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Stone completed his preflight checks and escorted Meg onto the airplane and into the right cockpit seat.
“Why can’t I sit in the back, like before?” she asked.
“Because Viv isn’t there to hold your hand, and I don’t want you to be nervous.”
“What if I’m nervous anyway?”
“I’ve put you in the cockpit next to me so that you can absorb what goes into piloting a jet airplane.”
“Well, that’s something I don’t intend ever to do.”
“One never knows, do one?” Stone handed her the checklist and commanded her to read it aloud to him, one item at a time. This took only about three times as long as if he had done it himself, but at least she was getting an idea of what was involved.
That completed, he called the tower and asked for a clearance. A company called Pat Frank, after a woman who was a client of his, had already sent him a detailed weather report and filed his flight plans for this day and the next.
Stone wrote down his clearance and entered his route into the flight computer, then he called ground control and was given permission to taxi to runway 1.
“When do I get to know where we’re going?” Meg asked.
“Today we’re flying to St. John’s in Newfoundland,” Stone replied. “Tomorrow will be a surprise.”
“Newfoundland,” she said. “Brrrrr.”
“You’ll find it pleasant this time of year,” Stone said. He was cleared for takeoff, then taxied into position on runway 1 and pushed the throttles smoothly forward. “Here we go.” A little longer than a moment later, he lifted the nose of the airplane and it flew off the runway.
“That was kind of fun,” Meg said.
“Next thing you know, you’ll be taking flying lessons,” Stone said, raising the landing gear and the flaps.
“Why can’t you teach me?”
“Because teaching you to fly would require reserves of patience and kindness that I do not possess. It’s better if you learn from a professional.”
“Like learning to drive?”
“Yes, but there are fewer things to bump into.” At 450 feet, he pressed the autopilot button and took his hands off the yoke.
“What are you doing?” she asked, alarmed.
“I’m turning the airplane over to the autopilot, which does a better job than I.” Stone received instructions to climb on course, and the airplane turned itself to the right.
“How long a flight?”
“A little over three hours. Would you like the New York Times?”
“I’d rather have a drink.”
“We don’t fly with alcoholic beverages aboard,” Stone said. “The pilot might be tempted to have one, and we don’t want that.”
“Then I’ll make do with the Times,” she said.
He reached behind him, retrieved the newspaper, and handed it to her. “Remember to look out the window now and then. The views are nice.”
“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.”