Shoot First(Stone Barrington #45)(63)

“What will we do in St. John’s?” she asked.

“We refuel and check into a hotel for the night. I want to land in daylight tomorrow.”

“Why? Can’t you land at night?”

“Yes, but in the daytime the views are better.”



* * *



—

THEY LANDED on schedule at St. John’s, refueled, checked into a hotel, made love a couple of times, had a good breakfast early the next morning, and lifted off at eight AM.

After a few minutes Meg looked out the window. “I don’t see anything but ocean,” she said.

“That’s because we’re crossing it.”

“How long will it take?”

“About three and a half hours. We have a tailwind of more than a hundred knots, and that makes it fast.”

“And where do we land?”

“That’s the surprise.” Stone leveled off at flight level 410, and the airplane began to pick up speed. Soon they were at a true airspeed of 425 knots, but the tailwind gave them a groundspeed of 650 knots. Stone selected some classical music on the satellite radio. “Eventually we’ll run out of satellite and thus, music,” he said.

“But it’s calming my nerves.”

“By that time you’ll be as calm as you’re going to get.”

Nearly three hours later, he pointed into the distance. “Land, ho!” he said.

Meg peered into the distance. “I see it. Which land is it?”

“Ireland.”

“Are we stopping there?”

“No.”

“Well, the next country is England. Are we stopping there?”

“Yes.”

“Where in England?”

“That’s the surprise.”

With Ireland behind them air traffic control gave them permission to descend, and soon the south coast of England was beneath them.

“You’re right,” Meg said, “the views are lovely.”

“I’m usually right,” Stone replied. “Not always, but usually.”

They got lower and lower.

“Are we about to land?”

“Yes.”

“Where? I don’t see an airport.”

“Look dead ahead. You’ll see a long strip of pavement with trees on both sides. There’s a fairly large house to your left.”

“I see the runway, but there’s no airport.”

“It’s a private runway. During World War Two it was a bomber base for the RAF.”

“I see several large houses. Which is yours?”

Stone pointed. “The tour is over now. I have to concentrate on landing.”

“But . . .”

“Shhhh.”

Stone lined up for the runway, corrected for a slight crosswind, dropped the landing gear, and progressively added flaps, until a woman’s voice said, “Five hundred feet.”

“Who was that?” Meg asked.

Stone didn’t answer but slowed to 110 knots and smoothly set down the airplane. “We have arrived at Windward Hall,” Stone said.

“Who are those people over there?” She pointed.

“The two gentlemen in uniforms are customs and immigration officials. The one in a suit is Major Bugg, the estate manager.”

Stone taxied up to the two vehicles, stopped, and shut down the engines. Shortly, they were unloaded and were presenting their passports to officialdom.

“Welcome home, Mr. Barrington,” one of them said. They got into their vehicle and drove away.

Stone introduced Meg to Major Bugg, who had already put their luggage into a Range Rover. “And the man driving the tug is George,” Stone said, as George towed the aircraft into its hangar.

Shortly, they pulled up in front of Windward Hall, and help came to take their luggage to the master suite. Stone gave Meg a tour of the ground floor, and they were served drinks in the library. Major Bugg gave Stone the Times of London and the local paper and excused himself.

Something caught Stone’s eye at the bottom of the front page of the local paper. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

“Really? My scotch is very good.”

He showed her the story, which was about how a billionaire had bought a local car factory and saved the workers’ jobs.

“Who is this man?” Meg asked.

“His name is Selwyn Owaki,” Stone replied.

“And who is he?”

“He’s the man we came all this way to get away from.”





48




Meg stared at Stone. “Who is he, and why did we come all this way to avoid him?”

Stone handed her the newspaper, and she read the article, then put it down.

“Selwyn Owaki sells arms to whoever has the money, and he doesn’t care where or how they got it.”

“He sounds charming,” Meg said wryly.

“Actually, he has that reputation, when he’s not murdering his competition. All sorts of people—even people who are very rich themselves—are attracted to and deceived by people who have vast quantities of money.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?”

“It is one of the great mysteries of human nature. Americans, particularly, seem to suffer from this affliction. Haven’t you noticed differences in the way you are treated by others since you became very wealthy?”