Stone climbed into the airplane, followed by Don. He started the engine, listened to the recorded weather from PBI, checked the wind sock and taxied to the active runway. He pulled into the run-up pad and did his final check of the airplane, then, looking for traffic, he announced his intentions over the unicom frequency and taxied onto the runway. He pushed the throttle forward and, watching his airspeed, started down the center line. At rotation speed he pulled back on the yoke and left the ground. It was a fixed-gear airplane, so he didn’t have to bother retracting the landing gear. Announcing his intentions at every turn, he climbed crosswind.

“Just stay in the pattern,” Don said, watching his every move closely.

Stone turned downwind, reduced power and prepared to land. He turned onto the base leg, then onto final and set the airplane lightly down on the runway.

“Okay,” Don said. “You can fly it. Just drop me back at the FBO, and you’re on your way. How long will you be gone?”

“Just a couple of hours,” Stone said.

“You understand there’s a four-hour minimum on the rental?”

“Yes.”

Don hopped out of the airplane, and Stone taxied back to the runway and repeated his takeoff. He climbed to a thousand feet, listened again to the recorded weather, then called the PBI tower. “Palm Beach Tower, this is November One-two-three Tango Foxtrot,” he said, reading the airplane’s registration number from a plaque on the instrument panel. “I’m ten miles to the northwest, VFR, looking for landing instructions. I have the ATIS.”

The tower called back. “Enter a right base for runway niner. Traffic’s light today. You’re cleared to land.”

Stone followed the instructions and ten minutes later he was taxiing up to Signature Aviation, between a Gulfstream III and a G-IV. He wondered how long it had been since anything as small as his rental had parked here.

He got out of the airplane. “The brakes are off,” he told the lineman, knowing they wouldn’t leave it where it was. “No fuel. I’ll be about an hour.”

He went inside the handsome lobby and walked up to the huge desk. “I’m looking for Mr. Frederick James,” he said to the young lady behind it.

“Oh, yes, you must be Mr. Barrington,” she said. “Mr. James and his associate are in the conference room, right over there.” She pointed. “You won’t be disturbed.”

“Thank you.” He walked across the reception room to the door and knocked on it.

“Come in,” a man’s voice said.

Stone opened the door and entered the room. A man, who had been seated alone at the conference table, stood up to greet him. Stone recognized him immediately.

“Mr. Barrington, I’m Edward Ginsky,” he said, offering his hand. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored, double-breasted blue blazer and white linen slacks, his shirt open at the collar.