man hastily took out a cellular telephone and began
dialing...
"We may have a problem," he told the woman.
"What kind of problem?"
"A blue Mercedes just drove out of the gates. Donald
Herman was driving, and the dog was in the car, too."
"And Stanley wasn't in the car?"
"No."
"I don't believe it. His bodyguard never leaves him at
night, and that dog never leaves him, ever."
"Is his Corniche still parked in front of the hotel?" asked
the other man sent to follow Robert Stanley.
"Yes, but maybe he switched cars."
"Or it could be a trick! Call the airport."
Within minutes, they were talking to the tower.
"Monsieur Stanley's plane? Qui. It arrived an hour ago
and has already refueled."
Five minutes later, two members of the surveillance
team were on their way to the airport, while the third kept
watch on the hotel. As the blue Mercedes passed through
Boulevard Princesse Charlotte, Stanley moved onto the seat.
"It's all right to sit up, now," he told Sophia. He turned to
Donald, "Nice airport. Hurry."
Forty five minutes later, at the Nice airport, a converted
Boeing 727 slowly moves down the runway along the
ground to the takeoff point. Up in the tower, the flight
controller said,
"They certainly are in a hurry to get that plane off the
ground. The pilot has asked for a clearance four times."
"Whose plane is it?"
"Robert Stanley's."
"He's probably on his way to make another billion or
so."
The controller turned to monitor a Learjet taking off,
and then picked up the microphone. "Boeing eight nine five,
this is Nice departure control. You are cleared for takeoff.
Five left. After departure, turn right to a heading of one four
zero."
Robert Stanley's pilot and copilot exchanged a relieved
look. The pilot pressed the microphone button.
"Roger. Boeing eight nine five is cleared for takeoff. Will
turn right to one four zero."
A moment later, the huge plane thundered down the
runway and knifed into the blue sky. The copilot spoke into
the microphone again.
"Departure, Boeing eight nine five is climbing out of
three thousand for flight level seven zero."
The copilot turned to the pilot.
"Whew! Old Man Stanley was sure anxious for us to get
off the ground, wasn't he?"
The pilot shrugged.
"Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die. How's
he doing back there?"
The copilot rose and stepped to the door of the cockpit,
and looked into the cabin. "He's resting."
They telephoned the airport tower again from the car.
"Mr. Stanley's plane ... Is it still on the ground?"
"No, monsieur. It has departed."
"Did the pilot file a flight plan?"
"Of course, monsieur."
"To where?"
"The plane is headed for JFK."
"Thank you." He turned to his companion.
"Kennedy. We'll-have people there to meet him."
When the Mercedes passed the outskirts of Monte Carlo,
speeding toward the Italian border, Robert Stanley said,
"Donald, there’s no chance that we were followed?"
"No, sir. We've lost them."
"Good." Robert Stanley leaned back in his seat and
relaxed. There was nothing to worry about. They would be
tracking the plane. He reviewed the situation in his mind. It
was really a question of what they knew and when they
knew it. They were like jackals following the way of a lion,
hoping to bring him down. Robert Stanley smiled to himself.
They had underestimated the man they were dealing with.
Others who had made that mistake had paid dearly for it.
Someone would also pay this time. He was Robert Stanley,
the confidant of presidents and kings, powerful and rich
enough to break the economies of a few small countries.
Still...
The 727 was in the skies over. Marseilles. The pilot
spoke into the microphone. "Marseilles, Boeing eight nine
five is with you, climbing out of flight level one nine zero for
flight level two three zero."
"Roger."
The Mercedes reached Monte Carlo shortly after dawn.
Robert Stanley had fond memories of the city, but it had
changed drastically. He remembered a time when it had
been an elegant town with first-class hotels and
restaurants, and a casino where black tie was required and
where fortunes could be lost or won in an evening. Now it
had succumbed to tourism, with loud-mouthed patrons
gambling in their shirts.
The Mercedes was approaching the harbor - Port
Hercule. Five minutes later, the Mercedes pulled up next to
the Blue Skies, a hundred-and-eighty-foot motor yacht.
Captain Bargas and the crew of twelve were lined up on
deck. The captain hurried down the gangplank to greet the
new arrivals.
"Good morning, Signor Stanley," Captain Bargas said.
"We'll take your luggage, and ..."
"No luggage. Let's move."
"Yes, sir."
"Wait a minute." Stanley was studying the crew. He
looks at one of the crew member almost angry and this
change his mood. He obviously has a very bad mood. Most
of the similar situations make him to be arrogant. As a result
of this bad mood drive Stanley said:
"The