Lucid Intervals (Stone Barrington 18)

“And you… How are you?”

She held up her teacup. “Joan has kindly administered the cure-all for any British subject,” she said. “A nice cup of tea. I’m just fine.”

“Does Eduardo know about this?” Stone asked Joan.

“I called him as soon as it was over. He was shocked, of course, but he took it well. He said he would do everything possible to see that such an incident not happen again, but he advised you to leave the house for a few days while he takes care of it.”

“I can go back to the embassy,” Felicity said.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Stone replied. “What do you need to work besides a phone, a fax machine and a computer?”

“Those are my basic tools while I’m here,” she said.

Stone went to the phone and called Jim Hackett’s direct office line.

“This is Heather Finch,” a voice said.

“Ms. Finch, this is Stone Barrington.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Barrington. Congratulations on your success with the jet. Dan Phelan has faxed us a glowing report on your performance.”

“I’m calling because Jim kindly offered me the use of the airplane if he didn’t need it.”

“He’s out of the country at the moment and won’t be back for another week or ten days, so I’m sure that will be all right. Just leave me a number where I can reach you.”

Stone gave her the number and his cell number, thanked her and hung up. He walked back to where Felicity sat. “Pack a bag,” he said. “I’m taking you away from all this tomorrow morning.”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Stone backed out of his garage and drove Felicity to Teterboro Airport, with a black SUV in tow, containing two armed guards. An hour later they were in the air, headed to the Northeast.

“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me where we’re going,” she said, when they were at 33,000 feet and Stone was no longer so busy with navigating his way out of New York airspace.

“If I didn’t tell you, then you couldn’t tell anybody else,” he said, “and I didn’t want anybody else to know. Once we’re there, you can tell whoever needs to know.”

“Once we’re where?” she demanded.

“I expect that, in the course of your work, you must have met Richard Stone.”

“Of course. Dick was the CIA station chief in London some years ago,” she replied. “He directed the agency’s European operations from there. I was very sad to hear of his death.”

Stone nodded. Dick Stone and his wife and daughter had been murdered on an island in Maine. “Dick was my fi

rst cousin,” Stone said, “and in his will he left me the use of his Maine house for my lifetime. After I’m dead it will be sold, and the proceeds will go to an agency foundation set up for the widows and orphans of personnel killed in the line of duty.”

“I had heard that you two were related and that you were responsible for the solving of the murders.”

“I was able to help,” Stone said.

“Where is the house?”

“It’s on the island of Islesboro, in the village of Dark Harbor, in Penobscot Bay, the largest bay in Maine. Dick had a very well-equipped office there, with everything you’ll need.”

“I can establish secure computer and other communications links with my office, then.”

“I rather thought you could,” Stone said. A little later, as they were descending through 11,000 feet, he pointed to the airport at Rockland before turning for Islesboro and beginning his final descent through the last 3,000 feet to the airfield, which lay dead ahead several miles.

“Can you land a jet on that little strip?” Felicity asked.

“We’re about to find out,” Stone replied. “I’m going to make an approach, and if I don’t feel good about it, we’ll go back to Rockland and get someone to fly us to Islesboro in something smaller.”