Lucid Intervals (Stone Barrington 18)

“This will do nicely,” Felicity said, taking a seat at the desk. “Now, if you’ll give me an hour or so, I’ll start letting my people know I’m still alive.” She looked at him over her reading glasses. “I hope the takeoff will be less exciting than the landing,” she said.

39

Felicity was taking a nap when the phone rang, and Stone picked it up. Must be a wrong number, he thought. Nobody knew he was at this number in Maine. “Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Jim Hackett.”

Stone was stunned. How on earth had he been found? “Hello, Jim. This is quite a surprise. I’m at what Dick Cheney used to call ‘an undisclosed location.’ ”

“You’re at Dick Stone’s house on Islesboro,” Hackett said. “Did you think I wouldn’t have a locator on my airplane?”

“I should have known,” Stone said.

“I have a satellite photograph of it on the ramp at Islesboro, too. Oh, by the way, congratulations on your type rating,” Hackett said. “Dan Phelan was impressed with your ability to learn quickly, and so am I. Frankly, I thought it would take you at least another week to pass your check ride. And congratulations on your landing in Islesboro; I wouldn’t have attempted that.”

“It’s an easy airplane to fly, once you know the avionics,” Stone said.

“You’re too modest. Are you and Dame Felicity all right?”

“I’m very well,” Stone replied. He wasn’t going to play that game.

“I understand your former wife took exception to Dame Felicity’s presence in your life.”

“How do you come up with this stuff?” Stone asked, baffled.

“Stone, give me a little credit,” Hackett replied. “I own one of the largest private security firms in the world; I have access to all sorts of information.”

“I’m impressed,” Stone said.

“Does Dame Felicity still think I’m Stanley Whitestone?”

“I can’t tell you what she thinks.”

“I understand she’s having some difficulty verifying my identity,” Hackett said. “I would have thought my fingerprints would have helped, but you’ll get a package tomorrow that may help.”

“A package of what?” Stone asked.

“Hang on.” Hackett began a muffled conversation with someone else in the room and then came back on the phone. “I have to run,” he said. “Stay in Maine with the airplane for as long as you like. If you need to contact me, call Heather Finch at my office, and she can patch you through to wherever I am.”

“Where are you?” Stone asked, but Hackett had already hung up.

THEY DINED AT the Dark Harbor Inn, a handsome house on the outskirts of the village. There were only two other couples in the dining room, and neither of them, Stone thought, looked like anyone who would be surveilling them.

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” Felicity said.

“What?”

“About our fellow diners. I shouldn’t worry; no one has any idea where we are, except my office in London, not even the ambassador.”

“I’m afraid that’s not so,” Stone said.

“What? You told someone where we were going?”

“Only Joan, and she’s completely trustworthy.”

“Who else could know, then?”

“While you were napping I had a phone call on the house phone from Jim Hackett.”