A Safe House

12

Stone and Jenna were having breakfast. “How would you like an outing?” he asked.

“An outing?”

“Away from the house. Overnight.”

“I’m not a camper,” she said.

“I promise you a soft, warm bed.”

“With you in it?”

“Absolutely.”

“What do I need to bring with me?”

“Casual day clothes, and something for a black-tie occasion at dinner.”

“I can do that,” she said.

“We’ll leave here at ten.”

“Are we driving?”

“We’re going by sea, and don’t ask any more questions.”

By ten-thirty, they were motoring down the Beaulieu River in Stone’s Hinckley 43. “You can come up now,” he called, and she emerged from the master cabin. “The coast is clear,” he said. “And nobody would ever think to look for us where we’re going.”

“And where is that?”

“To the Isle of Wight.” He pointed in that direction. “The village is Cowes, the yachting capital of Britain.” They made a couple of turns and emerged into the Solent. “There’s the island, over there,” Stone said, pointing as he added throttle and picked up speed.

She looked at the instrument panel, then at Stone, who was sitting in the captain’s chair with his hands in his lap. “Who’s driving?”

“The autopilot,” he said, pointing at a screen. “That blip is us.” It got a little bumpier. “Hop up here,” he said, patting the seat next to him.

“I’ve never seen so many boats,” Jenna said.

“You should see it during Cowes Week, the biggest regatta of the year.” They passed some chalk cliffs. “Those are called the Needles,” he said, “though they’re not pointy anymore, having been worn down by the sea.”

A few minutes later they passed the Royal Yacht Squadron, with its striped awning and its array of polished brass cannon. “That’s the Castle,” Stone said, “built by Henry VIII to ward off the French. Her guns were never fired in anger, though.”

“There are so many cannons,” she said.

“Those are used for starting and managing yacht races.”

They turned into a small marina, and two boatmen took their lines and made them fast. They retrieved their luggage, and a boatman took the bags and led them to the entrance of the Squadron. A few minutes later, they were checked into a comfortable suite. Stone got into a double-breasted blue suit with black club buttons, a white shirt, and a black necktie, sporting a Squadron stickpin. They went downstairs. On the way he showed her the library, the drawing room, and the main dining room with its array of portraits of past commodores, some of them kings. Stone led her into a comfortable sitting room, where they ordered Pimm’s Cups and waited for lunch to be announced.

“This is all very cozy,” Jenna said.

“A good word for it. There’s a big pavilion out back, where large events can be held.”

A steward announced lunch, and they went into the next room and were seated by a window, with a good view of the Solent and the yachts.

“You’re right,” Jenna said. “We could never be found here. “Wallace wouldn’t even know this place exists.”

“Nor would most Americans, except yachtsmen.”

“What does ‘yacht’ mean?”

“It’s from the Dutch. It means a sailing craft designed for pleasure; that means almost everything in the harbor, from a dingy to a three-master.”

“Will we go sailing while we’re here?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with Indian Summer, aboard which we arrived. I have a sailing yacht, but it hasn’t been launched this year, yet.”

After lunch they took a stroll up Cowes’s High Street and looked into the shops and galleries, then sat for a while on the Parade, a large public space next to the Squadron.

“Don’t look now,” Jenna said, “but I just saw a man in a black cowboy hat.”

“Where?”

“He just left the Parade, walking up the High Street.”

“Is it Wallace’s hit man?”

“I don’t know, but there are no other men in black cowboy hats out here.”

“Let me know if you see him again,” Stone said. “Why don’t we walk on back to the Squadron. He can’t hide out here on the Parade.”

They walked on back, and Stone looked over his shoulder a lot, but saw no black cowboy hats.

“Why were there so few people at lunch?” Jenna asked.

“It’s a Tuesday afternoon. Everybody will be driving down from London and points north at the weekend. Though there should be a good crowd this evening.”

Stone stopped at the Squadron gate and had a good look behind them at the Parade. No black hats.

They sat in the library for a while and read the papers, then they went upstairs for a nap before changing for dinner. Stone’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Yes?”

“It’s Major Bugg.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Are you on the grounds?”

“No, we took the boat across the Solent. We’re staying at the Squadron.”

“Just as well. We had a couple of men sniffing around over here. Americans, by their accents.”

“Any of them wearing a black cowboy hat?”

“No, but there was one who didn’t get out of their car who was wearing a white one. I inquired about what they were doing on the property. And they said they were just having a look around, as if the estate were some sort of tourist venue. I had to point out that it is a private estate and ask them to leave, which they did reluctantly.”

“I apologize for the rudeness of my countrymen,” Stone said.

“What with our guest and all, I thought you’d like to know about them.”

“Thank you, Major. If you’ll have a look in the cupboard under the main stairs you’ll find some comforting objects. Feel free to load one and carry it around.”

“Mr. Barrington, are we licensed for that?”

“We are. If you’ll look on the table in the library, you’ll find a document to that effect — signed and sealed by the home secretary. Dame Felicity brought him to dinner last evening.”

“I may take you up on that,” Bugg said, then hung up.

“What was that about?” Jenna asked.

“Some American tourists giving themselves a tour of the property,” Stone said. “They made Bugg nervous.” He didn’t tell her about the man in the car, wearing a white cowboy hat.