happy.
“I was going to ask what’s wrong,” Stone said, “but I suppose, given your mien, I should ask what’s right.”
“You are very perceptive,” she said. “What’s right is that I appear to have won.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to say what you’ve won in the presence of Lieutenant Bacchetti,” Stone said, nodding at Dino.
“My lips are sealed,” Dino said.
“I don’t distrust your lips, Dino,” Felicity replied, “but forgive me if I talk in riddles.”
“Riddle away.” Dino went back to his drink and ogled a young woman at the bar.
Felicity leaned in close to Stone. “I’ve won the argument with my betters.”
“Whitestone?” Stone mouthed.
“Have you ever heard of lip reading?” Felicity asked. “And you’re facing the window.”
“Whitestone?” Stone whispered without moving his lips.
“Yes, that argument,” she replied. “I believe the contretemps involving my former colleague has abated, to the point of nonexistence.”
“How did you manage that?”
“My hint that I might discuss the situation with those outside my service seemed to do the trick.”
“You mean your betters are afraid of being exposed?”
“Exactly. I don’t think anyone in my position has ever even hinted at a public discussion of any matter.”
“You got their attention, then,” Stone said. “I congratulate you. I tried that with the NYPD once, and it got me early retirement.”
“I’m too young to retire,” Felicity said, “but my betters are not. I think visions of questions in Parliament followed by lurid headlines finally did the trick.”
“Should I let my client know?”
“I think you may do so,” she said. “Do you know how to reach him?”
“Now that you mention it, no.”
“Well, next time he reaches you, then.”
“Will do.”
“Tell me, did you tell him that his little trick with the cemetery plot didn’t work?”
“I can’t divulge a conversation with a client,” Stone said, “or even that such a conversation has taken place, but I have reason to believe that he is aware that that little jig is up.”
“Good. I shouldn’t like him to think that he can fool me so easily.”
“If I should ever speak to him again,” Stone said, “I will convey that thought to him.”
“Yes, please.”
WHEN STONE GOT home, the message light on his bedside phone was blinking. He pushed the necessary buttons to get the recording and heard the now-familiar voice from a barrel.
“A flight plan will be filed for you tomorrow morning for a departure at ten a.m. local,” Hackett said. “You may get your routing from Teterboro Clearance Delivery. Pack for two nights.” Hackett hung up.
“Was that your client?” Felicity asked from the other side of the bed.
“If it were, I couldn’t tell you,” Stone replied.
“Well, if you’re finished with your telephonery, would you kindly devote your attention to me?”
Stone got out of his clothes and did so, taking her in his arms and kissing her.
“I received payment from the Foreign Office today,” he said between kisses.
“I’m so glad our business has been concluded,” Felicity said, moving his hand to a receptive part of her anatomy, while taking a part of his in her hand. “Is there lubricant available?” she asked.
Stone reached for a bedside drawer and produced a small bottle, squirting it at the appropriate places.
“Much better,” she said, moving her hand.
They continued until both of them had achieved a satisfactory conclusion.
“By the way,” Stone said before they fell asleep, “I’m going to be away for the next couple of nights.”
“I have only a few days left in New York,” Felicity said, “so don’t be away too long.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Stone drove to Teterboro, did a thorough preflight inspection on Hackett’s Mustang, then got into the cockpit and started the engines. When he had run through the lengthy checklist, he called Clearance Delivery. The controller gave him a routing that took him north for a few miles, then northeast across Connecticut and Massachusetts and into Maine. To his surprise, his destination was Islesboro, where his own Maine house was.
He got taxi instructions to runway 1, then took off and followed his routing. An hour later he was lined up for landing on the little paved airstrip on Islesboro. As he touched down and began to roll out, applying the brakes, he saw a car parked beside the runway.
He got the airplane stopped, then taxied back toward the car. As he shut down the engines, a window rolled down, and Hackett beckoned.
Stone secured the airplane, then locked it and tossed his bag into the rear seat of the car and got into the passenger seat.
“How are you?” he asked Hackett.
“I’m very well, considering that I’m cut off from all my usual contacts,” Hackett replied. “Let’s not talk now; I’ll devote my attention to driving.”
He drove into the village of Dark Harbor and turned toward the Tarrantine Yacht Club.
For a moment, Stone thought he was driving to his own home, but Hackett turned into a driveway a mailbox short.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Stone said, getting out of the car before a shingled cottage. “We’re next-door neighbors, but from my house I can’t see this place for the trees.”
“I couldn’t go to my own home on Mount Desert,” Hackett said, “so I chose your location instead, almost.”
“Who would have thought it?” Stone asked, getting his bag from the rear seat and closing the door.
Inside, Hackett directed him to an upstairs room. “I’ll see how lunch is doing,” he said.
Stone went upstairs, hung his jacket in the closet and unpacked his bag. His room was small but comfortable, and he had his own bath.
Hackett called from downstairs, “Lunch is ready!”
“Be right down,” Stone called back.
51
They sat at the kitchen table, where a housekeeper served them a lobster salad, Stone’s favorite, and Hackett cracked a bottle of good California chardonnay.
“I have news for you,” Stone said.
“Good news, I hope.”
“Yes, indeed. You’re off the hook.”
Hackett stopped eating and looked at him. “The Whitestone thing?”
“That very thing.”
“Tell me all.”
“It is my understanding that the people in London…”
“The home secretary and the foreign secretary?”
“Yes, those people-have called it off.”
“Do they accept that I’m not Whitestone?”
“I don’t know about that, but I am reliably informed that they have no further interest in you.”
Hackett put down his fork and rested his forehead in a hand, his elbow on the table. “Thank God,” he said.
