Hot Pursuit

by Stuart Woods

  “It’s Quentin.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m perfectly fine, thanks, but how about you? I assume you were the staffer the news keeps referring to.”

  “I’m just fine, thanks. It was over very quickly, so I didn’t have time to get too scared.”

  “The news said the car was engulfed in flames.”

  “That’s how it looked from the inside,” she said. “Kate was marvelous, though, very cool and unaffected. The exciting part was when we drove through the middle of the park in Grosvenor Square, when the driver took evasive action.”

  “You’re calling her Kate, now?”

  “That’s what Holly calls her in private, so I guess I do, too. Do you have anything new on Harold what’s-his-name?”

  “Harold Charles St. John Malvern,” Quentin said. “The St. John is pronounced ‘sinjin.’”

  “Sounds almost Arabic, doesn’t it?”

  “The San Francisco office has located a woman who went out with him when he was at Berkeley, and she’ll be going into the office tomorrow with her lawyer for an interview.”

  “Her lawyer?”

  “Everybody lawyers up these days—it’s TV. Pisses me off.”

  “Now, now, it’s everyone’s right to have an attorney present when questioned.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a pain in the ass, especially when someone like this woman isn’t suspected of anything.”

  “Oh, I managed to get a good word about you into a conversation with Kate.”

  “No kidding? That will be the first time she’s ever heard my name.”

  “It won’t be the last,” she said. “You can tell your boss she had good things to say about him.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said he was considered for attorney general, and that he turned down head of criminal investigations at Justice.”

  “I didn’t know either of those things.”

  “She also said turning it down was a smart move, though I’m not sure why.”

  “Because he can make more of a difference at the Bureau,” Quentin said. “He can actually stop terrorist acts, instead of just prosecuting them after they’ve happened.”

  “She said she would think of him again another time. That sounds good.”

  “It sure does.”

  “Quentin, how many people at the Bureau are working on finding Harry Sinjin?”

  “Fewer than a dozen, in three offices. We’re holding this very tight, as you asked us to do. We don’t need this to get into the papers or on TV, because he’ll disappear into the Middle East somewhere.”

  “Speaking of the Middle East, I have something else that might help you. Have you ever heard of a country called Dahai?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It’s a sultanate south of Saudi Arabia, between Yemen and Oman.”

  “Oh, right, the sultan is one of the world’s richest men, on a par with the sultan of Brunei.”

  “Did I tell you about the twins? I can’t remember.”

  “No.”

  “In addition to Sinjin, there were mysterious twin boys who were sent to Eton under false names. They were educated there, and when they left, they were whisked away to Dahai on the sultan’s airplane.”

  “I’m sorry, but that sounds preposterous.”

  “Well, I heard a report from the head of MI6 about it today.”

  “Directly from the head of MI6?”

  “From Dame Felicity Devonshire herself. Holly and the president and I had lunch with her today. She’s got agents tracking the boys. Apparently, they kept to themselves at Eton—no participation in sports or clubs. Their bills were paid from an account at Devin’s Bank, and the funds were traced to a Sheik Hari Mahmoud, who is close to the sultan. And this was around the time that Sinjin was in California.”

  “Verrrry interesting. Lev will be excited to learn about that. Anything else to report?”

  “Not for the moment.”

  “Tell me, are you naked?”

  “Near enough.”

  “One hand is holding the phone—where’s your other hand?”

  She laughed aloud. “Wherever I want it to be. Good night, Quen.” She hung up, still laughing.

  37

  STONE WAS GETTING out of the shower when Pat walked into the room, her arms full of coats and rubber boots. She dumped them onto the bed. “I think the gum boots are the right size. I compared them to your shoes.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stone said, “but you’re way ahead of me. What’s going on?”

  “We’re going for a walk on Dartmoor—that’s the moor where we are.”

  “I know that. I didn’t know you did.”

  “I’ve been reading about it in the brochure. There are walking trails marked on their map, and we’re going to take a walk.”

  “Okay, I’m up for a walk. Are we going to do it underwater?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard about this,” she said, “but it sometimes rains in this country.”

  Stone went to the windows and swept back the curtains, letting in a gray light. It was drizzling outside. “I believe you may be right,” he said.

  “Get dressed, then.”

  He looked at his watch. “Half past ten. What about lunch?”

  “They’re packing one for us as we speak.”

  —

  THEY LEFT the hotel, their lunch in a waterproof backpack worn by Stone, crossed a bridge over a fast-running river, and headed, according to their map, toward the heart of Dartmoor. Shortly, they had left behind the trees in the vicinity of Gidleigh Park and were on a rocky, green, treeless expanse of moor, a place where trees could not thrive because there was too little depth of soil to support them. Gorse grew, though: a hardy shrub sporting yellow flowers, and there was plenty of that about.

  The ceiling was low—Stone reckoned a couple of hundred feet—and the mist cut the visibility down to half a mile or so. He was glad he wasn’t landing an airplane in the circumstances.

  They walked until they began to get hungry, and they looked around for a place where their food would stay dry while they consumed it. They came upon a shed with a bench, which might have been placed there for hungry hikers on a damp day, and took possession of it.

  There were smoked salmon sandwiches and potato salad in their pack, and a slightly chilled bottle of white wine, which had had the cork pulled far enough to remove by hand. Pat dug out two plastic glasses and some utensils, and they ate everything and drank most of the wine. There were a couple of slices of moist cake, too, and those went down well.

  Then, when they had packed their trash and started to walk again, the moisture in the air turned from mist to drizzle to steady rain in a matter of about two minutes, and they reversed course. Stone found a tweed hat in the pocket of his Barbour jacket, and that kept most of the rain off his head. Pat found a plastic scarf that did much the same for her.

  They were proceeding back up the path that had brought them there, which now sported a great many puddles, when one of the puddles exploded a few feet ahead of them. Stone stopped for a count of about one, then grabbed Pat’s arm and hustled her behind a large boulder.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “I’m sitting in a puddle.”

  “Something just happened,” Stone said.

  “I saw that puddle ahead. Is somebody throwing rocks at us?”

  “I hate to put the worst possible slant on events,” Stone said, “but I think somebody is shooting at us.”

  “Shooting what?”

  “Bullets. Or, so far, a bullet.”

  “I didn’t hear a gunshot.”

  “Neither did I, and that especially worries me.” Stone got to one knee, took off his tweed hat, put it on a stick, and handed it to her. “I want you to slowly raise this hat on your si
de of the boulder to a point where it will look as if it’s on my head.”

  Pat took the stick and slowly hoisted the hat, while Stone moved to the other side of the boulder. Something ricocheted off her side of the boulder and Stone stuck his head up on the other side and had a good look around. Then, at the extremity of his vision in the rain, perhaps a hundred yards away, he saw a dark figure running with something in his hands. “Man with rifle,” he muttered to himself.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘man with rifle.’ I should have said ‘silenced rifle.’” He stood up.

  “Are you crazy? Get down!”

  “He’s not trying to kill us,” Stone said, “he’s trying to scare us. We were a good target on the trail the first time he fired, but he aimed three or four feet ahead of us, and he didn’t even shoot the hat off the stick. Anyway, the visibility is no more than a hundred yards or so, and if I can’t see him, he can’t see me. Let’s go.” He took his hat off the stick, wrung it out, put it on his head, and started walking.

  “I’m staying behind you,” she said, following him.

  “Good idea.”

  They were a couple of hundred yards up the trail when he heard a vehicle start, maybe a Land Rover, then drive away until the engine noise faded into the downpour.

  After another hour of walking the hotel hove into view, and they shed their coats and boots in the mudroom. Twenty minutes after that they were sharing a soak in a hot tub that was just large enough for two friendly people. Two brandy snifters floated near at hand.

  “In a minute, we, the brandy, and the water will all be the same temperature,” Stone said, “and the brandy will go down easily.”

  “And then we’ll drown,” she said.

  “I’m not getting what’s going on here,” he said.

  “Drowning?”

  “No, getting shot at, being pursued but not caught. What do they want?”

  “They?”

  “I’m assuming that Reeves and Keyes are in this together. Is this just an elaborate practical joke, or do they want something? And if so, what? Do you have any idea at all?”

  There was a long pause before she said, “No.”

  38

  MILLIE WALKED OUT of the Connaught with Holly, and they turned up Mount Street, with its elegant shops.

  “Pity there’s no time for shopping,” she said.

  “Maybe later,” Holly replied.

  “Are we going on with the president to Paris, Berlin, and Rome?” Millie asked.

  “Would you like that?”

  “I wouldn’t mind, but I think I might be of more use here, working with MI6.”

  “You have a point,” Holly said. “I have to stick with her, since I came along to consult as we traveled, but you’re running out of things to do for her.”

  “I’ve felt that.”

  They walked up South Audley Street to the embassy and entered through the rear door, showing ID, even though the guards knew them by now. Holly led the way to a different elevator at the north end of the building. She ran her White House ID through a scanner to summon the car, and to Millie’s surprise, they went down a couple of floors before getting off.

  When they did there was a door ahead of them marked “No Entry.” Holly ran her ID through the scanner again; there was a clicking noise and the door opened half an inch. “Follow me,” she said, pushing the door open.

  Millie found herself in a suite of offices that did not resemble those on the upper floors of the building. They were smaller, dingier, and less decorated, and there were no windows. Holly led her down the hallway to a corner office and rapped on the door, looking up at a camera screwed to the wall. There was another click.

  “Come in, Holly,” a deep male voice said.

  They went into the room and Millie was surprised to find that the big voice belonged to a pale, skinny man wearing black glasses. “Heard you were in town,” he said, standing up to shake her hand.

  “Bill, this is my colleague Millicent Martindale. Millie, this is Bill French.”

  Millie shook his hand and accepted the gesture offering them seats.

  “What’s up?” Bill asked.

  “We’ve both been traveling with the president on this trip, but we’re also working on something with MI6.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “It’s not passing through the station,” Holly said.

  Bill nodded sagely, as if that were neither unexpected nor a bad idea.

  “I’m going on to the continent with the president, but Millie is going to stay in London to work with Felicity’s crowd and liaise with the FBI—in D.C., not here.”

  Bill nodded again. “You need anything?”

  “Do you have a vacant office where Millie could camp for a while?”

  “I’ve got an officer on maternity leave—she gave birth last night. Millie could sit there, after we’ve swept it clean.”

  “Thanks, Bill, that’s very good of you.”

  Bill picked up the phone and pressed a button. “It’s Bill,” he said. “Please thoroughly clean and secure Vanessa’s office, ASAP,” he said. “We’re going to have a guest with us for a while.” He listened for a reply. “Thanks.” He hung up. “Half an hour,” he said. “Would you two like some coffee while you wait?”

  “Sure,” Holly said. “Both black.”

  Bill got up, opened a cabinet door, and came back with two steaming mugs. “How’s life at the White House, Holly?”

  “Very interesting, but a little crazy.”

  “Do you miss the New York station?”

  “Every time I request something and have to explain why.”

  “I know what you mean. How’s the living in D.C.?”

  “I got lucky with an apartment in Georgetown. It was easy to secure. The owner is ex-military and has an antique shop downstairs. The apartment was his, until he moved into a house.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what the housing prices are like here. The city has been ruined for regular folks. Everything’s a zillion dollars. I heard a big-time movie star wanted to buy a flat here—nothing terribly special—and the price was fourteen million pounds.”

  “That’s pretty breathtaking,” Holly replied. “Who has that much?”

  “Arabs and Russians. The Arabs have been around forever, but who knew there would suddenly be Russian billionaires?”

  “How about schools?”

  “That’s pretty easy for us, with the embassy doing the looking. As long as the kids can cut it, they’re in. My boy is at Harrow, the girl is at Lady Eden’s. They’re going to have to learn to talk American again when they get home, or they’ll be beaten up daily.”

  “I was an army brat,” Holly said, “so it was pretty easy for me. Every time we moved, all I had to do was either talk southern or talk Yankee, depending.”

  Bill’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Yeah? Thanks.”

  He hung up again and got up. “Come on, I’ll walk you down there.” A few yards down the hall Bill stopped at a cubicle and spoke to a middle-aged woman. “Hey, Tip,” he said. “This is Holly Barker and your sublet, Millie Martindale.”

  Tip shook both their hands. “The place is clean,” she said, handing Millie a key card. “I’ll help you with whatever you need—don’t hesitate to ask. I’ve got time on my hands with Vanessa out.”

  “Thanks, Tip. What’s the name short for?”

  “Tatania—everybody here thinks it’s too Russian.”

  Millie laughed.

  “Millie’s clearance is White House,” Bill said to her.

  “Got it.”

  “Right there,” Bill said to Millie, pointing. “I’ll leave you to it.” He walked back toward his office.

  Millie went to the door and unlocked it with her key card, then entered a room la
rger than what she had expected. She sat down at the desk. “No computer,” she said.

  “They’ve locked that up. Ask for a fresh one—better yet, use your laptop. Some things you should know: if you want to receive phone calls from outside, use your cell. Anybody who calls the embassy switchboard will be told they’ve never heard of you. Your White House ID will unlock secure doors and elevators. You can make outgoing calls on your desk phone. There’s a decent cafeteria in the building—Tip will direct you. You never bring anybody down here, of course.”

  “What about FBI?”

  “Is Quentin coming to London?”

  “Who knows?”

  “If you want to bring anybody down here—on business—give his name and affiliation to Tip, and she’ll get him in the computer, just as I did for you. If you want to meet with somebody who’s not cleared, ask Tip to get you a room upstairs. The key card she gave you will work there. By the way, don’t lose that card—replacing it is a genuine pain in the ass, and you may be locked out of your office for a few hours.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “When you leave the station your office will automatically lock for everybody but you and Tip.”

  “Can I call on Bill for file searches and technical assistance?”

  “You can call on Tip for everything. She’ll get the necessary permissions. Try not to ask Bill for help, unless it’s something Tip can’t handle, then don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Millie nodded.

  “Do you have any experience with firearms?”

  “I grew up hunting with my father. I’ve had a forty-hour handgun course at SigArms, in New Hampshire.”

  “Ask Tip to get you a weapon. There’s a range downstairs.”

  “After yesterday, I think I’ll do that.”

  “I took pains to see that your name wasn’t mentioned in the press reports of yesterday’s incident. That will help, but it’s possible you’ve been seen with me, like during our stroll over here this morning. Tip can always get you a car and driver—don’t be shy about asking, even when you leave the hotel in the evening. Request light armor—that means doors and glass, it won’t protect you from a large bomb.”

  “I’ll remember that.”