Стюарт Вудс - Foul Play

“Now?”

“No, not now. Tomorrow maybe, or Monday.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you, since it has to do with that stuff I can’t tell you about.”

She made a frustrated noise, then went to find a bottle of wine, glasses, and some napkins, tossing Stone a corkscrew. “Will you open it? I can never make these things work.”

“Sure. Watch, and you’ll know how to do it next time.” He opened the bottle swiftly and tossed the cork to her. “Sniff it to see if it smells good. If it doesn’t, we’ll open another bottle.”

She sniffed it. “It smells good,” she said, pouring them each a glass.

The doorbell rang; she answered it and came back with a pizza box. “I tipped him twenty bucks, is that enough?”

“Yes. No wonder he arrived so quickly.”

They attacked the pizza. When they were done she asked, “How did you become involved with the CIA. Or, if you tell me, will you have to kill me?”

“That would be the easy way out,” he said. “My history with the Agency is long and complicated, and if I explained it all to you, you wouldn’t believe most of it. Let’s just say that we have found ways to be useful to each other over the years. Besides the card, Lance gave me a badge and a diplomatic passport, which would be helpful in airports, except that I haven’t flown commercial in years.”

“You have a jet?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too — or, as with the houses, I will as soon as the settlement documents are signed.”

“You’d better tell Herb Fisher to negotiate the maintenance costs into your agreement. They can be crippling.”

“Good idea. When we split, Chet asked me what I wanted, and I said I wanted to go on living exactly the way I have for the past eleven years, plus a lump sum. He agreed to that, in principle, as you lawyers say, and Herb is making it happen.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve got Herb arguing for you, or you’d be spending the next twenty years in court. When he says, ‘Sign this,’ don’t hesitate, just do it.”

“Herb says I should ask for ‘the use’ of the jet, not for owning the airplane.”

“Smart move. Chet will have to pay all the expenses, as he always has, so he won’t really miss it. If you want to stay on his good side, give him ample notice of when you want the airplane.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“What kind of airplane is it?”

“A Gulfstream 700.”

“That is a great deal of airplane.”

“Chet was good at picking out airplanes and cars.”

They watched a movie on the wall-sized TV in the master bedroom, then fell asleep.

His cell phone woke him. He opened an eye and saw the sun coming up. A private call. “Hello, Lance,” he said, yawning.

“Don’t tell me I woke you.”

Stone looked at the bedside clock. “You woke me. What sensible person wouldn’t be asleep at this hour? Hang on a second.” Stone got into his robe and walked out onto the deck.

“I hear ocean waves,” Lance said. “What shore do they beat against?”

“The south shore of the island called Long.”

“Southampton?”

“East, etcetera.”

“Your taste in friends is improving. Or have you sprung for some real estate out there?”

“I own too much real estate as it is,” Stone said. “Out here, I prefer to mooch.”

“Me, too. What were you going to call me about?”

“How did you know I was going to call you?”

“I get these feelings now and then, and you always call.”

“Okay, a client of mine named Shepherd Troutman has got himself entangled with what Dino thinks is the Russian mob.” Stone related recent events. “And yesterday we were followed from the East Side heliport by a black helicopter.” He cited the registration number. “It’s registered to McGlumphy and Whitfield, a Delaware corporation, which was also the buyer of Shep’s business.”

“Where is Shep now?”

“He’s holed up on the Vineyard at his father’s house. The father is still alive, by the way, but nobody knows it.”

“Let me look into it.”

“If anybody can bust into a Delaware corporation, Lance, it’s you.”

“I suppose that’s true enough,” Lance said. “Talk to you later.”

They both hung up, then Stone went back inside, snuggled under the covers again, and went back to sleep.

Late on Sunday afternoon, Stone packed his change of clothes, picked up his briefcase, and went outside to listen for the arrival of the helicopter. Brooke came and sat beside him.

“Ah, Sunday afternoon,” she said. “It’s so sad.”

“Why is it sad?”

“Because tomorrow is Monday,” she said.

“How does Monday differ from any other day for you? You don’t have to go to an office, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Yes, but it’s still Monday. I used to have to do all those Monday things, and it’s sad to remember them.”

“If there were no Monday, somebody would have to invent it.”

“I suppose.”

Stone heard the distant beat of the helicopter’s blades. He was about to struggle out of his armchair and walk the dozen steps to the helipad, when the machine appeared from the east. He had expected it from the west, or at the very least, from the south. Then he saw that it was black.

“Do you feel comfortable leaving your house unlocked?” Stone asked Brooke.

“It’s locked up tight,” she said.

“Never mind, it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, if they really want to get inside.”

“ ‘They’?”

“Haven’t you noticed that it’s the wrong helicopter? It’s the one that followed us out here.”

“Should I call the police?” she asked.

“What, the helicopter police? I don’t think East Hampton has one of those.” He glared at the chopper. “My kingdom for an RPG,” he said.

“What’s an ‘RPG’?”

“A rocket-propelled grenade.”

Then the black chopper peeled off to the east, and Brooke’s ex-husband’s aircraft appeared from the west and set down on the helipad. Stone and Brooke trotted out to the open door of the machine, Stone ducking, even though he had three or so feet of clearance between his head and the rotors. They boarded, buckled in, and a crewman closed and fastened the door, then they lifted off and turned west, toward the city.

Half an hour later the towers of Manhattan swam out of the smog and, in what seemed like a moment, they were alighting on the East Side helipad, where the Bentley and Fred awaited.

“Take me home,” Brooke said. “I don’t think I can stand any more of you.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.”

“I mean I’m sore, everywhere that counts, and I don’t think I can take any more of you until I’ve recovered for about a week.”

“I’ll try and take that as a complement,” Stone said. “Fred, drop me off at home, then take Ms. Alley up to Seventy-Third Street and assist her into her residence.”

Fred dropped him off, he kissed Brooke and said, “Get better soon.”

“God forbid,” she replied. “If I call you and invite you over sooner than a week from now, hang up on me.”

Stone trotted up his front steps and realized he was pretty sore himself. He went upstairs and sought a nap. He had hardly stretched out when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You sound terrible.”

“I’m sore,” he replied.

“Where?”

“Everywhere that counts.”

“That’s what happens when you screw in the Hamptons,” Dino said.

“How did you know I was in the Hamptons?”

“Because you’re sore. Are you well enough to eat?”

“I don’t think so. I just laid down, and I don’t want to get up again, until at least tomorrow.”