Worst Fears Realized

this; if I do, he’ll be their only target.”
    “Dino can take care of himself,” Sarah replied.
    “If these people got to him, I’d never forgive myself.”
    She looked at him for a moment. “Stone, I’m not coming back to New York.”
    “Look, this will be over, eventually. Stay with your folks until we’ve cleared it up, then come back.”
    “No, I’ve had it with this city. I left the first time because I was unhappy here; now it’s trying to kill me. I’m sorry, but I won’t be back.”
    “What about your attitude toward being pushed around by terrorists?” he asked.
    “I’ve reconsidered my position.”
    “You know I can’t live anywhere else but New York,”
    “I know.” She put her arms around him. “You’re the sweetest man I know, but, as you said, when there are enough coincidences lined up, it’s fate. The fates are against us.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said.
    She kissed him. “So am I.”
    He gave her her ticket and passport, and she disappeared down the ramp and into the airplane.
    Stone trudged back to the ticket counter, returnedhis ticket for credit, and picked up his bags. To his surprise, Dino’s car was still sitting at the curb. Stone tossed his bags into the backseat and got in. “I’m back from England,” he said.
    “How come?” Dino asked.
    “I didn’t like the weather.”
    “You let that girl go?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Will she come back when this is over?”
    “No. Take me to a hotel, Dino; if somebody watched me go, I don’t want him to know I’m back.” Dino motioned for his driver to move on. “That was some girl,” he said.
    “I know.”
    “You incredible schmuck.”
    “I know.”

35
    STONE CHECKED INTO THE CARLYLEHotel and instructed the desk that they were not to acknowledge his presence there unless the caller asked for Elijah Stone, which was his maternal grandfather’s name.
    “Of course, Mr. Stone,” the desk clerk said.
    Once in his room he called his answering machine. There was only one message, from Bill Eggers. He returned the call, and Eggers came on the line.
    “It’s Stone.”
    “You all right? I read theTimes. ”
    “I’m all right.”
    “You came off as something of a hero.”
    “Don’t believe it. What’s up?”
    “We’re all ready to close on your Connecticut house.”
    “Oh, okay Today?”

    “Yep. The seller has already signed off on everything. All we need is your signature, notarized, a couple of dozen times, and a cashier’s check for the purchase price and closing costs; or you can give me a personal check and we’ll pay it out of our trust account.” He gave Stone the exact amount.
    “I’ll wire it to your trust account today, and you can issue the check.” He wrote down the law firm’s account number.
    “Sure; you want to come over today?”
    “Listen, Bill, I’m holed up at the Carlyle, and I don’t want to go out today. Could you come over here?”
    “Sure, what time?”
    “Come at noon; I’ll buy you a room-service lunch.”
    “Okay, I’ll be there.”
    “I’m in Room 1550, registered under the name of Elijah Stone.”
    “See you at noon.” Eggers hung up.
    Stone called his broker and asked him to wire-transfer funds from his money market account to the trust account of Woodman & Weld, then he called ABC Furniture and asked them to go ahead and deliver his purchases to the Connecticut house.
    “We’ve got a truck going up that way tomorrow,” the woman said.
    “That’s great,” Stone replied. He called the housewares store and asked for overnight delivery on his purchases, then he called Bob Berman.
    “I thought you were on your way to England,” Berman said.

    “Change of plans. I didn’t want to go back to the house, so I’m at the Carlyle Hotel. I wonder if you’d do me a big favor?”
    “Name it.”
    “Would you go over to the house tonight—and I mean in thedead of night—make sure the house isn’t being watched, then let yourself in. You’ve still got a key?”
    “Yeah, not that I need one; I installed your security system, remember?”
    “I remember. Go up to my study; there’s a gun safe in a cabinet under one of the bookcases. Can you pick the lock?”
    “Is the pope Polish?”
    “Get the little Walther .765 automatic and its shoulder holster, and a spare clip. Then get the car out and take it to the Carlyle garage—it’s open twenty-four hours—and tell the attendant it’s for Mr. Stone in 1550. Lock the gun in the glove