Stone noticed that Mike was searching both sides of the road with his eyes the rest of the way.
FIFTY-ONE
They drove the five miles to Lake Waramaug, a large natural lake north of Washington, and down the north side to a driveway marked only by a mailbox. The seven cars, including Stone’s, filled the parking area at the house.
A man came outside from the house. “Mr. Barrington?” he asked, looking around.
“I’m Stone Barrington.” He shook the man’s hand.
“My name is Robert. My wife, Jane, and I run the place. Mr. Cabot is on a buying trip in Europe, but he told me to make the entire property available to you, except for the master suite and the workshop, both of which are secured.” Robert looked around. “How many of you are there?” he asked.
“How many beds do you have available?” Stone asked.
“Fourteen, in seven bedrooms, including the guesthouse.”
Stone counted noses. “Mike, we’re okay on numbers, unless you’re staying.”
“For a night or two,” Mike replied.
“You can use my house, then.”
“Thank you, Stone.” He turned to his men. “Get your luggage inside, then I want a by-the-square-foot search of the property for any possible security risk.” The men moved to their work.
“These people are Mr. and Mrs. Gelbhardt,” Stone said to Robert. “They are the principal guests. Can you please show them to the best available room?”
“This way,” Robert said, then led them into the house. Stone, Willa, and Mike followed and waited in the large living room.
“You say Barton Cabot was once your client,” Mike said. “No more? A falling-out?”
“Nothing like that,” Stone replied. “Our business was successfully concluded; we remain on cordial terms. Bart is an antiques dealer.”
“I’ve researched him thoroughly,” Mike said. “I think this is a perfect safe house for our purposes.”
“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Stone said. “It’s a pity you can’t see Bart’s workshop. He builds eighteenth-century American antiques out there.”
Mike laughed. “You mean, like those factories in South America that turn out pre-Columbian art?”
“Yes, except Bart’s pieces are handmade from old mahogany with the same hand tools that were employed at the time. The pieces are indistinguishable from the real thing, believe me.”
Mike’s cell phone rang. “It works here!” he said, surprised. “Freeman.” He listened for a moment. “Good afternoon, Lance. May I put you on speaker so Stone can hear you?” Mike pressed a button and put the phone on the coffee table.
“Good afternoon, Stone,” Lance said.
“Good afternoon, Lance.”
“Is anyone else with you?”
“Yes, my friend Willa Crane, deputy district attorney in the Manhattan office.”
“How do you do, Ms. Crane?” Lance said.
“I’m very well,” Willa replied.
“Ms. Crane, do you have a federal security clearance?”
“I did when I worked for the U.S. Attorney, some years ago.”
“Please hold.” Lance put them on hold for a couple of minutes, then returned. “I have authorized the reinstatement of your clearance, which had expired,” he said. “I thought I might as well, because if you are where you are, you already know more than a civilian should.”