11

Fred drove them to Teterboro the following morning in the Bentley, and they used the back entrance to the Strategic Services hangar to avoid walking to the airplane through Jet Aviation.

The crew welcomed them and took their luggage, and shortly, Mike and Viv were aboard, along with some other Strategic employees. A tractor towed the big business jet out of the hangar and onto the ramp, and the crew, having already run through their initial checklists, immediately started the engines. Moments later they were taxiing.

Mike came and sat down next to Stone. “You were right about having a tail. Two large Russian gentlemen. My people discouraged them, and they have no idea that you’re on this aircraft.”

“Thank you, Mike, that’s a relief.”

“The crew has requested an expedited departure. There’s not a lot of traffic this morning, so we’ll be wheels-up shortly.” As he spoke the airplane made a turn and began its takeoff roll; a moment later the nose lifted, and they heard the sound of the landing gear coming up.

“We’re off,” Stone said to Gala.

“What a relief!”

“He won’t know we’re on this airplane, so he won’t know where we’re going.”

“Wonderful. I think he’s been tracking me with my cell phone, so I went to the Apple store yesterday and had the number changed. Only a few people have the new number.”

“Good move.”

Half an hour later they were at flight level 510—fifty thousand feet—and headed toward the Atlantic. As they leveled off, the captain turned off the seat belt sign, and Mike excused himself. “Gotta go to work,” he said. “We’re having a planning meeting for the opening of the Rome Arrington.”

Stone opened his briefcase and dug into the envelope of paperwork that his secretary, Joan Robertson, had put there for him, next to his new flask. He looked up at Gala, who was already asleep, a light cashmere blanket tucked around her. He checked the moving map display for their routing, which took them over Newfoundland, south of Greenland and Iceland, making landfall in Scotland. From there they would be cleared to the old World War II bomber strip on Stone’s property, near Beaulieu (pronounced “Bewley”), seven thousand feet of well-kept concrete runway. They were flying higher and faster than the airlines, and with a tailwind of more than a hundred knots, their time en route would be only another five hours and change. Stone settled down to work, e-mailing his responses to letters, with a copy to Joan, all handled by the on-board Wi-Fi.

—

They were off the southern tip of Greenland, in severe clear weather, when the flight attendant brought him a cordless phone. “Satphone for you,” she said.

“Hello?”

“It’s Joan.” She sounded breathless.

“Are you all right?”

“I think so. We just had a . . . disturbance here.”

“What kind of disturbance?”

“A man walked through the street door—I hadn’t locked it—and demanded to see you.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know—fiftyish, thick gray hair, some sort of accent.”

“Boris Tirov.”

“If you say so. Who is he?”

“Gala’s ex-husband.”

“Not another one of those. You have a collection.”

“What happened?”

“I told him you were not available, and before I could stop him, he barged into your office. I went after him with my .45.” Joan kept the pistol in a desk drawer. “He was trying to take it away from me when Fred walked in from the garage and saw what was going on. He kicked the guy in a knee, bringing him down, and I got in a lick to his head with the .45. Fred got him in some sort of armlock and hustled him out onto the street, where the guy made a run for a car, as best he could with a sore knee. I called Dino and left it with him.”

“That was exactly the right thing to do,” Stone said. “You and Fred handled yourselves perfectly. I doubt if he’ll come around again, but he does have some muscle at his disposal, so keep the street door locked, and don’t let anyone in you don’t know.”

“I already figured out that part.”

“I hope you didn’t mention where I was.”

“Nope, just that you were unavailable.”

“He’ll probably have somebody keep an eye on the house. If you see anybody suspicious, call Dino. Tirov’s people tend to be big Russian guys with bald heads, though some of them I’ve seen have hair.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Joan?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to shoot anybody, if you can help it. The paperwork would be awful to deal with.”

“And I’d be the one dealing with it?”

“There is that, too.”

“Next time, a heads-up would be nice, if you’re expecting rough visitors.”

“I wasn’t expecting it, and that’s my fault. You and Fred handled it beautifully.”

“Thank you so much. That makes me feel almost human again. That guy scared the shit out of me.”

“I know how that must have been. Tell you what, I’ll get Mike Freeman to station a couple of men over there for a few days.”

“I would really appreciate that. Otherwise, I’d have to make Fred sit in my office all day.”

“Consider it done. You okay now?”

“Much better,” she said. “I might have a little of your bourbon.”

“Feel free—you’ve earned it. Bye.”

“Bye.” They both hung up.

He looked at Gala and found her staring at him. “I think I got the gist of that from your end of the conversation.”

“Good, then I won’t have to repeat myself. You didn’t hear Joan’s description of how she and Fred dealt with Boris. Fred kicked him in the knee, and Joan clipped him with her .45.”

“Clipped him?”

“Hit him in the head. Then Fred threw him into the street.”

“Oh, good.”

“Excuse me a minute, I need to talk with Mike.” He got up and went forward to where the Strategic people were holding their meeting, whispered his request to Mike, and got a quick nod. Mike picked up a telephone and dialed a number.

Stone returned to his seat and found Gala asleep again. Soon, he was asleep himself.