Stone and the Bacchettis had settled themselves aboard by nine AM, but there was no sign of Peter Grant. Captain Jim came aboard. “I believe you have a fourth passenger coming? Immigration is here, and they want to see his passport.”
Stone glanced at his watch.
“We’re ready to tow out of the hangar,” Jim said.
“Give our missing passenger till the tower time, and ask Immigration to wait. Then, when you’re ready, let’s button up, start up, and taxi,” Stone said. “He can buy himself an airline ticket.”
Jim gave him a little salute. “Yes, sir.” He went about his work. Soon he came up the airstairs into the cabin. “Ready to start engines?” he asked Stone.
Stone gave him the twirling finger gesture, and Jim closed and locked the door, then went into the cockpit. A tug towed the G-500 out of its hangar, turned it ninety degrees to its right to avoid the backwash striking the hangar, then the right engine spun up and started.
Dino, who was in a window seat on the left side of the airplane, said, “Hey, there’s a car at our wingtip, and somebody’s getting out.”
“Is it Peter Grant?”
“Yes, and the Immigration car is pulling up, too.”
Stone picked up a phone and pressed the intercom button. “Jim, looks like our passenger has arrived.”
“I see him. Shall we leave him in the dust?”
“No, let’s get him aboard.”
Julie came back to the main cabin and opened the airstairs door, which lowered itself into place. Peter Grant came aboard carrying a briefcase, followed by a uniformed chauffeur struggling with a lot of luggage. Fortunately, there was interior access to the rear luggage compartment. After letting the driver out, Julie closed and locked the door once again, then headed forward.
Peter, breathing hard, sat himself down in a seat opposite Stone. “Were you leaving without me?”
Stone glanced at his watch. “You’re twenty minutes late. If you’d been one minute later, you could have watched us take off.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know it was time-critical.”
“I believe Tessa told you nine AM sharp.”
“Right, won’t happen again.”
The left engine spun up and started, and Julie came over to where Peter was sitting. “Good morning, Mr. Grant. Would you like breakfast? We’ll be serving in about fifteen minutes, as soon as we’re at altitude.”
“Yes, thank you.”
She gave him a dazzling smile and went forward to take her seat.
“Fasten your seat belt,” Stone said to Peter.
Peter stood up, shed his jacket, sat back down, and strapped in. They began to taxi, and Julie came back, took his jacket, and hung it in the forward closet. Two minutes later they swung onto runway twenty-seven and, without slowing, came up to takeoff speed and rotated. The airplane’s huge windows gave them good views of Paris to the south.
“This is a very nice airplane,” Peter said. “Chekhov has a Gulfstream, but yours is more handsomely decorated.”
“Thank you,” Stone said, reaching into his jacket’s breast pocket and switching on a small recorder concealed in his silk pocket square. “Tell me, Peter Grant, how, exactly, did you meet Yevgeny Chekhov?”
“We were introduced by a mutual friend, in Moscow.”
“And who was that?”
“Dmitri Kronsky—before he became president.”
“Really? How did you come to know Kronsky?”
“I had met him some years before he became president, at a party at the American ambassador’s residence.”
“How was Kronsky occupying himself in the days before he achieved high office?”
“He was head of the KGB, as it then was.”
“How were you occupying yourself at that time?”
“I was facilitating relations between the Americans and the Russians,” Peter replied.
“You must need to know a lot of Russians before you can facilitate,” Stone said. “How does an American get access to those circles in Moscow?”
“Through every possible means: contacts, referrals from others, and a great deal of applied charm.”
“Does charm work with Russians?”
“It works with practically everybody: witness your approach to Yevgeny Chekhov.”
“I didn’t approach him,” Stone said, “and I didn’t invite him to lunch.”
“I believe he apologized for his brusqueness at your first meeting, at my home. He didn’t know who you were at that point.”
“But now he knows who I am?”
“I briefed him at the first opportunity. He was late arriving, if you recall.”
“Would you be kind enough to repeat that briefing for my benefit? I’d like to know who Chekhov thinks I am.”
Peter gave a little shrug. “You are a native New Yorker, educated in the city, who served as a police detective for many years before using your law degree to join a prominent New York law firm, of which you later became a partner. You have become widely known in the city. You are also a personal adviser to the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, with a titular rank of deputy director, and are close friends with your president, your former president, and the secretary of state. I guess that about sums you up.”
“You neglected to mention my relationship with Triangle Investments, which conducted the IPO in which Mr. Chekhov and you did so well.”
“Ah, that’s right, Chekhov told you we profited from that,” Peter said.
“He, to the tune of three hundred and sixty million dollars. You, somewhat less. How long have you been profiting from your relationship with Chekhov?”
“Long enough to keep me quite comfortable,” Peter replied. “And remember, he is not the only client I advise.”
“But he is the only client who could come up with a twenty-five-million-dollar contribution to your well-being, is he not?”
Peter’s face fell. “Certainly not.”
“And yet, until very recently you were quite deeply in debt to establishments like Charvet, where your account was in serious arrears.”
“I have no debts,” Peter said, huffily.
“Well, not anymore,” Stone said. “Not since Chekhov wrote you that check.”
“You are very well informed,” Peter said, recovering his good nature.
“And I hope soon to be even better informed,” Stone said. “After all, it’s a seven-hour flight.”