12

The G650 set down on the Windward Hall landing strip in the long English twilight. The crew shut down one engine while Stone, Gala, Bob, and their luggage were taken off, then as they got into the estate’s Range Rover, the engine was restarted and the aircraft took off on its short flight to Le Bourget, Paris.

“Oh, look!” Gala said as the house hove into view. Bob seemed to have pretty much the same reaction, putting his head out the window and barking at the house. All the lights were on, and the place glowed. “It’s so beautiful!” Gala said.

They were settled into the master suite, then went down to the library, where a table had been set for their dinner. They had had only a sandwich on the airplane.

Stone phoned home and got Joan. “Everything all right there?”

“No further disturbance,” Joan said, “and Mike’s people are camped out in my office. We’re happy as clams here.”

“Good. We’re just sitting down to dinner, so I’ll say goodbye.”

Geoffrey, the butler, had left a selection of wines for their dinner; Stone chose one and uncorked it, then decanted it to rid the wine of its sediment. They had a drink before the fire while the wine took a breath.

“It’s another world,” Gala said, looking around, “and one without Boris in it.”

“The best kind.”

Dinner was served, and they enjoyed themselves.

—

The following morning, after a perfect night’s sleep, Stone decided that they should attend the grand opening of the Rome Arrington, a few days hence. At noon he called Pat Frank, who ran the aircraft management service that took care of his airplane, and asked her to have his Citation CJ3 Plus flown to his home in England.

“I can arrange that,” Pat said. “How soon do you need it?”

“A couple of days will be okay, but do something else for me, please.”

“Sure.”

“Have my tail number blocked from the various flight-tracking services.”

“Is someone too interested in your movements?”

“That is the case.”

“I’d better get on that now, then, it takes a day or two to get it done.”

“Tell your pilot he’ll be driven to Heathrow for his flight home.”

“Will do. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment.” They both hung up.

“That was easy,” Gala said.

“Everything is easier when you’re organized.”

Stone looked out the window at the sky. “The forecast is good for today. How would you like a ride and a picnic lunch?”

“Sounds perfect.”

—

The horses were brought from the stables, and they cantered across the estate, jumped a stone wall, and were on the property next door. “That’s our Arrington country hotel,” Stone said, pointing at the larger house as they rode past. “The two properties together run to something over five hundred acres.”

“What a nice neighbor to have.”

They rode along the Beaulieu River, which was at flood tide, and found a spot for lunch in the shade of some trees. The horses nibbled at the grass while they spread a blanket and unpacked their lunch. Stone opened a bottle of cold Chardonnay, and they lunched on smoked salmon sandwiches and a salad.

“Two days ago we were in the high desert of Santa Fe,” she said, “and suddenly, we’re in England, picnicking.”

“A miracle of modern-day air travel.”

“A miracle of some sort. I feel safe for the first time since my divorce was final. I don’t think I had realized the extent to which Boris was eating at my sense of well-being. I confess to you that I considered shooting him once. My sister, Susannah, dealt with an ex-husband that way.”

“Do you remember what a hassle that was for her, and especially for Ed, who had to deal with the legal consequences?”

“I remember, and she told me it was worth it to be rid of him.”

“Self-defense is an effective motive for a shooting, but killing someone, for whatever reason, is a pain in the ass. That will haunt Susannah for her whole life.”

“At least she has a life.”

“You have a point. Just remember that killing somebody is never an easy solution to your problems. Between Ed and me, we can sue Boris into submission. It will take a while, and it will be expensive, but it can be done.”

“The problem is, Boris doesn’t understand your logic. He considers revenge a reasonable motive for anything, and between his money and his connections with the Russian mob, he has the means to carry it out. I can tell you from experience that right now, he’s very angry, and he’s plotting.”

“He’s also on the other side of a very large ocean, and he will have plenty of time to cool off before we cross it again.”

“You don’t understand, Stone. Boris doesn’t cool off, he just simmers until the next time he comes to a boil.”

“How has he managed to succeed in Hollywood if he’s that kind of person? He’s going to have a very hard time finding another studio deal, after what’s happened over the past ten days.”

“Hollywood doesn’t much care what kind of person he is, as long as he makes money for them, and his series of thrillers have brought in something like a billion and a half dollars in worldwide ticket sales over the past four years. That kind of cash flow can cause the community to look the other way. I’ll bet you that within a week, in spite of all that happened with Centurion and the Arrington and the Bel-Air Country Club, Boris will have a deal with another studio.”

“I won’t take that bet, because you could be right,” Stone said. “Come on, let’s ride down to the mouth of the river, and I’ll show you the Solent.”

“What’s the Solent?”

“It’s the body of water that separates England from the Isle of Wight. It’s only a couple of miles wide, but it’s the capital of yachting in England, maybe in Europe.”

“Do you have a boat?”

“I have one on order that’s due for delivery here any day, now.”

“What sort of boat?”

“A Hinckley 43, a very nice little motor yacht. It will be good for pottering around the Solent and up and down the English Channel, and it’s easily managed by one or two people, so it doesn’t require a professional crew.”

“Is it American-made?”

“Yes. I didn’t know enough about British boats to be comfortable ordering one, but I know Hinckley very well. Their factory is an hour’s drive from my house in Maine.”

“Can we go out on it when it comes?”

“That’s what it’s for.” Stone’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he glanced at the phone. A message appeared on-screen: Tracking Tirov. Stone pressed a button, and a map of the British Isles appeared on the screen. A green ball appeared over Ireland, and it was moving toward England.

“What is it?” Gala asked

“Just a text message,” Stone replied, and put away the phone.