Стюарт Вудс - Wild Card

“In this house?” Sherry asked.

“Yes. Are you superstitious?”

“No. Why were they murdered?”

“Because of a family disagreement — nothing to do with his work for the CIA, which nobody here knew about, anyway. His older brother died as a result, and the man’s two sons are in prison for life without parole.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.

“But, as a result of Dick’s rank in the Agency, this house was built to their high security standards. Underneath the shingled siding and roof is half an inch of steel plating. And the windows can stop a high-velocity round. The fire and security systems are the best available. My point is: with the doors locked and the windows closed, this house is a fortress.”

“Sounds like where I want to be,” Sherry replied.

They finished dinner, then Stone led them across the living room and around a corner, where he moved a small picture aside to expose a keypad. He gave Sherry the combination and asked her to enter it. A door, part of a bookcase, opened, and the lights inside came on automatically. They went inside. “This room was where Dick did Agency business. His computer was, and probably still is, connected directly to the Company mainframe.”

The room was about nine by twelve, and the wall at the short end was covered with mounted weapons. “Take your pick,” Stone said.

Sherry looked around and picked up a smaller-than-usual Model 1911 .45 Colt.

“That’s an officer’s Colt,” Stone said.

“I know. My father preferred a .45 to a 9mm, mostly because he considered the .45 beautiful. He disliked Glocks because they weren’t. I like this one because it’s smaller and lighter than the original.”

Stone opened a cabinet to reveal stacks of loaded magazines. “Take as many as you want.”

She took a half dozen magazines, and he put them into a small case and handed it to her.

“I brought my own pistols,” Bob said, “but I’d like a rifle.” He took down an AR-15 and a half dozen magazines.

“Then you’re ready for war,” Stone said. “Let’s go have an after-dinner drink. I’m expecting company.”

They went into the living room, and Stone poured them each a cognac. “Our guest is Ed Rawls, who should be here shortly — and who has an interesting background. You’ve never met Ed, have you, Bob?”

“No, but I’ve heard about him.”

“Ed was a CIA lifer until, while serving as station chief in Stockholm, he was caught in a honey trap and compromised by the KGB. He never gave them anything of importance, but he got arrested and sent to federal prison. The officer who nailed him was one he had mentored, Kate Rule, now Katharine Lee, President of the United States.

“Later, Ed, even in prison, was able to dismantle a plot against the reputation of Kate’s husband, Will Lee, a Georgia senator who was running for president. As a result, after he was elected, Will gave Ed a presidential pardon, which was sealed. Ed returned here, where he owned a house and has lived here and in a couple of other places, pretty much happily ever after.” Stone paused. “And that, I think, is the cue for the doorbell to ring.” He turned and looked at the door, waiting. The bell rang, and Sherry and Bob laughed.

“I could do that,” Stone said, “because Ed always arrives precisely on time, and it’s eight-thirty.” He went to the door and admitted a beefy, heavily mustachioed man of indeterminate age.

Stone made the introductions and brought Ed a cognac, then he threw another log on the fire.

“Sorry I couldn’t join you for dinner,” Rawls said. “I had a date at the yacht club for dinner with an attractive widow. Lots of them hereabouts.”

Stone gave Rawls a rundown on what Sherry and Bob were doing in Dark Harbor.

“Sounds like you two lead exciting lives,” Rawls said. “Not much excitement around here, but that seems to change when Stone is on the island.”

“Well,” Stone said, “I’ll stick around a few days and see if I can drum up some.”

“Who knows you two are here?” Rawls asked.

“Nobody,” Sherry said.

“Nobody,” Bob echoed.

“That’s the first rule of personal security,” Rawls said. “Invisibility. Is either of you traceable?”

“In my experience,” Bob said, “everybody is traceable these days.”

“You have a point,” Rawls said. “Sherry, how did you get to this house?”

“I was staying at another house down the coast, one owned by my employer, who is suspicious of me. I felt uncomfortable with the circumstances there, so Bob and Stone arranged for me to come here.”

“How did you travel?”

“I left Teterboro in a private plane, was met at Rockland Airport and taken to the house. This morning, I hit the man guarding me with a rock and stole his van. I abandoned that outside Rockland and got a taxi to Camden, where I met Stone’s yacht, Breeze , which brought me here.”

“Have the police taken an interest in you?”

“They have, but I avoided them.”

“I think we have to assume that you’re traceable,” Rawls said, “if your employer is willing to make the required effort to locate you. Is he?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m a small fry to him.”

“Bob, how about you?”

“I abandoned my residence and workshop a few weeks ago. I lived in Brooklyn for a while, then at Stone’s house in Manhattan. We flew to Rockland in Stone’s airplane, then flew a small Cessna to Islesboro.”

“Then you are traceable,” Rawls said. “There’s no cutout.”

“What’s a cutout?” Sherry asked.

“That’s a point where you disappear before you continue to your destination. You both have traceable paths. Sherry, a taxi driver and, no doubt, a person or two at the Camden marina saw you. Bob, Stone’s airplane is traceable to Rockland, and you were no doubt seen leaving Rockland in the Cessna, which is known around here. A good private detective could find you both in a couple of days.”

“That’s depressing,” Sherry said.

“Maybe not,” Rawls replied. “Now all we need to know is how badly your pursuer wants you. I expect we’ll find out before long.”

They were just saying good night to Ed Rawls and one another when Stone’s phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Jamie. Where are you?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier, but I’ve been traveling. I’m at my house in Maine.”

“You’ve abandoned me?”

“Only for a few days. Would you like to join me here?”

“Is it a business or pleasure trip?”

“You could turn it into a pleasure.”

“Well, that’s enticing. How do I get there?”

“I’ll arrange a flight for you from Teterboro. It’ll take an hour, a little more, if I can find a single-engine plane. It’s a short runway, too short for a jet.”

“What do I do?”

“Ask Fred to drive you to Jet Aviation, at Teterboro tomorrow morning at nine. You’ll take off at about ten and land on Islesboro an hour or so later.”

“What clothes will I need?”

“I like you in as little as possible.”

“On the occasions when I’m not naked?”

“Casual stuff. A sweater for the evenings. I’ll see you for lunch, then.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” she replied, then hung up.

Stone called the Strategic Services hangar and learned that an old airplane of his that he had sold to them was available, and so was a pilot. He scheduled it, then went upstairs to bed.

Stone drove to the airport, arriving a little after eleven and waited. A few minutes later his old JetProp, a single-engine turboprop, set down and disgorged Jamie and a couple of bags. He got her into the station wagon and headed for the house.