“What’s going on with Felicity?” Dino asked.
“Good question. I haven’t heard from her since we came back.”
“After all the work we did, you’d think she’d keep you in the loop.”
“Wedid? I don’t remember you roaming around with a button camera on your jacket.”
“I was moral support.”
“Is that what they call it these days?” Stone asked. “I wasthinking about going back to Islesboro on Friday. Interested in joining me?”
“Idohave a full-time job, remember?”
“Sometimes it’s easy to forget.”
“There’s a ceremony at city hall Friday morning that the mayor insists I attend, but I should be able to break free after that.”
“Wheels up at Teterboro at noon?”
“Make it one, and I’m there.”
“One it is.”
Chapter 32
On Thursday morning, Bronsky leftthe InterContinental Hotel a little before eight a.m.
Dressed in a utilitarian gray business suit, with black-framed glasses, a false mustache, a matching brown wig, and a black messenger bag swinging by his side, he looked like just another mid-level businessman on this way to his work.
He proceeded to Penn Station, where he picked up a coffee and breakfast sandwich, then boarded the 9:02 train to Boston.
When he arrived four hours later, he made a stop in one of the station’s restrooms. There, he discarded the suit, mustache, and wig, and changed into a faded blue T-shirt, gray jeans, and a Boston Red Sox hat.
The messenger bag was reversible. He flipped it inside out so that it was now tan colored and had a flap that closed with a clasp rather than the previous zipper.
He exited South Station onto Atlantic Avenue and found a car with an Uber logo in the window and a license plate number that matched the one he’d been given.
“Mr. Weeks?” the driver asked through the open passenger-side window.
“Yes,” Bronsky said. “You’re Frank?”
“That’s me,” the driver said, then nodded toward the back seat. “Hop in.”
Bronsky did so.
Once they were underway, Frank—who had never worked a day for Uber in his life—said, “Settle in. We’ll be on the road for a while.”
Bronsky grunted. He’d already been warned the drive could take up to five hours.
If he had flown, he would have been in Maine already, but doing so would have put him at risk of being spotted and thrown into a holding room until the FBI came for him. While he thought that extremely unlikely, he knew it was best to be cautious.
He leaned his head against the window, and before the car had even left the Boston area, he was asleep, his mind filled with dreams of his triumphant return to Moscow.
After a breakfast meeting witha client on Thursday morning, Stone popped into the Woodman & Weld offices in the Seagram Building to pay Bill Eggers a visit.
Bill’s door was ajar, and his assistant was nowhere to be seen, so Stone rapped on the jamb and stuck his head inside. “Got a moment?”
Bill looked up. “Hello, Stone. I do, but not much more than that.”
