Stuart Woods: Shoot Him If He Runs

Thomas shook his hand and gave him a hug. “Let’s get your luggage into the car,” he said.

The policeman wearing dark glasses stepped up. “I require to see their passports,” he said.

“Of course, captain,” Thomas said. “Stone?”

Everyone produced a passport and handed it over. The captain motioned to a policeman who ran over and made a desk of his back while the captain stamped each passport, then handed them back to their owners. “My apologies,” he said, then with a wave for his troops to follow, walked away toward the small terminal.

“Thomas, let me introduce my friends: this is Dino Bacchetti, who used to be my NYPD partner; his girlfriend, Genevieve James; and my friend, Holly Barker.” He felt an elbow in his ribs. “Oh, uh, I’m sorry, this is Ginny Heller.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you all,” Thomas said. “Hop in, and I’ll drive you to the inn.” He leaned close to Stone’s ear. “Stone, you’d best learn the names of your women.”

“Right,” Stone whispered back. “I’ll explain later.”

The pilot finished loading the luggage into a Volvo station wagon. “Contact Mr. Cabot when you need me,” he said to Stone, “and on the way home you can fly right seat. That was my first solo flight in this airplane, and I didn’t want any witnesses.”

“Great job,” Stone said. Thomas started the car, and they drove away. “What was that all about, Thomas?” Stone asked.

“You’ll find that things have changed a bit in St. Marks,” Thomas said. “Since Sir Winston Sutherland became prime minister, the police take a greater interest in everyone than they once did.”

“It can’t be very good for tourism to do that to everybody who arrives.”

“No, it’s not, but they don’t bother the folks on commercial flights quite as much. They tend to look at every private airplane as a conveyer of drugs, and there is no faster way to get in trouble on this island than to possess illegal drugs.”

“Well, thanks for your help.”

“You’ll find things quite different at the English Harbour Inn, too. I’m a member of Parliament now, and I’ve prospered since the advent of Sir Winston, mostly because he likes my conch chowder, and, of course, because I pay him well under the table. I was allowed to buy some beachfront property from the government that’s adjacent to my own, and I’ve built a dozen cottages. You’re all in the nicest of them, and you’ll have your own housekeeper and butler.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I bought the marina, too, and I’ve made improvements. You can even get wireless Internet on your yacht these days. The restaurant has been enlarged, and I got a new chef from England last year. I also started a liquor distribution company, so the wines are better than when you were last here.”

“Sounds like the advent of Sir Winston has brought all sorts of improvements.”

“He hasn’t been all bad,” Thomas said. “I’ve never learned to like the man, but he’s cracked down on crime, the roads have been improved, and the national income from tourism is up and headed higher, I think.”

“What’s the downside of Sir Winston?”

Thomas shrugged. “The payoffs are higher than with the last PM, but then so are the profits, and the police are more…observant of the citizens.” Thomas nodded toward the island’s central mountain in the distance; its top was shrouded in fog. “The old man is wearing his gray hair today,” he said. “Did you ever go to up to the top of Black Mountain?”

“No, I seemed to spend most of my time in a courtroom last time.”

“Ah, yes,” Thomas said, smiling. “I read about the exploits of the lovely Allison and her evil husband in Palm Beach a couple of years ago. They’ve been put away, I believe.”

“That’s so, and I’m glad to have had a hand in it. I had dinner with the president of the United States last night, and he told me that she requests a pardon every year.”

Thomas looked amazed. “You had dinner with the president?”

“Along with about three hundred other people,” Stone said, “but I did get to chat with him for a couple of minutes.”

“You’re coming up in the world, Stone.”

“Not really; it was my first White House dinner, and I expect it will be my last.”

Thomas turned through a pair of large stone gateposts with a brass plaque bearing the legend “English Harbour Inn,” and below that another plaque identifying the inn as a Relais de Campagne hotel.

“You got in the Relais? You’re coming up in the world, too.” The Relais was an international organization of luxury hotels and country inns and restaurants.

“Well, at least I didn’t have to bribe anybody,” Thomas said. “I applied, they showed up and inspected the place, and I got that little plaque for my gate.”

“You didn’t even have a gate last time I was here.”

Thomas laughed and turned off the main drive onto a smaller road. A moment later he stopped the car beside a stone cottage with a roof of palm thatch. The sea lapped against a powdery white beach a few yards away. “Here we are,” he said.

A man wearing a white cotton jacket and a black bow tie materialized next to the car and opened the doors.

“This is Jacob Marlow, your butler,” Thomas said. He nodded at a plump woman in a white dress, standing in the doorway of the cottage. “And that is Hilda, his wife, who will help take care of you. I’ve booked a table for you in the restaurant at eight; I’ll see you then.” Thomas shook Stone’s hand, got in the car and drove away.

The cottage consisted of a large, comfortably furnished living room with a well-stocked bar in one corner and two bedrooms, en suite. There was also a small, book-lined study with a desk and a sofa. Ceiling fans kept the air moving, and air conditioning seemed unnecessary. A large flat-screen television set was built into a wall unit in the living room, and each bedroom had a smaller set.

“Mr. Barrington, would you and your guests like a drink before Hilda and I unpack for you?”

“Thank you, Jacob, you go ahead, and I’ll do the drinks.”

“Would you like something pressed?”

“The blue blazer and the white linen trousers,” Stone asked.

Jacob took similar instructions from the others, then dematerialized.

Stone went to the bar, made a batch of vodka gimlets and served them from a tray. Everyone relaxed.

“Well,” Genevieve said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m glad I came.” She gave Dino a kiss.

“I’ll drink to that,” Holly/Ginny said, raising her glass. “And here’s to Stone remembering my name.”

As they took their first sips of their gimlets two gunshots rang out, at a not very great distance. Holly started to get to her feet, but Stone stopped her.

“Holly, never run toward gunfire, unless you’re the police, and you are no longer the police.”

They continued to sip their drinks, but the mood had changed.

At seven-thirty they walked up to the main building and into the open-air restaurant. A long bar occupied one side of the room, and a steel band was playing at one end of it. Stone estimated there were about fifty tables in the restaurant, and three-quarters of them were already full.

They were having a drink at the bar when there was a stir in the room and Stone looked toward the door to see Sir Winston Sutherland, clad in his usual white linen suit, enter, accompanied by his wife. He was halfway to his table when he spotted Stone. He seated his wife, then walked back toward the bar, a small smile on his face. “Ah, Mr. Barrington,” he said, “welcome back to St. Marks.”

“Thank you, Sir Winston, or I should say, Prime Minister. Congratulations on your election.”