“Airspeed’s alive,” Freeman said. “Seventy knots. V1, rotate!” Stone put both hands on the yoke and pulled it sharply back, and the Mustang began to climb.
“That is a very short runway,” Freeman breathed.
At 700 feet Stone pulled the throttles back to the climb detent, switched on the autopilot and turned the heading bug to the southwest. Then he went into the flight plan and tuned in ENE-Kennebunk-their first waypoint, pressed direct, enter, enter and NAV on the autopilot. The airplane picked up the GPS heading for Kennebunk, and they climbed at 3,000 feet per minute into the cool Maine night.
At flight level 330, 33,000 feet, Stone let the airplane gain some airspeed, then pulled the throttles back to the cruise detent. There was nothing more to do until they picked up the Automated Traffic Advisory Service, ATIS, at Teterboro.
“Are you enjoying flying the Mustang?” Freeman asked.
“I am,” Stone said.
“Then continue to use it whenever you like,” Freeman replied.
“Did Jim plan for a succession?” Stone asked.
“He did. The documents are signed and in the safe in his office. I’ll present them to the board in a few days, but as of right now, I’m CEO, and it will stay that way.”
“What about you?” Stone asked. “Do you have a succession plan?”
Freeman chuckled. “So soon?”
“As I said, I don’t think we’re out of this yet.”
“There are a couple of younger men, one in London, the other in Johannesburg, who’ll be competing for the COO slot.”
“How long have you been with Strategic Services?” Stone asked.
“Just passed the ten-year mark,” Freeman replied.
“How did you happen to come aboard?”
“Jim hired me to work out of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I had spent some time out there, and I had the language.”
A little bell went off in Stone’s brain, and he remembered the last thing Jim Hackett had said to him before he was shot. “Except for that business about the Somersville churchyard,” Hackett had said, “I never lied to you about anything.”
Stone looked over his shoulder. The moonlight that was coming through a window illuminated Felicity, fast asleep in her comfortable seat, a cashmere blanket over her. He took a deep breath. “I remember now,” he said. “Jim told me about how Lord Wight recommended a man to him, someone with experience in North Africa and the Middle East.”
“Yes, that’s how I found my way to Jim,” Freeman said.
Stone turned and looked at Freeman. “And he told me the man’s name.” He saw Freeman wince. “Stanley Whitestone, I presume.”
Freeman’s shoulders sagged. “Can Felicity hear us on the intercom?” he asked.
“No, she’s not wearing a headset,” Stone replied, “and she’s asleep.”
Freeman sighed. “I thought that, with Jim’s death, I’d be safe. I should have known that someone would figure it out. I’m sorry it was you, Stone.”
“So you arranged Jim’s death?”
Freeman turned to face him. “I most certainly did not! My, God, I loved the man!”
Stone shrugged. “I had to ask.”
“Does Felicity believe that Jim was Whitestone?”
“Pretty much,” Stone said.
“Are you under some ethical obligation to tell her the truth?”
“I’m no longer employed by her service,” Stone said. “She paid me off and fired me the day before yesterday.”
“I think it might be best for everyone if she continued to believe what she believes,” Freeman said.
Stone thought about that for a few minutes as they moved through the night at 400 miles an hour. Finally, he spoke. “I concur,” he said.
They flew along for another ten minutes without talking. Stone wondered if Freeman had fallen asleep, but then he stirred.
“Since we don’t know what’s waiting for us in New York,” Freeman said, “I think we have to get Felicity back to London, and quietly.”
Stone thought about it. “Once again, I concur. How are we going to get her home quietly?”
“Leave that to me,” Freeman said. “I think it would be best if you accompanied her.”
“I can do that,” Stone said.
“Have her ready to go tomorrow night. You’ll be picked up at nine at the Plaza. Someone will call your suite and ask if the package is ready for pickup. You reply, ‘Not until tomorrow at noon.’ He’ll give you instructions.”
Eighty miles out of Teterboro, Stone tuned in the ATIS and jotted down the information. He loaded the Instrument Landing System for runway 19, and as soon as he was handed off from Boston Center to New York Approach and got his first vector, he activated the approach. He got graduated instructions to descend to 3,000 feet and was cleared for the approach. His was the only airplane on the air at that time of night.
The Mustang’s autopilot flew the airplane down the ILS, and Stone made one of his better landings. Shortly, they were in a Mercedes headed for Manhattan and the Plaza.
57
Stone woke a little after nine and ordered breakfast sent to the suite’s living room, leaving Felicity to sleep. He showered, shaved and dressed, then went downstairs and got a taxi.
He was dropped off in the block behind his house and entered the Turtle Bay Gardens through the rear entrance, then walked to his own back door and let himself into the kitchen. Helene was surprised to see him. “I think Miss Joan has someone waiting to see you,” she said.
Stone grabbed a mug of coffee and went into his office. Joan buzzed him immediately. She always seemed to know when he was there. He pressed the button.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“There’s a Mr. Smith to see you,” she said.
“Send him in.” Stone wondered what Captain Scott Smith was doing in New York.
“I’m going to the bank,” Joan said. “Be back in a few minutes.”
Stone was about to reply when his office door opened, and to his surprise, the little gray man from Felicity’s office walked into the room, closed the door behind him and leaned on it. “Oh, you’re that Mr. Smith,” Stone said.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Where is who?” Stone asked back.
“Dame Felicity. Where is she?”
“She checked out of here the day before yesterday,” Stone replied, “and she didn’t leave a forwarding address. I assumed she’d gone back to London.”
Smith unbuttoned his jacket and introduced a Walther.380 to the conversation. It was equipped with a silencer. “I’ll ask you just once more,” Smith said quietly, “and if I don’t get a satisfactory answer I will shoot you in the head.”
Stone rather believed him. “I will give you the only answer I have,” he said, “and hope it will be satisfactory. She is back in London at her office, her home or her country house.”
“That is entirely unsatisfactory,” Smith said, raising the pistol and pointing it at Stone’s head.
“Would you like to have a look upstairs?” Stone asked. “I suppose she could be hiding in a guest room.”
“Never mind,” Smith said, and thumbed back the hammer on the pistol.
As he did, Stone heard the doorknob turn, and the door struck Smith hard in the back, knocking Smith to his knees. Herbie Fisher walked into the office, rubbing a shoulder, and held Joan’s.45 to Smith’s head, while he relieved the man of his pistol. “Joan wasn’t at her desk,” he said, “and you left your intercom on, so I heard what this guy had to say to you. Do you want me to shoot him?”
“Not yet, Herbie,” Stone said. “Before you do, I’d like to ask him some questions. Mr. Smith?”
“May I get up, please?” Smith asked.
“You may not,” Stone replied. “I like you on your knees. Now, why have you come here looking for your boss with a gun?”
“She is no longer my boss,” Smith replied. “She has been sacked by the foreign minister.”
“Which foreign minister is that?” Stone asked.
“The British foreign minister, you twit!” Smith said.