Strategic Moves

THIRTY-SEVEN

Stone awoke alone, the other side of his bed unmussed. “Oh, well,” he said aloud to himself, “she made her choice.” He showered, shaved, and had breakfast at his desk.

Joan came into his office. “Do you need me earlier than usual on Monday morning?” she asked.

“Good idea,” he said. “I’ve offered these people breakfast, and you could help Helene set up a buffet in time for their nine-o’clock arrival.”

“Will do,” she replied. The phone rang, and Joan picked up the one on Stone’s desk. “One moment, please.” She pressed the hold button. “A Willa Crane for you?”

“Thank you,” Stone said. “Good morning, Willa.”

“And good morning to you,” she replied.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Probably not as well as I would have if I had chosen the other option,” she said.

“I’ll give you another chance, if you’ll promise not to hound Herbie Fisher to an early grave.”

“Be specific.”

“If you can get off a little early today, I’ll pick you up at two o’clock and bring you back on Sunday afternoon.”

“And our destination?”

“That will remain a mystery, but rest assured, it will be a comfortable one.”

“All right, two o’clock. Shall I meet you downstairs?”

“Perfect. Bring warm clothes.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, my lord and master?”

“Will you call Seth Hotchkiss and ask him to meet two of us at the airfield around four-thirty this afternoon, and that we would appreciate dinner around seven-thirty?”

“Yes, Sahib.”

“Are you wearing a turban?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Never mind.” Stone hung up.

As they were waiting to be cleared for takeoff that afternoon, it occurred to Stone that the last time he had taken a woman to Maine, she had ended up dead. A moment’s thought allowed him to rationalize away that possibility.

“What are we waiting for?” Willa asked from the copilot’s seat.

“For release by the tower,” Stone replied.

The tower came onto the radio frequency. “November one, two, three Tango Foxtrot, cleared for takeoff. Climb to six thousand feet on runway heading, expect direct Carmel.”

That amounted to a good break over the routine departure. “Tango Foxtrot, six thousand, runway heading, rolling.” He lined the airplane up on the runway, pressed a button to center the heading, then pressed the autopilot heading button, switched on the pitot heat, and pressed the switch that brought up the command bars to follow after takeoff. He moved the throttles to takeoff power, let the engines spool up, then released the brakes.

“Wow,” Willa said. “It accelerates!”

Stone rotated, got the gear and flaps up, and at seven hundred feet engaged the autopilot and removed his hands from the yoke. “Yes, it does,” he said.

“November one, two, three Tango Foxtrot, contact departure,” the tower said.

Stone switched to the departure frequency and checked in, then was given direct Carmel and eleven thousand feet. Ten minutes later he was given direct destination and his final altitude, flight level 250.

“It’s so smooth,” Willa said.

“Welcome to jet travel.”

“Airliners aren’t this smooth.”

“They are when they have smooth conditions, as we do today.”

“What a great way to travel,” she said. “Where the hell are we going?”

“East by northeast. Air traffic control is being very nice to us today. Either there isn’t much traffic or they think we’re Air Force One.”

Twenty minutes from destination they were given a descent to eleven thousand feet, and, once there, were handed off to Bangor approach and given five thousand. Stone canceled his IFR plan and aimed for just south of the short runway at Islesboro.

“Bangor is in Maine, isn’t it?” Willa asked.

“Yes, and so is Penobscot Bay, below us, as is that long, skinny island right there, which is known as Islesboro.”

“I’ve never been to Maine. This is exciting.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Stone turned final for runway one, lined up his approach, dropped the landing gear, and put in full flaps. The airplane quickly slowed to its approach speed of 88 knots, and Stone set down and braked sharply. “That’s for us,” he said, nodding at the old Ford station wagon as they rolled past it.

Half an hour later they had unpacked and were enjoying a hot toddy before a cheerful fire in the study.

“Well,” Willa said, “you certainly know how to make a second date interesting.”

“Thank you.”

“How is it you chose this place?”

Stone told her the story of Dick Stone’s death and his inheritance.

“That’s sad,” she said, “but in the end, fortunate for you.”

“I can’t deny that,” he said.

“So, what’s this I hear about this big conference at your house Monday morning?”

Stone looked at her, dumbfounded. “Please tell me exactly what you’ve heard,” he said.

“That you’re somehow involved with the CIA—they’re your clients, or something, except you’re representing somebody else on this occasion.”

“And please tell me who told you that.”

“The DA himself,” she said, “when your name came up.”

“And what is the DA’s interest in me and my meeting?”

“He didn’t say, exactly, just that he hoped to get some prosecutions as a result of the meeting.”

Stone was baffled. This had to have come from Lance, but why would Lance have told a local, non-federal prosecutor, albeit the most important DA in the country, to expect prosecutions?

“Well?” Willa asked. “Is this true?”

Stone thought about the agreement he had drawn and that Lance had signed. He had neglected to insert provisions of secrecy, believing that Lance had no reason to mention it to anyone outside the Agency and that he would, routinely, keep it a secret.

“Well, since information about this thing is abroad in the land, I may as well tell you, on the condition of absolute confidentiality.”

“But why, when I already know about it?”

“Okay, let’s forget it and change the subject.”

“Oh, all right, absolute confidentiality.”

Stone gave her the background to the story.

“And that’s the Mercedes that ended up in that swimming pool in Westchester?”

“One and the same.”

“And your client was driving . . . flying it?”

“For a short time, yes.”

“That is the wildest story I’ve ever heard!”

“Tell me, is the DA expecting to call my client as a witness in these prosecutions he’s so looking forward to?”

“That was my impression,” Willa replied.

Well, Stone thought, we’ll see about that.