Stone went through the interior tour and found the layout and fabric and leather options to be very much what he would have chosen himself, if he had been ordering it new. “It’s a Gulfstream 500,” he said.
“You have a good eye,” Callie replied. “It’s loaded, too, with just about every avionics and entertainment choice you could ask for. And the rear cabin has a shower.”
Stone continued to view the photographs.
“And,” she said, swallowing a bite of her sole, “I can make the entire transaction happen by the close of business tomorrow.”
They ordered coffee.
“How long has the owner been dead?”
“Since last summer. It’s had about a hundred hours of charters since then.”
“Did you steal the airplane?” Stone asked.
“No, but you can.”
Stone laughed. “You’re a broker?”
“I am. An independent. I spent eleven years with two of the biggest brokers in the business, was the top seller for both, and, when they wouldn’t come up with a partnership, I went out on my own. I was able to persuade the late owner’s estate to give me an exclusive on the airplane, and you’re the first to see it.”
“I haven’t seen it,” Stone said.
“My car is waiting outside. How about a test flight?”
“How did you choose me to be your first buyer?”
“I’ve seen you around,” she said, “and I’ve talked to people. I’ve also run a Dun & Bradstreet report on you, and I’m aware that you and your investment partners have just made out like bandits on an initial public offering, so you can just write a check for the aircraft.”
“How big a check are we talking about?” Stone asked.
“That will depend on your reaction when you see and fly the machine. Shall we go?” She signed the bill and stood up.
Stone followed her down the stairs to the street and into a ’70s-vintage Bentley, which had been restored to like-new condition. Twenty-five minutes later they were walking around the airplane, while two uniformed pilots and a stewardess awaited their pleasure.
Stone climbed up the airstairs and entered the cabin. He was immediately impressed with the spaciousness. There were eight seats in two club arrangements. He checked out the owner’s bedroom, toilet, and shower, then went forward and looked at the galley, the pilots’ rest area, and then the cockpit.
“Take the left seat,” Callie said, and the captain slid past her and into the right seat.
“You’re going to let me fly this thing?” Stone asked.
She handed him a headset and the checklist. “Why not? You’ve had all but five hours of the required training over the past eighteen months, and Captain Jim, here, is a certified flying instructor at Gulfstream for this type.”
“Where are we going?” Stone asked.
“Where would you like to go?” she replied.
“How about up to my house in Maine? We can land at Rockland.”
“Perfect.”
“Shall we stay the night? There’s room for everybody.”
“Your wish is our command,” she said.
“Would you call my office and tell my secretary, whose name is Joan, that I’ll be back sometime tomorrow, and to call the Rockland FBO and ask them to get my Cessna out of the hangar? Also, ask her to call the Maine house and let the staff know we’re on the way, expect to land at Islesboro in two hours, and would like to dine at seven?”
“Of course,” she said, disappearing into the cabin.
Stone was familiar with the cockpit and avionics from having flown more than twenty hours in the simulator at Gulfstream, in Savannah, Georgia, and he ran through the checklist and entered a flight plan into the computer, while Captain Jim got a weather report, filed the flight plan, and got a clearance.
“We got your requested routing,” Captain Jim said. “I think you must have flown it before.”
Stone nodded, then called ground control and got permission to taxi, and while they were waiting for release at the end of runway one, Captain Jim set up the auto throttles, and they ran through the takeoff checklist together. Then, cleared for takeoff, Stone guided the big airplane onto the runway with the tiller and advanced the throttles.
They reached rotation speed astonishingly quickly, and at five hundred feet, Stone switched on the autopilot. All he had to do now was watch the airplane fly itself.
* * *
—
They touched down a little less than an hour later at Rockland and taxied to the ramp, where Stone’s Cessna 182 awaited. They transferred to the smaller airplane, and twenty minutes later they were landing on the 2,450-foot runway on Islesboro, a large island in Penobscot Bay, where Stone’s caretaker, Seth Hotchkiss, awaited them in a 1938 Ford woodie station wagon. The crew tossed their overnight bags into the back.
Ten minutes later they were at Stone’s place, and Seth was escorting the crew to the guesthouse.
While everyone was getting settled, Stone called his friend and client Mike Newman, CEO of Strategic Services, the world’s second-largest security company and whose hangar space Stone’s airplane shared.
“Where are you?” Mike asked.
“In Maine, coming home tomorrow. I’ll be landing in a G-500 about noon; would you ask your flight management director and his people to go over the airplane and check out the logbooks?”
“I have already done so,” Mike replied.
“What?”
“Callie Stevens called me a couple of days ago, and they finished their inspection this morning. Everything is triple-A perfect, the logbooks are up to date, and it’s had all its inspections.”
“If I buy it, can you squeeze it into your hangar?”
“Yes. Excuse me, Stone, I have to run to a meeting.” Mike hung up.
Stone hung up, too, amazed.
They dined on lobster and a good Chardonnay, then the crew went to their rooms, and Stone and Callie sat down before the fireplace with their brandy.
She was very attractive, Stone thought, but they had business to do, and that would have to wait. They chatted about nothing in particular, and he was glad that she didn’t keep selling.
Finally, he showed her up to a guest room, then went to his own and collapsed into bed. He had loved the flight up, and he had that familiar tingle when he was about to spend too much on something he wanted.
8
The following morning, after a good breakfast, they traveled back to the Rockland airport and took off for Teterboro. As soon as they had the gear up, Jim reached for the throttles and pulled them to the off position. “You’ve just lost an engine,” he said. “Handle it.”