Choppy Water - Stuart Woods Page 0,1

Holly summoned her Secret Service head-of-detail, Bill Wright, and his deputy, Claire Dunn, and bade them to sit down. They did so.

“All right, Bill, Claire, here it is: Stone and I are going away for a week.”

Their faces fell simultaneously. “Away?” Bill asked. “Where?”

“To an island in Maine,” Stone said, “called Islesboro, to a village called Dark Harbor, to my house.” Bill started to object, but Stone raised a hand. “Let me brief you first. The island has a winter population of about twenty this time of year. My house was built for my late cousin, Dick Stone, under the supervision of the CIA; Dick was its deputy director, and the house is bulletproof, including the windows. The nearest airport that can take a jet is Rockport, with runways of four and five thousand feet. Two ways to get to the island: ten minutes in my Cessna 182, for five people and luggage, to a 2,400-foot paved airstrip, or a twenty-minute drive to Lincolnville, where there’s a ferry every hour or so. I’m not sure what the winter schedule is. I can house six of your agents in my guesthouse, and our cook will prepare their meals. There’s a dock on the property should you want to send people by boat. We’re next door to the local yacht club, which will be closed for the winter. You might contact them about using their clubhouse for recreation and meals.”

“You didn’t mention use of a helicopter into the Islesboro Airport,” Bill said.

“Only if you want to attract news organizations with TV cameras.”

“That’s out,” Holly said.

“Well,” Bill said. “I’ll have to contact my boss in Washington to get permission for this excursion, and I’ll have to call on the Air Force for an aircraft.”

“Sorry,” Stone said, “I didn’t mention that I own a Gulfstream 500, based at Teterboro, which will seat up to twelve people, for the leg to Rockland.”

“We’ll still need Air Force pilots,” Bill said.

“I have a full-time pilot, highly qualified. If you want an Air Force pilot to fly right seat, fine with me.”

“I’ll call Washington,” Bill said.

“Hold on, Bill,” Holly interjected. “I want you and Washington to understand that we are not requesting permission for anything. I’ve made the decision to go. If your people don’t want to participate, we’ll be quite happy with the transportation on hand. The security arrangements are up to you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bill said.

Claire spoke up for the first time. “Mr. Barrington, I understand that you have a knife wound to your arm that requires daily inspection and rebandaging.”

“That’s correct.”

“I’m a nurse practitioner, so I can take care of that. I’ll bring the necessary materials along.”

“Thank you,” Stone said.

“Now,” Holly said. “I propose that we leave the Carlyle at six AM tomorrow morning for Teterboro.”

“I’ll arrange everything,” Bill said, and the two agents left.

“Now,” Holly said. “I’ll have to do some shopping, and I imagine that you need some proper clothing, too.” She picked up the phone and called somebody.

Stone called Joan and asked her to pack a couple of bags and send them to the hotel.

2

They departed the Carlyle at five AM, instead of six, for better traffic conditions. They were on the ramp at Teterboro by five-thirty and attracted no attention while boarding. Faith, Stone’s pilot, introduced them to her Air Force copilot; there was no stewardess on board for the short trip.

They were allowed an early takeoff and given a clearance of direct Rockland. Forty minutes later they set down. There Stone, Holly, and the head-of-detail Secret Service agents, Bill and Claire, got into Stone’s Cessna, while the other agents boarded a couple of SUVs for the drive to Lincolnville and the ferry. The two pilots had accommodations in Rockland.

“The yacht club has given us the use of their building,” Bill said, “and we’re taking in our own bunks and a cook. We’ll be out of your hair most of the time. Claire and I will use your guesthouse, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly,” Stone said, taxiing into position.

They landed at Islesboro fifteen minutes later, and Seth Hotchkiss was there with the 1938 Ford Woodie station wagon to transport them to the house.

Once at the house, Stone showed the agents around, then they left for the yacht club to get that organized.

Stone lit a fire, and he and Holly settled down before it with cups of cocoa.

“This is all I want to do while we’re here,” Holly said, “just sit and stare into the fire.”

“I imagine your brain will be occupied with other