Lucid Intervals (2010)

Stone?”
    “Something I meant to ask you: have you ever heard of a man named Stanley Whitestone?”
    Hackett scratched his nose. “I have. He got cashiered out of MI6 some years back, dabbled in business with Lord Wight, I believe. Why do you ask?”
    “I recently heard the name, and I was curious.”
    “Would you like to meet him tomorrow?”
    Stone sucked in a breath. “Yes, thank you, I would.”
    “You’re in Turtle Bay, aren’t you?”
    Stone gave him a card.
    “I’ll pick you up at one tomorrow,” Hackett said. “You’ll be home by dinnertime.”
    “Thanks, Jim.”
    “Don’t mention it.” Hackett turned and walked away.
     
     
     
    STONE WALKED A little farther, then took out his cell phone and called Eggers.
    “Stone? How did it go?”
    “I believe I made a little rain for you, Bill.”
    “How so?”
    “Hackett would like to meet with your best patents people about a business he owns, making armored private cars.”
    “Sounds good,” Eggers said.
    “It’s better than that,” Stone said. “Please him, and he’ll give you all of that company’s legal work. He says they paid their attorneys a couple of million last year.”
    “Very good indeed, Stone. Did you and Hackett come to any sort of private arrangement?”
    “No, we didn’t,” Stone replied. “He offered me some projects, and I asked him to arrange them through you.”
    “Good man,” Eggers said. “Do you want to attend the patents meeting?”
    “Not unless I need a good nap,” Stone said. “Bye-bye, Bill.”

28
    W hen Stone got home from lunch, Joan caught him as he came through the door. “Felicity called, said she won’t be home tonight; something’s come up.”
    “I’ll call her on her cell,” Stone said.
    “She said you won’t be able to reach her.”
    “Okay,” Stone replied. He got some work done that afternoon, and by the following morning he still had not heard from Felicity, so he called her cell. For his trouble, he got a loud squawk and a recorded message saying the number was not in use.
     
     
     
    AT ONE O’CLOCK Stone was standing out on his front stoop when a large, black SUV pulled up in front, and a rear window slid down. Jim Hackett waved him into the car.
    “Is this one of your armored specials?” Stone asked.
    “Top of the line,” Hackett replied. “It will repel the hottest fire, even a roadside bomb.”
    “I hope you don’t run into a lot of those,” Stone said. “Where are we going?”
    “To see Stanley Whitestone,” Hackett replied. Then his cell phone rang and he talked for the next half-hour, while the car rolled through the Lincoln Tunnel and all the way to Teterboro Airport, where Stone kept his airplane.
    They stopped at a gate, Hackett spoke some words into an intercom, the gate slid open and they drove through.
    “They won’t let me drive onto the ramp,” Stone said.
    “They would if you worked for me,” Hackett replied. The car stopped at a Cessna Citation Mustang, which was painted in a red, white and blue livery, with stars and stripes on the tail.
    A man in coveralls stood by the door of the airplane. “Your preflight inspection is all done, Mr. Hackett,” the man said. “The ground power unit is connected, and the air-conditioning is on.” He opened the door and let down a set of steps. “I’ve entered your clearance into the onboard flight plan.”
    “Hop in,” Hackett said to Stone. “Take the left seat.”
    “I’ve never flown a jet,” Stone protested.
    “Then it’s about time you did,” Hackett said, pushing him aboard.
    Stone got into the left seat and found three large glass displays lit up.
    “I’ll do the radios and the avionics,” Hackett said, putting on a headset and indicating that Stone should do likewise. “You just fly the airplane.”
    Stone picked up the light headset hanging on the yoke before him and put it on.
    Hackett was already on the radio, requesting permission to taxi. “Okay,” he said to Stone, “release the parking brake there, do a one-eighty turn and follow the taxi line around to the left.”
    Stone adjusted his seat and then did as instructed. They stopped at the threshold for runway 1 and were told to wait for final clearance.
    “Watch,” Hackett said. He pressed a button on one of the throttles, and a set of command bars popped up. He flipped up a switch on the panel. “Pitot heat on,” he said. “Now on clearance, taxi onto the runway and stop. Press the heading button and the switch