Stuart Woods - Strategic moves

Adele had been listening on her headset from the copilot's seat. "Kennebunk? That's in Maine, isn't it? Are we going to Maine?"

"We are," Stone replied. "To an island in Penobscot Bay called Islesboro and a village called Dark Harbor."

"It sounds wonderful," she said.

The countryside was mostly white beneath them and got whiter as they flew east and north. Stone showed Adele Islesboro on the chart, then he ran through his descent and landing checklists, to stay well ahead of the airplane. They had only just reached their cruising altitude of thirty-three thousand feet when Boston Center started their descent.

Soon Stone could point out Islesboro and the landing strip.

"The strip looks awfully small," Adele said.

"It will look larger as we approach," Stone replied, "and the airplane is very good at short field work. Now, excuse me, I have to concentrate on landing."

His checklist called for a final approach speed of 88 knots, and he concentrated on reaching and holding that speed while extending the flaps and landing gear. He put the airplane exactly where he wanted it and right on the speed number, then applied the brakes.

"Very good brakes," Adele said. "I didn't think we'd be able to stop so quickly."

"There's Seth Hotchkiss," Stone said, pointing at the restored 1938 Ford station wagon parked beside the runway. "He and his wife, Mary, take care of the place."

"How long have you owned the house?" Adele asked.

"I don't own it. It was built by my first cousin Dick Stone, who died a while back. He left me lifetime use of the house, and on my death it will go to a foundation he set up."

"That was very nice of him," she said.

"It was indeed," Stone agreed.

Seth greeted them and put their bags into the back of the wagon, while Stone installed the engine plugs and pilot covers and disconnected the battery. Then they drove away.

"Are you having a quiet winter, Seth?" Stone asked.

"Quiet as usual," Seth replied. "We got some snow last week."

"It's very pretty," Adele commented as they drove through the village.

At the house, Mary greeted them, and Seth took their luggage upstairs.

"I've got some clam chowder on the stove," Mary said. "Would you like some?"

They agreed and had a good lunch in the kitchen, then moved to the living room.

"What's that sound?" Adele asked.

Stone listened. "Phone," he said. He took his house key and opened the locked door that concealed Dick Stone's study. Dick had been about to be promoted to the job now held by Lance Cabot at the CIA when he, his wife, and daughter had been murdered, but Stone didn't want to tell Adele that they had been killed in the house.

Stone picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"Good afternoon, Stone."

"How on earth did you know I was here, Lance?"

"Stone, are you forgetting where I work? I always know everything. I thought you knew that."

"I keep forgetting," Stone replied. He had told his secretary where he was going, but she wouldn't have told Lance.

"A bit chilly up there, isn't it?"

"Yes," Stone replied.

"You don't sound very happy to hear from me," Lance said.

"Why should I be happy to hear from you, Lance? It's a weekend, and I'm away from my office."

"Ah, yes; I forgot that you are a nine-to-five office worker."

"What do you want, Lance?"

"Well, Stone, first of all I want to tell you how unhappy I was with your performance in my meeting with Mike Freeman."

"Performance? What the hell does that mean?"

"I expected you to take the Agency's position in our conversation."

"I'm counsel to the company," Stone said. "I take their position in all meetings, with you or anybody else."

"Stone, you've been on the Agency's payroll for some time now."

"I'm not on your payroll," Stone said. "You pay me when I work for you, like any other client. It's not like I'm on salary."

"Still."

"Lance, perhaps it would be better if you just released me from my contract with the Agency."

"Oh, no, I don't want to do that. There are times when I need your particular talents."

"Well, don't try to employ them when I'm representing Strategic Services."

"Mike called me yesterday and declined to be involved in the situation I outlined to him."

"Good. That was my advice."

"Actually, that situation was entirely hypothetical, designed to test Freeman's willingness to be involved with us. I expect we'll find other ways for him and his company to be useful to us."

"You were never able to get Jim Hackett to play ball with you, were you, Lance?" Stone was guessing now.

"That was a different time. Jim is gone now."

"Well, you should expect Mike Freeman to treat your offers with equal skepticism."

"I certainly hope not, Stone, for your sake as well as his."

Stone was rendered speechless by this remark, and by the time he recovered himself, Lance had hung up. Stone went back to the living room.

"You don't look very happy," she said.

"I had a business phone call at a time when I didn't want one," Stone replied. "How about a walk? I'll show you around."

Adele went to get her coat and boots, while Stone tried to put Lance Cabot out of his mind.

They walked along the water, carefully picking their way over rocks on the shore. The harbor was empty of boats, and the Tarratine Yacht Club was closed and shuttered.

"It's beautifully desolate, isn't it?" Adele said.

"Well-chosen words."

"I like it that you brought me up here," she said. "Most men would have taken me south to someplace warm."

"I wanted you all to myself," Stone said. "Up here I don't have to compete with your friends and the tourists and the shops for your attention."

"You have my undivided attention," she said, squeezing his hand.

They were gone an hour, and when they returned Mary made them hot buttered rum, and that warmed them up.

At dinnertime Mary had managed to produce lobster Thermidor, and they ate it with a bottle of good white Burgundy from Dick Stone's cellar.

Back in the living room, Adele stood at the window and watched the moon rising. "Are these windows tinted?" she asked. "The moon is a funny color."

"Let me tell you about the house," Stone said. "My cousin Dick was a lifelong employee of the Central Intelligence Agency, something I didn't know until shortly before his death. Dick finally got the job he'd wanted all his life, deputy director for operations, but he died before he could assume the office. When he built the house, the Agency, in consideration of Dick's importance to it, added many security features, among them thick, armored glass in all the windows. That's why the moon's color may seem a little odd."

"Dick Stone was from your mother's side of the family?"

"Yes, he was her brother's son."

"How did he die?"

"He was murdered, along with his wife and daughter."

Adele looked shocked. "Was this in connection with his work?"

"No, it was a family matter. Say, can I show you the bedroom?"

She laughed and kissed him. "I'd love to see it," she said.

He led her upstairs, and they helped each other undress, then plunged under the eiderdown duvet and clung to each other for warmth.

"I'm glad we're not in Palm Beach," she said, throwing a leg over his.

"I'm glad, too," Stone said, then he turned his attention entirely to her needs.

After lunch the following day, Stone left the house alone and drove out to the airfield. There had been a little snow in the night, and he wanted to see if he was going to have an icing problem with the airplane.

The sun was well up, though, and what snow there may have been on the airframe had melted. Stone was about to get back into the old Ford when suddenly there was a helicopter over the runway. It was black, and he noticed that there was no registration number on the fuselage.