Distant Thunder

31

By the time they passed Montauk Point, Vanessa was asleep under a cashmere blanket, and Stone was halfway through the Times crossword.

Vanessa stirred. “All right,” she muttered, “where are we going? Is it going to be a dirt track in the middle of nowhere? Somewhere on the frozen tundra of Iceland?”

“None of the above. The runway was built and operated in secret during World War II, to dispatch commando troops and spies. It has since fallen into my hands.”

“Condition, please?”

“Seven thousand feet of well-maintained concrete.”

“Not cement?”

“Cement comes in bags. It is mixed with gravel and water to make concrete, which is poured and smoothed.”

“Is it in the middle of nowhere?”

“Au contraire. It is in the middle of a green and pleasant place.”

“Ah, Ireland!”

“Close, but no Upmann. And that is all you may know until we land.”

They had lunch and watched a movie, then the aircraft began its descent.

“We’re coming down,” she said, “but I still don’t see any land.”

“There is plenty of that where we are going. If you look to your left, you will see some.”

“That looks very like England,” she said.

“It is very like that,” Stone replied.

As the sun set lower in the sky, trees and houses were visible, and they made a left turn.

“I caught a glimpse of a big house,” Vanessa said.

“It is called Windward Hall,” Stone replied. “It is where I repose when evil lurks elsewhere, like New York.”

“Ah, that’s right! You have a house in England!”

“You’ll get a better view shortly.”

The aircraft touched down softly, brakes were applied and engines reversed, then it made a 180-degree turn, stopped, and the engines wound down. A Range Rover pulled up to the bottom of the airstairs door, and as they descended, their luggage was loaded onto another vehicle, and Stone introduced Vanessa to Major Bugg. “The major is the estate manager, and nothing escapes his eye,” Stone said, “so watch yourself.”

“How do you do, Major?” Vanessa said, and shook his hand. Two officials from Customs and Immigration glanced at their passports and stamped them.

They were delivered to the front door of the house and entered. “This is Windward Hall,” Stone said. “We should go upstairs, unpack, and dress casually for dinner.” He took her up a floor and showed her the master suite and her very own bath and dressing room. Then Stone sat her on the bed. “Now, listen,” he said. “We are here because someone is trying to kill Jack, and failing that, we’ll do nicely. Do you understand?”

“This isn’t a trick, just to get me out of the country for immoral purposes?”

“Well, there is that, but the threat is real. Now, when you report to whomever you report to back home, like your mother, you must make no mention of this country, this house, or my name. If someone is inquisitive, tell them that we are at a remote location in the American West, sleeping by a campfire and riding horses. Nothing else.”

“I understand,” she said, “and I understand that you are serious and why.”

“That is all I ask,” Stone replied. “Well, I’ll ask more later, when you’ve had time to digest that and are out of your clothes. Right now, it’s you and me for dinner in the library. Freshen up.”

Half an hour later they were having drinks on a Chesterfield sofa before a warming fire. The sound of rain could be heard pattering against the windows.

“It’s raining,” she said.

“It’s England. It does that here.”

“I recall that. When did you buy this house?”

“I bought it near the end of a two-year renovation, conducted by an interior designer, Susan Blackburn. The owner was ill and died soon after.”

“I love England.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“I have, and often, during my modeling days.”

“We will not be reliving those, since our situation requires us to remain here, preferably indoors, unless we’re riding. Do you ride?”

“I had my own pony when I was a little girl. I remember how.”

Dinner was served: a tomato bisque, followed by a rack of lamb and fresh vegetables from the garden, followed by an apple tart with ice cream, all washed down with a bottle of Château Gloria, 1960.

“I’m going to fall asleep soon,” she said, trying the dessert wine.

“Not before I have ravished you, I hope.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As it turned out, she did just fine, before she lost consciousness in his arms.