“That’s terribly reassuring,” she said, looking unconvinced. “Exactly how long is that runway?”
“Two thousand four hundred and fifty feet,” Stone said.
“Have you ever landed on a runway that short?”
“No, but I’ve landed on several that were only three thousand feet and with plenty of room to spare. Our speed is right on the money, and it takes only twelve hundred feet to stop the airplane once it’s on the runway, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Trust the airplane.”
“I hardly know the airplane,” she said.
“Shhh, I have to concentrate now.”
“Please do,” she muttered.
As Stone cleared the treetops near the end of the runway, he pulled the throttles back to idle and aimed just under the numbers. The little jet settled onto the paved strip, and Stone deployed the speedbrakes and stood hard on the brakes, which were excellent. They turned off the runway and taxied to a parking spot.
“May I open my eyes now?” Felicity asked.
“Of course,” Stone said. “We had about seven hundred feet to spare when we turned off the runway.”
“I suppose you’re very pleased with yourself,” she said.
“I am,” he replied, setting the parking brake and working through the shutdown checklist. He turned off the last switch, got out of his seat, opened the door and deployed the little set of stairs. A man stood outside the door, and Stone handed him his briefcase. “Hello, Seth,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. Seth Hotchkiss was the caretaker of the Stone property, and he drove a 1938 Ford station wagon, beautifully restored.
“Hello, Mr. Stone,” Seth replied. “You have a new airplane, I see.”
“I’m afraid it’s only borrowed,” Stone replied, unlocking and opening the forward luggage compartment.
Felicity appeared at the airplane’s door. “Is there actual earth I can set foot on?” she asked.
“No, there’s just tarmac,” Stone replied, taking her hand. “Seth, this is Felicity Devonshire.” The two shook hands.
He put the engine plugs in place, the pitot covers on, and switched off the airplane’s battery to preserve its charge.
TEN MINUTES LATER they were at the house, a handsome and roomy shingle-style home, and Seth’s wife was giving Felicity the tour. Stone dug a card from his pocket and called an extension at state police headquarters in Augusta.
“Captain Scott Smith,” a deep voice said.
“Captain, it’s Stone Barrington.” The two had met when Stone was investigating his cousins’ murders.
“Mr. Barrington, how are you? Are you in Maine?”
“I’m well, and I’m on Islesboro.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’ve just flown a friend here from New York. Yesterday she and her driver were attacked outside my house by a woman of my acquaintance wielding a knife. The driver was hurt, and the woman got away, but in the past she has been unusually persistent in finding me.”
The captain asked for her description, and Stone gave it to him. “Tell you what,” the captain said. “I have a regular patrol in the Camden-Lincolnville area. I’ll have the car swing by there whenever the outbound ferry is boarding and keep an eye out for her. They’ll see that nobody matching that description gets on until they’ve contacted you. I assume you’re at the Stone house.”
“That’s correct, and I appreciate it, Captain.”
“Glad to be of help.”
Stone hung up as Felicity entered the room. He unlocked Dick’s little office and showed her the room, with its computers and other equipment.
“This will do nicely,” Felicity said, taking a seat at the desk. “Now, if you’ll give me an hour or so, I’ll start letting my people know I’m still alive.” She looked at him over her reading glasses. “I hope the takeoff will be less exciting than the landing,” she said.
39
Felicity was taking a nap when the phone rang, and Stone picked it up. Must be a wrong number, he thought. Nobody knew he was at this number in Maine. “Hello?”
“Stone, it’s Jim Hackett.”
Stone was stunned. How on earth had he been found? “Hello, Jim. This is quite a surprise. I’m at what Dick Cheney used to call ‘an undisclosed location.’ ”
“You’re at Dick Stone’s house on Islesboro,” Hackett said. “Did you think I wouldn’t have a locator on my airplane?”
“I should have known,” Stone said.
“I have a satellite photograph of it on the ramp at Islesboro, too. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your type rating,” Hackett said. “Dan Phelan was impressed with your ability to learn quickly, and so am I. Frankly, I thought it would take you at least another week to pass your check ride. And congratulations on your landing in Islesboro; I wouldn’t have attempted that.”
“It’s an easy airplane to fly, once you know the avionics,” Stone said.
“You’re too modest. Are you and Dame Felicity all right?”
“I’m very well,” Stone replied. He wasn’t going to play that game.
“I understand your former wife took exception to Dame Felicity’s presence in your life.”
“How do you come up with this stuff?” Stone asked, baffled.
“Stone, give me a little credit,” Hackett replied. “I own one of the largest private security firms in the world; I have access to all sorts of information.”
“I’m impressed,” Stone said.
“Does Dame Felicity still think I’m Stanley Whitestone?”
“I can’t tell you what she thinks.”
“I understand she’s having some difficulty verifying my identity,” Hackett said. “I would have thought my fingerprints would have helped, but you’ll get a package tomorrow that may help.”
“A package of what?” Stone asked.
“Hang on.” Hackett began a muffled conversation with someone else in the room and then came back on the phone. “I have to run,” he said. “Stay in Maine with the airplane for as long as you like. If you need to contact me, call Heather Finch at my office, and she can patch you through to wherever I am.”
“Where are you?” Stone asked, but Hackett had already hung up.
THEY DINED AT the Dark Harbor Inn, a handsome house on the outskirts of the village. There were only two other couples in the dining room, and neither of them, Stone thought, looked like anyone who would be surveilling them.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Felicity said.
“What?”
“About our fellow diners. I shouldn’t worry; no one has any idea where we are, except my office in London, not even the ambassador.”
“I’m afraid that’s not so,” Stone said.
“What? You told someone where we were going?”
“Only Joan, and she’s completely trustworthy.”
“Who else could know, then?”
“While you were napping I had a phone call on the house phone from Jim Hackett.”
Felicity nearly choked on her Rob Roy. “Then we’re blown?”
“Not exactly; the airplane is blown. Jim has a locator on it, and he knew about the house. I told him about it when we visited his place on Mount Desert Island.”
“My God,” she said, “if Hackett knows where we are, then what’s the point in coming up here?”
“To keep Dolce from killing you,” Stone said. “Remember?”
“Well, there is that, but if Hackett can find us, maybe she can, too.”
“She is not acquainted with Hackett, and she doesn’t have the resources to find us. She doesn’t even know of the existence of the house here.”
“Well, if Hackett knows, then Stanley Whitestone knows.”
“We don’t know that Hackett is Whitestone, but I have to tell you I have underestimated Jim Hackett. He knows of your people’s difficulties in confirming his identity. He knew that you were running his fingerprints.”