“Fine with me,” Stone said, taking a rocker and sipping his wine.
Hackett walked to the porch railing and leaned against it, facing Stone.
Stone looked past him out over the water. It was a perfectly windless day, so much so that the towering cumulus clouds were reflected on the water. The boats in the harbor floated with their mooring lines slack.
Hackett took a sip of his wine. “Something I’d like you to know, Stone: except for that business about the Whitestone grave in the Somersville churchyard, I never lied to you about anything.”
Stone was about to reply when there was a noise, a thud, and Hackett made a peculiar jerking motion. He looked down at his chest, surprised, where a hole the size of a golf ball had appeared, then he sank to his knees, dropping his wineglass, and fell forward onto his face. There was another hole, smaller and neater, in his back.
Stone hit the deck, which was splattered with Hackett’s blood. He waited for more shots, but none came. He felt Hackett’s neck for a pulse, but there was nothing.
With no wind, it was deathly quiet for a moment-then Stone heard an engine start in the distance and raised his head from the floor long enough to see a boat leaving the harbor, seemingly in no particular hurry.
Stone clawed at his cell phone.
53
Felicity was working in her temporary office on Sutton Place when her cell phone went off. “Excuse me,” she said to her agent, Smith, who sat across her desk with some files. “Yes?”
“It’s Stone. Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Get away from whomever you’re with, right now,” he said.
She took the phone away from her ear. “Smith, will you excuse me for a few minutes? I have a personal call to take.” She watched him until he had closed the door behind him and then went back to the phone. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“I’m in Maine. Hackett is dead.”
She was alarmed. “How?”
“Bullet through the chest-sniper.”
“Good God.”
“Hackett told me that if they got Whitestone, they’d go after you, too.”
“They?”
“Palmer and Prior. Now listen to me very carefully.”
“All right, I’m listening.”
“Can you get out of your building without being seen?”
“Probably,” she said.
“Do you have any cash?”
“A few hundred dollars and some pounds and euros.”
“I want you to do exactly as I say,” he said.
“Well, maybe. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to leave your building without being seen, find a cab and go directly to my house. Make sure you’re not being followed. You can’t trust your own people, so be careful.”
“Why do you think I will be safe at your house?”
“You probably won’t be for long. I want you to pack a bag and leave the house by the rear door. Walk across the common garden; you’ll find a corner exit to the street, one block over. Take a cab to Teterboro, to Jet Aviation, and take a seat in the pilot’s lounge, not the passenger lounge. I’ll have a man named Dan Phelan meet you there and bring you to me.”
“Bring me where?”
“To the place we went where you worried about landing.”
“All right.”
“Are you armed?”
“I can be.”
“Good. Also, go into my dressing room and find my safe, behind a picture.” He gave her the combination. “Bring me the little.45, an extra magazine and a box of cartridges.”
“All right.”
“Any questions?”
“How long will we be there?”
“Not long, I hope.”
“I’m on my way,” she said. She hung up and buzzed her secretary. “Send Smith back in,” she said.
Smith returned and took his seat. She spent ten minutes going through the remainder of the files and then sent him back to his own office with a task to perform. As soon as the door closed she got her coat, took a pistol from her desk drawer, put it into her handbag and left her office by a rear door that opened into a stairway. Moments later, she was in a cab, looking over her shoulder.
STONE LOOKED FOR Dan Phelan’s number in his cell phone and then dialed it.
“Phelan.”
“Dan, it’s Stone Barrington. Where are you?”
“Hi, Stone. I’m at Teterboro. I just finished with a student.”
“I have a serious emergency, and there’s something I hope you can do for me.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you flown a JetProp?”
“A couple of times.”
“There’s a woman on her way to Jet Aviation now. Her name is Felicity Devonshire. She’s a tall redhead. Wait for her in the pilot’s lounge. While you’re waiting, file a flight plan for a little airport in Maine called Islesboro, identifier five-seven-bravo.”
“Yes.”
“The desk at Jet Aviation has a key. I’ll tell them to give it to you. While you’re waiting for Felicity, see that it’s refueled. Call me just before you start your engine. You have my cell number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet her at the runway in Islesboro. You’ll have enough fuel for the round-trip.”
“Okay, got it.”
“Send me a bill.”
“Don’t worry.”
Stone hung up and called about the key, then he found the number for the Maine State Police in Augusta and called his old acquaintance, Captain Scott Smith.
“Hello, Stone. How are you?”
“Not well, Scott,” Stone said. “I’ve just witnessed a murder on Islesboro, the house next door to mine. Can you get a team out here?”
“Of course. Tell me about the murder.”
“Sniper, firing from a boat in the harbor, I’m pretty sure. Immediately after the shot, the boat motored slowly away.”
“Description?”
“Thirty, thirty-five feet, blue or black hull, white superstructure.”
“That describes hundreds if not thousands of boats in Maine.”
“It seemed to be headed east, but it could have gone anywhere. My guess is there’s an airplane waiting for the shooter somewhere, Rockland, maybe, or wherever else is close.”
“I’ll get an airplane over Penobscot Bay now to look for the boat, and we’ll cover the nearby airports. I’m going to chopper over there with my people. I have two men and a car on the island now on another case, so no need to meet us. I’ll be there in, say, an hour. Who’s the victim?”
“James Hackett, head of Strategic Services. Know the name?”
“Of course. I’ve heard him lecture on protection operations. How do you know him?”
“He was my client. I’ll meet you at the house. At some point I’ll have to go to the airport to meet a friend who’s flying up in my airplane.”
“How did you get there?”
“In Hackett’s airplane, a Cessna Mustang.”
“I’ll see you soon.” Smith hung up.
Stone got up off the porch floor for the first time. There was blood on his clothes. He called Felicity.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“Just getting to your house. The coast seems to be clear.”
“Phelan is waiting for you at Teterboro. You’ll be here in two, maybe three hours. Don’t forget my weapon.”
“That’s the last thing I would forget,” she said. “I’m inside the house now and hurrying.”
“Keep hurrying.” He hung up and called Strategic Services and asked for Mike Freeman.
“Stone?”
“Mike, you know where Jim is, don’t you?”
“I can’t say.”
“I’m with him, and he’s dead. A sniper got him no more than ten minutes ago, and I’ve already called the state police. Can you get into a cab without being seen?”
“I’ll try.”
“My airplane is at Teterboro, where Jim kept his. Felicity Devonshire is being flown up here. If you get there in a hurry, you can come with her. She’ll be in the crew lounge with the pilot, whose name is Dan Phelan.”
“Will do.”
“Watch your ass-these people may not be finished.”