Стюарт Вудс - Desperate Measures

“Right.”

“Then you’re flying left seat today,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Nowhere special.”

Faith seemed right at home setting up the avionics and completing the checklist. “Have you filed an instrument flight plan?” she asked.

“No, we’ll go VFR,” Stone replied. “Ask departure for direct Carmel.” He explained the autothrottles to her.

She called ground for permission to taxi. Five minutes later they were headed north toward the CMK VOR beacon. They leveled at fifteen thousand feet, and Stone asked her to do some turns and stalls, then he pretty much ran her through the checklist for a checkride. She handled everything perfectly.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s go back. Ask for the ILS 6.” She contacted New York Approach, asked for the instrument approach, and got it.

Back at the hangar she shut down the engines. “That felt like a checkride,” she said.

“It wasn’t a checkride,” Stone replied. “It was an audition.”

The following evening Faith arrived on time, and they had a drink in Stone’s study.

“How much money did you make last year?” Stone asked her.

“A hundred and six thousand dollars,” she said. “Probably about the same this year.”

“I’ve bought the Latitude,” Stone said. “Signed the contract today.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Does this have something to do with the offer I can’t refuse?”

“It does. I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year to be my full-time pilot.”

“Are you...” she began.

He cut her off. “Wait, you haven’t heard the whole deal. You’ll get free medical insurance; when we’re traveling you’ll get five hundred dollars a day, per diem, to cover a hotel, meals, and transportation. If we’re where I have a house, you can use a guest room and keep the money. You won’t just be my chief pilot; you’ll be my flight department. You’ll keep the maintenance logs up to date, make sure we don’t miss any inspections, and order any necessary repairs and approve the work. Whatever is to do with the airplane is your job. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Also, you’ll maintain a list of another few pilots who are qualified, should you fall ill or be otherwise unavailable. I expect you know about Pat Frank’s service?”

“I do.”

“She’ll be a good source for pilots. Anytime we fly transatlantic I’ll want two pilots aboard, so I can get some sleep. You’ll also be in charge of arranging catering, when we need it, and of hiring a flight attendant for some flights.”

He opened a leather folder on the coffee table and handed her a sheaf of papers. “Here’s your contract. Read it carefully and tell me if you have any questions.”

It took her only a few minutes to read it. “What’s this about annual training?” she asked.

“Are you a certified flight instructor?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll be in charge of training me. I insure myself, so I don’t have to go to flight school, though I do have to take a checkride every year, just like you, and keep my medical current. In fact, you can conduct the training while we’re flying, and once in a while we’ll do turns and stalls. You’ll do a three-day refresher at Flight Safety every year, and so will your backup pilot.”

“I can do that.” She signed the document and handed it back to him. He signed a copy and gave it to her. “Welcome aboard,” he said. “Do you have a New York apartment?”

“No, I’ll have to find a place.”

He handed her a key and pointed to a door off the living room. “Go through there, then through another door, and take the elevator to the fifth floor. I own the building next door, and my staff lives there. Fred and Helene moved in together, so there’s an empty on the top floor. Go look at it; I’ll wait.”

She took the key and disappeared. Fifteen minutes later she returned. “It’s perfect,” she said.

“There’s a Mercedes station wagon in the garage; Fred uses it for shopping. It’s yours whenever you need it; just check with Fred first.”

“Do you want me to be in uniform when we fly?”

“Yes, but you won’t need the jacket and cap; just bars on your shoulders to let people know you’re crew; same with any backup pilot: that helps when dealing with ground personnel at strange airports and, especially, overseas.”

“Oh, by the way,” she said, “I’m qualified for London City Airport.”

“Good, but you won’t need that often. I have a seven-thousand-foot runway on my property in the south of England.”

“I’m qualified for Aspen, too.”

“Okay. I’ve never flown in there, but you never can tell. Any other questions?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s go up to P. J. Clarke’s and have some dinner.”

Their table wasn’t ready, so they sat down at the bar to wait. A bartender Stone didn’t know came over; he was staring at Faith.

“Patty?” he said, as in disbelief. “Patty Jorgensen?”

Faith shook her head. “No, that’s not my name.”

He took their drink order and went to fill it.

“What was that about?” Stone asked.

“You heard him. He thought I was Patty Jorgensen.”

“Who’s Patty Jorgensen?”

“She’s the latest murder victim. Her picture was in yesterday’s New York Times. I was struck by the resemblance, too. We could have been sisters.”

“I’m glad we’re getting you out of that hotel,” Stone said.

“Me, too. I’ll move into my new apartment tomorrow.”

Stone still didn’t know how those girls died and nobody would tell him. He made a mental note to find out.

“Why don’t you move into your new apartment tonight?” Stone asked.

“Okay. I have another small bag to pack back at the hotel.

Fred drove them back to her hotel, and they waited for her to pack the rest of her things. Fifteen minutes passed, and Stone began to worry. He got out of the car and walked into the hotel lobby, which was deserted; not even a night clerk. A mop bucket on wheels stood in the middle of the floor, unmanned, the mop standing up in the bucket. A few wet swipes on the floor were drying. The guy must have gone to the john, he thought.

He went behind the desk and looked up her room number, then dialed it on the house phone: no answer. The elevator was the old-fashioned kind: no operator. Stone got on and tried the control lever: no joy. He pressed buttons, but nothing happened.

Suddenly, a man in a greasy uniform appeared. “Help you, mister?”

“Yes, tenth floor, get moving.”

“Right,” the man said. He took a key from his pocket, inserted it into a slot, and turned it, then pressed the control lever. The elevator began to move, but it was a slow one. Stone stood, tapping his foot.

“Tenth floor,” the man said, opening the doors.

“Wait here,” Stone said.

“Can’t do that, mister.”

Stone reached out, turned the key and put it in his pocket. “Wait here,” he said and strode down the hallway. Her door stood ajar, a key in the lock; an eerie glow came from the room, some sort of night-light. He opened the door with a detective’s caution and walked into the room, ready for anything, staying close to the walls. The bathroom door was closed; he hammered on it twice, then flung it open. Nothing. Nothing behind the shower curtain or in a utility closet. He went back into the room and looked around. No luggage, no forgotten cosmetics, nothing.

He ran back to the elevator and tossed the operator his key. “The lobby,” he said. The trip down seemed little faster. He gave the man a twenty and strode across the lobby. A desk clerk was on duty, and a man was, once more, swabbing the floor.