gone to, just to get me to the United States. You should have just invited me, and I would have taken my own airplane.'
'What do you fly?' Stone asked.
'A Gulfstream Five,' the man replied. 'Very fast, excellent range, very comfortable. Do you have an airplane?'
'Yes, I have a small jet, a Citation Mustang.'
'Isn't it fun to fly yourself?' Estancia said. 'I have my private, my instrument rating, my multi-engine rating, and three jet type ratings. I enjoy being in the left seat.'
The movie started, and Estancia watched it, rapt. Eventually, everyone but Stone moved out of the trailer for one reason or another, leaving him alone with the extractee.
'May I ask your name?' Estancia asked.
'I'm Stone Barrington.'
The two men shook hands.
'Where do you practice law?' Estancia asked.
'In New York City.'
'Do you do criminal trial work?'
'Sometimes.'
'I think I may be in need of a lawyer quite soon,' Estancia said, obviously aware of his understatement. 'Do you have a card?'
Stone dug a card from his wallet and handed it to the man.
Estancia gazed at it, seeming to memorize the information, then he stuck it into a jacket pocket and settled down to watch the movie.
Later that night Mike, Todd, and Holly returned to the trailer and got into their bunks.
'We'll be arriving around four or five a.m., local time,' Holly said to Stone as she pulled up a blanket.
Estancia glanced at his watch, then returned to the movie. He turned down the volume so as not to disturb the others.
Stone woke around four a.m., Eastern time. He had never changed his watch. The others were still in their bunks, but Estancia wasn't there. He must be back in the cockpit, Stone thought to himself. He glanced at the moving map and saw that they were off the tip of Long Island and were descending through eighteen thousand feet. He splashed some water on his face and left the trailer, taking his jump seat in the cockpit for landing. They were now descending through ten thousand feet over Long Island Sound, approaching the coast. He could see the lights of the towns out the window, and to the south, the glow of New York City.
The others filed in and took their seats.
'Where's Estancia?' Todd asked.
They all looked around and realized their prisoner was not in the cockpit.
'He must be in the john,' Mike said.
Then a roar began to fill the cockpit, growing louder, and the aircraft seemed to be striking turbulence. Papers in the cockpit were flying around.
'The rear platform is lowering!' the pilot yelled over the noise, and Stone couldn't hear what he said next over the roar of air.
Everybody got out of the seats, in spite of the turbulence, and moved into the cargo bay, looking for Estancia. Todd looked in the trailer and came back. 'He's not in the john.'
'Good God!' Holly yelled, pointing.
Stone stepped to the other side of the cargo bay and saw the interior lights of the Mercedes on and Estancia at the wheel. He ran toward the car, followed by the others.
Before any of them could reach the car, it reversed, sped down the ramp, and disappeared into the dark night.
Everybody was stunned into silence. Mike recovered first. He walked aft in the airplane, found the switchbox, and closed the rear ramp.
Relative silence returned to the interior of the airplane.
'He committed suicide?' Todd asked.
'No,' Stone said. 'He was wearing a parachute.'
TWENTY-SIX
Fred Holland, a successful cosmetic surgeon, lay sound asleep in his Rye, New York, home when he was shocked awake by something like an explosion. He lay there for a couple of minutes, afraid to get out of bed, wondering if another explosion was on the way.
Finally, mustering his courage, he went to the bedroom window, which overlooked the gardens leading down to Long Island Sound, and peered through a small opening. It was dark outside, but the security lighting was on for some reason. It must have been a clap of thunder, he thought, since the walk around the swimming pool was wet with rain. He closed the curtains and went back to bed.
A couple of miles west of where Dr. Holland was trying to go back to sleep, Pablo Estancia looked down at the rapidly approaching ground for a place to land. It was his thirty-first parachute jump, a hobby of his youth.
Ahead and slightly to his left he saw a school, the grounds lit with streetlights. Estancia pulled on the left side of the harness to correct course and aimed for the darkened soccer field.
He touched down, buckled his knees and rolled as he had been taught, then he was on his feet, gathering in the billowing chute. He could not believe his luck. He carried the chute to the sidelines of the field, then walked past the bleachers and found a large oil drum, used as a wastebasket. He set down the chute and took some old programs out of the drum, then stuffed the chute into it and put the trash back on top. Then he started walking.
He had seen some railway tracks as he floated down, and he headed that way. When he found them he thought about it, then started walking south along the tracks. After half a mile or so he could see a train station ahead of him, and he made for that.
A sign on the station proclaimed the stop to be Rye, New York. Estancia hoisted himself onto the deserted platform and looked around. A schedule on the wall told him the first train of the morning would be arriving at five- ten. He checked his pockets for money but found only euros. He went into the station men's room and urinated, then pulled out his shirttail and took out some dollars, replacing them with the euros from his pocket. He also removed an American passport. He put everything in his pockets, then tucked in his shirttail and buckled his belt.
He went back to the platform and sat on a bench, then he used his cell phone to call his home in Spain. His wife answered.
'Hello?'
'Listen carefully,' he said. 'Plan B.' He waited while she thought about that.
'I understand,' she said.
'All is well,' Estancia said, then hung up.
Plan B meant that she was to immediately pack up the children, most of their clothes, put them and all the staff into four vans, drive to Gstaad, Switzerland, and occupy their house there.
A man walked onto the platform pushing a hand trolley loaded with a high stack of newspapers and began filling a row of coin-operated newspaper dispensers. Estancia didn't have any change, but he negotiated the purchase of a New York Times for twenty dollars, the smallest bill he had, then he settled himself on a bench and waited for the train.
The C-17 settled onto the runway at Stewart International, braked, and taxied to the lighted ramp in front of the airplane's hangar. The copilot went aft and lowered the rear ramp, then started releasing the cables holding the
