Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(30)
“Yes.”
“What I may not have mentioned is that he was a pilot for Swissair; he was born in Bern. My mother is American; they met when she was a flight attendant. I was born in Zurich, and I hold both a Swiss and an American passport.”
“How convenient,” Stone said.
“That has served me well with the Agency.”
“Surely they know about your heritage.”
“They do, but they don’t know everything. My father’s name is Heinrich Schmid.” She spelled it for him. “When he was flying, he was known in the States as Hank Smith. My name at birth was Katrin Schmid, but when my passport was issued, as a child, they misspelled it as Katrine Schmidt. It’s been that way on successive passports ever since.”
Stone’s brow wrinkled. “Run that by me again,” he said.
“It’s like this,” she said. “I already have a Swiss bank account in the name of Kelly Smith, the name on my U.S. passport, and I’ve reported that to the Agency. It has a little less than two hundred thousand dollars in it, my life savings from modeling.”
“Good for you.”
“I intend to open another account in the name of Katrin Schmid, using my birth certificate as identification.”
“So,” Stone said, “if the Agency should search the Swiss banking data files, they’ll find Kelly Smith and her two hundred thousand dollars, but not Katrin Schmid and her ten million dollars because her data file is strictly limited to Swiss access?”
“And even if they surreptitiously got access to the files, the spelling of my name would be an obstruction to their search. If they should be searching for the name on my Swiss passport, they would be looking for Katrine Schmidt, who does not have a Swiss bank account.”
“Well,” Stone said, “I must tell you that, as an attorney-at-law, I find your plan to be an appalling violation of the law. But as your friend, I find it fetching.”
“Then will you help me get to Zurich? It occurs to me that you have an automobile of British registry, and even if they were looking for me they wouldn’t be looking for a couple. A single woman of my appearance would be more noticeable than a couple in a Bentley.”
Stone sighed and put down his brandy snifter. “I’m bushed. Let’s talk about it in the morning, when I will be better able to see the holes in your plan.”
* * *
—
THE FOLLOWING morning over breakfast in bed Kelly nudged Stone. “Tell me about the holes in my plan,” she said.
“I’ve thought about it,” Stone said, “and there aren’t any that I can find. Zurich is quite a long drive from London. But I have a house in Paris, we can break our journey there.”
“I knew about that from reading your file,” Kelly said.
“You’ve read my Agency file?”
“Of course. It would have been negligent of me not to, since we were working on the same operation.”
“Unbeknownst to me,” Stone said.
“As it should have been. It had a better chance of working that way.”
“But it didn’t work.”
“Well, I got a nice check out of it, so that depends on your point of view.”
“Touché,” he said.
* * *
—
THEY PACKED THEIR BAGS, and Stone buzzed Henry to come and put them in the car. “Ms. Smith and I are going to take a few days for touring,” he said to the man.
“Yes, sir,” Henry said. “Could you leave me an itinerary, in case someone should call?”
“No, we’re just going to wander about and stay in country inns. I’m going to turn off my cell phone.”
“As you wish, sir.” Henry took the bags down to the garage.
* * *
—
KELLY CALLED Lance Cabot’s cell phone, the one she knew he never answered, that went directly to voice mail.
“You know who this is and what to do,” Lance’s voice said, followed by a beep.
“Good morning,” Kelly said. “I told you I might want to take some time off after our dinner, so Stone and I are going to tour the West Country and try some of those marvelous country inns. I’ll be back in New York and ready to go to work again in about ten days. Bye-bye.” She ended the connection, shut down her phone, and removed the batteries.
* * *
—
THEY LEFT THE HOUSE at nine AM, after sending his Paris housekeeper a text message informing her of their impending arrival, then he shut down his cell phone, and an hour later they were zooming along the motorway, through the manicured landscape south of London. They had lunch at a country pub, then showed up at the Chunnel train at Folkestone and got a place on it without a reservation. Once in France, he bought them throwaway cell phones at an autoroute stop. They were at Stone’s Paris house, in a mews off the Boulevard St. Germaine by five.
They dined at Brasserie Lipp, a short walk from Stone’s house, on choucroute, a platter of assorted meats and sauerkraut.
“Why don’t we spend an extra day in Paris and unwind?” Kelly suggested.
And they did.