Stone sucked in a breath.
“The windows are tinted darkly enough to make the occupants unrecognizable, and, after it arrived in this country, we sent it to a specialist to be lightly armored.”
“What, exactly, does ‘lightly armored’ mean?”
The salesman opened a door, pressed a button, and a window rolled down halfway. “As you can see, the glass is a lot thicker than standard – half an inch thick, in fact – and the roof, all the door panels, and the floorpan have been reinforced with lightweight, but very tough materials like Kevlar. The car will repel small-weapons fire, even heavy machine-gun fire, but it won’t, of course, stop a bazooka or a land mine. You’d need the fully armored version for that level of protection.”
Stone got into the car and looked around.
“You’ve got sport seats and special trim; there’s also a concealed radar scrambler on board,” he said, looking around to see that no one was listening. “It detects, then makes police radar useless; it’s legal in most states.”
“It’s very nice,” Stone said. “How much?”
“It doesn’t belong to us, actually,” the salesman replied. “It’s the property of the widow of a former client, a South American gentleman.”
“And why is she a widow?”
“The car was delivered a couple of days too late to serve the purpose the gentleman had intended.”
“You mean he was in another car when…”
“When he needed the extra protection that this car affords.”
“How much does the widow want for it?”
“Something in the region of…” He named a figure. “But I believe she is a highly motivated seller.”
“I see,” Stone said, feeling to be sure he had his checkbook with him.
“The car has only eighty-one miles on it, and it has every option ordinarily available on the S600,” the salesman said, “including the portable telephone and the separate rear-seat air-conditioning. Even with the extra weight of the options and the armoring, the car will do zero to sixty in six seconds flat,” the salesman said, “and the top speed is no longer limited to the standard, electronically controlled one hundred thirty miles per hour.”
“What
“Nobody knows,” the salesman replied.
“Ask the widow if she will accept an offer of…” Stone named a number. “And please tell her it will be my only offer.”
“Let me make a call,” the salesman said. He went to his desk and picked up the phone.
Stone walked around the car, looked in the trunk, then raised the hood. He gave a little gasp. The engine was the most beautiful mechanical object he had ever seen, ingeniously crammed into a car allegedly too small for it and beautifully polished wherever possible. He closed the hood and looked at the wheels. He reckoned they were two inches larger than standard; the rear wheels were wider than the front, and the tires were low profile.
The salesman returned. “The widow accepts your offer,” he said. A film of perspiration covered his face. “Will that be cash, or would you like to finance it?”
“It will be cash,” Stone said, pulling out his checkbook. “How soon can I drive it away?”
“The car’s already been prepped; you can be on your way in half an hour.”
“Can you get me a number for the car phone in that time?”
“You better believe it,” the salesman said, trying not to pant.
20
STONE DROVE MADDENINGLY SLOWLY through the crosstown traffic, two detectives in a car behind him. Sarah was reading through the instruction book that came as a supplement to the owner’s manual.
“It says here that the electric, rear-seat sunscreen is made of a material that is designed to stop any incoming…” She stopped. “Incoming what?”
“Just incoming. It means bullets or shrapnel.”
“Any incoming that penetrates the rear glass.” She found the button under the armrest and watched as the fabric sunscreen went up and down. “Cute,” she said. “Does it have built-in machine guns like James Bond’s car?”
“Of course not. I shouldn’t have told you about the armor.”
“Oh, I’m very glad to hear about the armor,” she said. “Gives one a cozy warm feeling inside. Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“How long a surprise?”
“Normally less than two hours, but I want to make a brief stop along the way.”
“A brief stop where?”
“Ossining, New York.”
“Yuck; sounds like an awful place.”
“Many of the people who reside there think so.”
“Why are we stopping there?”
“I want to ask a man some questions.” Stone pulled onto the West Side Highway and left the thick traffic behind. He put his foot down and felt himself pressed into his seat as the car accelerated.
“My goodness,” Sarah said.
“Yes, indeed.” Stone looked into the rearview mirror at the small dot that was the detectives’ car. He punched a programmed button on the car telephone.
“Krakauer,” a voice said.
“Thanks, Krakauer,” Stone said. “I’ll take it from here. You can tell Lieutenant Bacchetti that you got me out of town alive.”
“Right,” Krakauer replied. “Try not to come back.”
Stone punched off the call, flipped on the radar scrambler, and concentrated on driving and watching for cops. In what seemed like half the usual time they were on the Saw Mill River Parkway, headed north. He crossed the Hudson on the Tappan Zee Bridge and picked up the New York State Thruway.
“There’s a little wind noise around this window,” Sarah said. “I would have thought that at, what, seventy miles an hour we wouldn’t hear that.”
“We’re doing a hundred and ten,” Stone replied.
“Oh. Are we going to be arrested?”
“Probably not.” He spotted a state trooper going in the opposite direction and slowed down, watching the car make a U-turn across the meridian. By the time the trooper was up to speed, Stone was at sixty-five. He could see the man fiddling with something on his dashboard, looking confused. A moment later, the trooper made another U- turn and drove off to the south. “Zap,” Stone said aloud.
“What?” Sarah asked.
“I just zapped his radar.”
“I thought his radar was supposed to zap you.”
“That’s the way it used to be.”
A little later Stone pulled into the visitor parking lot at Sing Sing and approached the guardhouse.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked.
“I’d like to speak to Captain Warkowski.”
“Just a minute.” The guard picked up a phone, said something into it, then handed it to Stone. “He’s on the line.”
“Hello, Captain,” Stone said. “This is Stone Barrington; I was up here with Lieutenant Bacchetti.”
“How could I forget?” Warkowski replied. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to see Herbert Mitteldorfer again; just a few questions.”
