“There’s an airport near Washington called Oxford. It has a five-thousand-foot runway.”

“Wouldn’t Lance’s people be watching it?”

Stone shook his hand. “They will check it today, but Lance doesn’t have enough people around there to watch every airport. Anyway, since you have opted out of the surveillance he arranged, you have relieved him of the necessity to protect you. I’ve seen a G-Four take off from there, but probably not with full fuel.”

“I think we would need at least six thousand feet with full fuel.”

“Then have your people fly up from Georgia and land at Oxford but not refuel. That way, they won’t even have to stop the engines. You can land at Gander, in Newfoundland, and top off there.”

“That seems a good plan,” Pablo said.

“Can you get in touch with your friend in England?”

“I’ll call him now,” Pablo said. He produced a cell phone and made the call. A conversation in French ensued, then he hung up. “All arranged,” he said. “We can land at Blackbushe, in southern England, and he’ll have us met.”

A woman came into Stone’s office, and Pablo introduced his wife, a petite, beautiful woman about twenty years Pablo’s junior.

“I’ll drive you to Oxford tomorrow,” Stone said. “You two can stay here tonight.”

“I think we’ll be fine at our New York apartment,” Pablo said. “I’ve never told anybody about it, and my security people will be there.”

Joan buzzed. “A Mr. Aaron Beck to see you,” she said.

“Quick,” Stone said to the couple, “out the back. You know the way through the garden, Pablo.”

Pablo and his wife hurried out of his office, and Stone asked Joan to send in Mr. Beck.

Moishe Aarons walked in, followed by two large young men.

“Mr. Aarons,” Stone said sarcastically, “what a nice surprise.”

“Where is Pablo?” Aarons asked.

“Are you going to start that again?” Stone asked, opening his center desk drawer and extracting a pad and pen. He left the drawer open.

“Mr. Barrington,” Aarons said, “you have exhausted my patience.”

“And you, mine,” Stone replied.

“Search the house,” Aarons said, motioning the two men forward.

Stone produced a .45 semiautomatic from his desk drawer. “Hold it right there,” he said.

“You’re not going to fire at us,” Aarons said, but he didn’t move.

“I can shoot all three of you dead before you can move, and nobody will blame me. You are intruders and I am licensed for the weapon.”

“I’m licensed, too,” Joan said from the door, and she racked the slide on her own .45.

The three men turned and looked at her. She had assumed a firing stance.

Aarons turned back toward Stone. “I want Pablo,” he said.

“Well, you can’t have him,” Stone replied. “At least, not from me. Try Lance Cabot again; he seems to be a productive source for you.”

“I don’t have time,” Aarons replied.