Стюарт Вудс - Indecent Exposure

“I’ll call you when I’m leaving my building.”

“Great.” Teppi hung up and stamped his feet, trying to get some circulation going. He looked up to see Barrington coming out of the Diamond Center, talking on his phone. Teppi turned his back and pulled the hat down over his forehead, watching Barrington’s reflection in a shop window. He was just standing on the corner, looking uptown.

This went on while Teppi kept stamping his feet. Then a green Bentley turned a corner and pulled up to where Barrington stood, and he got in and was driven away.

“Shit!” Teppi said aloud, and started waving his arms for a taxi. The Bentley turned a corner and glided out of sight. Teppi’s phone rang.

“Okay, I got out of the office early,” Danny said. “Where are you?”

“Never mind,” Teppi said, “he got into his Bentley and drove away, and there are no vacant cabs on Fifth Avenue.”

“Do you know where he’s going?”

“Probably home. You know the address — take a cab over there and see if he’s home. If he is, he won’t be going out for dinner until seven or so.”

“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Danny said.

“Because Gloria wants it, that’s why. I can never say no to her, and neither can you. She got you out of the jug, didn’t she?”

“Oh, all right, I’ll get over there. Here comes a cab!”

Stone walked into Joan’s office. “I know this is weird,” he said, “but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being followed.” He looked out the window but saw nobody.

“Paranoia does not become you,” Joan replied, then went back to her work.

Stone sat down at his desk and went through his phone messages, then returned some calls.

A few minutes later Joan buzzed him.

“Yes?”

“You’re being followed,” she said. “Come in here.”

Stone went into her office.

“Look out there,” she said, pointing to the window.

Stone looked out and saw a thin, fashionable-looking young man leaning against a tree across the street and smoking a cigarette.

“He got out of a cab ten minutes ago,” Joan said.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Stone replied.

“Why do you think he’s following you?”

“If I don’t know him, how would I know why he’s following me?”

“I guess that makes a weird kind of sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Stone said.

“You want me to take a shot at him?” Joan asked.

“Not yet,” Stone replied. He walked out of her office, stepped out the front door, and yelled, “Hey!”

The young man jerked to attention.

“What do you want?”

He threw away his cigarette and sprinted toward Third Avenue.

Stone thought he was remarkably fast. He went back inside and found Joan standing at the window.

“Maybe you’re not paranoid,” she said.

On the appointed date, Stone had Fred drive him to Teterboro Airport, where he did a thorough preflight inspection on his Citation CJ3 Plus, ran through his checklist, and started the engines. He received a clearance as filed. It seemed that there must be little traffic; everyone was home for the holidays.

He took off for Manassas; the air traffic controllers sounded bored, and he heard little chat on the radios. He received a vector of direct Manassas, landed there after an hour’s flight, and taxied to the FBO ramp. Holly, Peter, and Celeste came out of the building and pushed a cart toward the airplane as he cut the engines.

Stone loaded their luggage, made Peter and Celeste comfortable in the passenger seats, and invited Holly to fly right seat. She was a licensed pilot and could work the radios for him. Fifteen minutes later they were climbing toward forty thousand feet and winging their way toward Key West.

At almost the same moment, a Gulfstream jet took off from Andrews Air Force Base.

Billy Lee sat next to his mother, reading Lassie Come Home.

“How’s the book?” she asked.

“The dog is dragging through a swamp with a broken leg,” he replied.

“Don’t worry, he’ll get better,” she replied.

“Don’t tell me the ending!”

She raised her hands in surrender.

“Mom,” Billy said, looking around, “this isn’t Air Force One.”

“Yes, it is,” she replied.

“No, it isn’t. Air Force One is a lot bigger and has a lot of people on it.”

“It’s like this, sweetheart — whatever airplane the President is flying on is called Air Force One — big or small. It’s what’s called a radio call sign.”

“Oh,” Billy replied, and added another fact to the growing collection in his young brain.

Two hours later, the Gulfstream set down at Warm Springs, Georgia, where the runway had been lengthened to accommodate big jets when Will Lee had been President.

Three SUVs rolled up to the airplane, and two Secret Service agents who resembled the Lees got out. They walked down the airstair, waving at the little knot of media behind a fence a hundred yards away, and the SUV’s door closed behind them. Billy understood the ruse, and he knew that he was spending his vacation in Georgia with his pony and his aunt Bee.

The airplane taxied to the end of the runway and took off. Its radio call sign was still Air Force One.

Stone set down the CJ3 at Key West International at dusk and taxied to the ramp, where a van waited to receive them and their luggage. Once in the van, Stone asked to be taken to the U.S. Coast Guard installation in Key West Harbor. “Everybody brought their passports, as requested, right?”

He got an affirmative noise from the group.

“Give them to me, please.”

After a ten-minute drive they reached the gate of the base. Stone handed the passports to the uniformed guard and they were admitted. He dealt out the passports to their owners.

Breeze , wearing the British White Ensign, was docked next to a smaller yacht, Scout , in what had been the old Key West submarine base, now occupied by the Coast Guard. A Secret Service agent checked their passports, and the crew carried their luggage aboard and settled them in their cabins. After unpacking, they met in the yacht’s saloon for a drink.

Stone raised his glass. “Welcome aboard,” he said, and everybody drank. “Let me explain exactly what’s going on,” he said.

“Please do,” Peter said. “This is all very mysterious. To begin with, why is the yacht flying the British White Ensign? I thought that was the exclusive right of Royal Navy ships.”

“If you had seen the stern you would have learned that Breeze is now called Trafalgar III . She is now carried on Lloyd’s List as a British-registered vessel owned by the commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, the British members of which are also allowed to fly the White Ensign. Foreigners like me are also allowed to fly it, as long as their vessels are registered in Britain, which we now are — temporarily. We’re also flying the Squadron’s burgee, which is a triangular version of the White Ensign.

“Kate and Will’s flight is timed to land after dark, just about now, at the Key West Naval Air Station. They dropped off Billy in Georgia earlier.”

“Why all the secrecy?” Celeste asked.

“They just don’t want to attract attention while on vacation,” Stone said.

As he spoke, Air Force One set down at the Naval Air Station, on Boca Chica Island, a few miles away. From the ramp the aircraft was towed into a large hangar, and the Lees disembarked there and were driven to the Coast Guard base. They were welcomed aboard by the rest of their party, and after they had settled into the owner’s suite, they joined the others for a drink. The yacht’s engines started.