman stood there.
“Open up! All of it!” the man shouted.
Pelham lowered the window to the sill. “Yes, Officer? How can I help you?”
“License, registration, and proof of insurance,” the cop said.
“It’s a rental, officer,” Pelham replied, finding the document and handing it to him.
“Do you have a driver’s license?” the cop demanded.
“Yes, of course.”
“Then hand it to me.”
Pelham got out his wallet and handed him the license. To his alarm, the officer swiped it over something in his hand, like a notebook.
“You’re lucky it’s genuine and that you have no outstanding warrants,” the cop said, pressing a button o
n the device and printing out a sliver of paper. “Here’s a ticket for parking in a tow zone. See that it’s paid promptly.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
This couldn’t get back to his capo, he thought. He would pay it today. He got the SUV in gear and drove away, shaking.
16
The night before their departure for Maine, Stone rang Edith Beresford, whom he had been seeing once in a while.
“Well, hi there,” she said warmly. “Are you back from Switzerland?”
“I am,” he replied, “and about to depart again. I want you to come with me.”
“What sort of clothes?”
“The sort of things you’d wear on a yacht in the Caribbean,” he replied. “We’ll be dressing for dinner.”
“When do we leave?”
“You’ll be picked up at noon tomorrow.”
“How long will we be gone?”
“Perhaps as much as a couple of weeks. And you can’t tell a soul you’re traveling with me or where we’re going.”
“The last part is easy, since I don’t know where we’re going.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“I’m in. I’ll be ready tomorrow at noon, my bags with the doorman.”
“See you then.” He hung up, relieved.
* * *
• • •
IT WAS NOT the first time Stone had needed to disappear for a while, and he outlined in his head the barriers he had to erect between himself and his seekers.
The airplane would be hangared in Rockland, the nearest airport to Islesboro that could accommodate the jet, safe even from prying satellites. No mail would be forwarded to him. Joan would tell anyone who called that he was sailing in the Caribbean, and then take a message. Fred would garage the Bentley and not take it out. The staff would be told not to mention his departure.
Joan came into the office with two small boxes. “All right,” she said, “I’ve done as I was told.” She handed him the latest iPhone. “This is registered in the name of Matilda Stone,” she said, “and mine is in the name of Harry Flicker, Fred’s father’s name. Your e-mail address is [email protected], and mine is [email protected].”
Stone turned on the phone to be sure it was working. “We will not communicate, except on these phones,” he said. “You can forward e-mail, even documents, to me, and I can print them on the yacht, if necessary. We will not use each other’s names during conversations: I will be Matilda and you, Harry. Understood?”
“Understood,” Joan replied.
“None of us will be seen outside the house in Dark Harbor. We will board the yacht after dark. The Wi-Fi system aboard is new, we won’t use the old one.”
“You’ll get to use your new airplane, won’t you?” Joan asked.
Stone had weeks before bought a new Cessna 182, which was hangared at Rockland Airport, for the purpose of ferrying him and his guests to and from the island of Islesboro, where the runway was only 2,450 feet long, much too short for the jet. The aircraft was registered to Triangle Investments, as was the yacht.
* * *
• • •
AT TWO O’CLOCK sharp Stone eased back on the yoke, and the Citation Latitude rose into the air. He had filed a flight plan for Fort Lauderdale Executive where an outgoing international aircraft could refuel and clear out with customs, and a continuing flight plan to St. Martin, in the Caribbean, near St. Barts. As soon as they had climbed to 10,000 feet, Stone called Air Traffic Control. “New York Departure, November One, Two, Three, Tango Foxtrot.
“One, Two, Three TF, New York Departure.”
“I would like to change my destination to Rockland, Maine, and my final altitude to flight level 190.”
“What is the reason for your destination change?”
“The climate. It’s too hot in St. Barts.”
“Destination approved. Turn left, direct Carmel VOR, then direct Rockland. Climb to flight level 190.”
Stone made the turn and the altitude change. Anyone checking online for his tail number would find the flight plans to Fort Lauderdale and St. Martin. He had long ago removed his tail number from FlightAware and other websites that allowed tracking of general aviation aircraft.
* * *
• • •
THEY SET DOWN a little more than an hour later at Rockland, and taxied immediately to the large hangar, where a lineman was waiting with a tractor to tow the airplane inside. Once sheltered from prying eyes, they unloaded their luggage and reloaded it into the Cessna 182. The airplane was noted for being able to carry anything that could be squeezed into it, and Stone had ordered only half fuel, so that their weight would be even lighter. His guests and copilot were sitting with their lighter luggage in their laps.
Fifteen minutes later they set down on Islesboro, where Seth Hotchkiss, Stone’s caretaker, was waiting with the 1938 Woodie Ford station wagon, towing a small trailer, which took their luggage.
At Stone’s house, they unloaded in the garage.
“What time are we boarding?” Dino asked.
“Just after sunset.”
“Sounds good. Is Faith coming with us?”
“No, she decided she’d rather enjoy some solitude.”
“So it’s just the four of us?”
“That’s right.”
* * *
• • •
THEY HAD A SNACK at five o’clock, then relaxed around the house until after sunset. When it was fully dark they walked down to the dock. Seth had already taken their luggage down and placed it aboard the tender.
They boarded, then drove slowly through the moored yachts in the harbor and well out from shore, where the yacht awaited them with only minimal lights showing. They boarded, the tender was winched onto the upper deck, then they were under way.
Dinner had already been prepared in anticipation of their arrival, and they sat down to a fine meal.
“Now do we get to know where we’re going?” Viv asked.
“You’ll wake up tomorrow morning in Nantucket,” Stone said.
“Why Nantucket?”
“Because it’s not in Maine, where we might be expected to be, and the Nantucket Harbor will be filled with yachts, making us harder to spot from the air.”
“Who would expect us to be in Maine?” Edie asked.
“I’m something of a fugitive from justice,” Stone said. “Well, not legal justice—something more primitive.”
“You’re giving me chills,” she said.
He leaned over and whispered into her ear. “I’ll warm you up later. I promise.”
“Oh, good,” she replied.
17
Jack Thomas sat in his office and regarded the sleek young man across his desk. “Tell me,” he said.
“Godfather . . .”
“Don’t address me in that manner. Do you think you’re in a movie?”
“Sir . . .”
“That’s better.”
“Sir, we checked the FAA website for a flight plan for an aircraft with the tail number N123TF, which is known to be flown by Stone Barrington. The aircraft filed two flight plans yesterday for Fort Lauderdale, Florida, which is an entry airport where he could refuel and check out with customs for his second flight plan, to St. Martin, which is a convenient airport for a short flight to St. Barts in a smaller aircraft.”
“So he has a yacht in the Caribbean?” Jack asked.
“No, sir. Approximately ten minutes out of Teterboro the aircraft contacted New York Departure and requested a change of destination to Rockland, Maine. The request was granted.”
“Ah, so now we come to the yacht?”
“Sir, the only yacht registered in the name of Stone Barrington anywhere in the United States is a small sailing vessel called a Concordia, with an address in Dark Harbor, Maine. We checked, and that boat is
being prepared for the season in a boatyard in that village. Our man saw it up on blocks in a shed, being varnished, perhaps a week or two away from launching.”
“No, if he’s hiding, it would be on something larger, more comfortable. You’ve already told me that Dino Bacchetti is out of his office, so they’re likely together.”
“We’ve also run a check on every Maine-registered yacht chartered for this period. It’s early in the season, so there isn’t much out there, making him easier to spot if he’s cruising.”
“Have you checked Maine-registered yachts owned by corporate entities instead of individuals?”
“That’s being done at the moment, sir.”
“Have you checked corporate entities that Barrington is associated with as an owner or board member?”
“That is being done as well, sir.”
“When do you expect to have results?”
“Very soon, sir.”
“What is your plan for when you find it?”
“A gas explosion is always good for destroying yachts and the associated evidence. We’ll start there.”
The young man’s phone rang. “Excuse me for a moment, sir,” he said, picking up his phone. “That could be news. Rance here,” he said. Then he listened carefully. “Have you checked that against the registry?” He listened again. “Get back to me soonest.” He hung up. “Sir, there are nine corporate entities that Barrington is associated with—most of them clients. There is something called Triangle Investments, too, and we’re looking into what that is.”
“Good.”
Rance’s phone rang again. “Yes?” He listened. “I want a search of Maine waters immediately.” He listened yet again. “Get back to me.” He hung up. “We got lucky, sir. Barrington is a partner in Triangle, and there is a large yacht registered to the company. The yacht’s name is Breeze, and she’s being prepared for the season at a boatyard in Camden. We’ll have eyes on it soon.”
“Now we’re making progress,” Jack said.
