Hot Pursuit

by Stuart Woods

  “Felicity has assigned an MI6 officer who will be your contact with her and her organization, generally. Do everything through him.” She handed Millie a card. “His name is Ian Rattle.”

  Millie nodded.

  “When I leave tomorrow, you can move into my suite—it’s leased by our government. If somebody more important than you—that’s almost anybody—wants a room, you’ll be moved, probably back to the room you’re in now. The suite is secure—reinforced outer walls and armored glass. There will always be those who don’t like us.”

  “I understand.”

  Holly looked at her watch. “I’ve got to see the president. If you want to do some shopping, now would be a good time. I’ll see you around six for drinks in the suite, then dinner?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Have a nice day,” Holly said, then left.

  Millie gave her five minutes to clear the building, then picked up the phone and pressed a button with Tip’s name on it.

  “Yes, Millie?”

  “Could you find me a weapon? Something light and concealable, maybe a .380?”

  “Ten minutes,” Tip replied.

  “And can you please get me a car and driver, light armor?”

  “Twenty minutes, out back,” Tip said, then hung up.

  39

  BEFORE DINNER Stone called Dino’s cell.

  “Hey there.”

  “How’s your trip going, Dino?”

  “Pretty well. I’m wrapped up, more or less, or will be by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “How about Viv?”

  “She’s got a meeting on Monday—nothing until then.”

  “Good. Why don’t you meet us tomorrow night at Cliveden? It’s a country house hotel near a village called Taplow, in Berkshire—an hour’s drive from London.”

  “I guess we can do that. Are you and I flying from there?”

  “From Coventry, an hour’s drive north of the hotel. Book us a two-bedroom suite for two nights. The concierge will do it for you and get you a car and driver.”

  “Hang on.” Dino covered the phone and conversed with his wife, then came back. “You’re on,” he said.

  “Dino, did you come over here armed?”

  “Nope, didn’t figure I’d need it. Have you got some reason to believe I might? Or you might?”

  “Forget it. I’ll explain when I see you. No need to call back, unless the hotel is fully booked or there’s some other problem.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Dino hung up.

  —

  THEY WENT DOWN for drinks at seven-thirty and were greeted with a smile by the restaurant manager. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. You’ll be happy to know that Mr. Reeves and his companion checked out this afternoon.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone replied. “Was there a third person in his party?”

  “Yes, a gentleman he described as his pilot. We were fully booked, so we put him in a B&B up the road and loaned him our Land Rover to get around.”

  “Ah, that explains a lot. Tell me, when did Mr. Reeves book in here?”

  “The day before yesterday,” the man replied. “He asked if we knew where you were headed next—said he wanted to avoid running into you again. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

  “Telling him nothing was just fine.”

  “May I get you something to drink?”

  Stone placed their order, and they found a seat by the fireplace.

  “What were you and the manager talking about?” Pat asked.

  “Paul Reeves. He booked into here the day before yesterday, same day I did, and Keyes came with him. They didn’t have room for him in the house and put him in a nearby B&B.”

  “So it was Kevin that was shooting at us today?”

  “Shooting near us.”

  “Near enough for me.”

  “Pat, tell me everything you know about Reeves, and please don’t leave anything out.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “I’ve told you how I know him.”

  “And now I want to know what you know about him.”

  “When we met he described himself as an entrepreneur,” she said. “I don’t know about all his interests, but I do know he has some sort of electronics company and that it has to do with security equipment. He also mentioned cattle and oil. It’s hard to pin down somebody like him.”

  “What did he mean, exactly, by ‘security equipment’?”

  “I’m not sure—that was his description.”

  “Would it include surveillance equipment?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure he mentioned alarm systems. When I was flying with him, he wanted to go to odd places.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, his airplane was based at Love Field, Dallas, but his trips took him mostly to small towns in the Midwest and the South. He said he chose them for cheap fuel, but that wasn’t always the case. He had a briefcase with him, and he wouldn’t leave it on the plane. Once I saw him exchange his briefcase for another, identical one, with a man at an FBO. I mean, I was sitting there and saw the guy come into the building. He just walked over to where Paul was sitting and handed him a briefcase, then picked up Paul’s and walked away. They didn’t even shake hands or say hello. I thought at the time it might have something to do with drugs.”

  “More likely with cash,” Stone said. “If he were in the drug business, he’d have somebody else do the transfers, and they would probably be bigger than what he could get into a briefcase. On the other hand, he could pack a million, maybe two, into a briefcase.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “You say you did the acceptance on his new Mustang. Did you attend the closing?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “Five, ten minutes. He handed them a check, and they all signed some documents.”

  “Was there any mention of a lender? Were any of the documents thick, with lots of signatures?”

  “No.”

  “Closing an airplane sale with a lender involved is like closing a real estate transaction where the buyer is taking out a mortgage. There are lots and lots of documents and signatures required. Sounds like he just gave them a cashier’s check.”

  “I think you’re right. They didn’t call his bank while I was there.”

  “How many individual flights did you make with Reeves in the new Mustang?”

  “Half a dozen, eight. Kevin made some with him, too. His insurance company wanted him to have thirty hours with a mentor pilot, since it was his first jet. I guess I flew, maybe, twelve with him.”

  “Did he have the briefcase with him on all those flights?”

  “Yes, and as I said, he always took it into the FBO with him. I offered to lock it in the airplane once, but he insisted on having it with him.”

  “How did he pay for his fuel?”

  “Always in cash. I noticed that, because it’s very unusual where a fill-up is fifteen hundred, two thousand dollars. Most people have dedicated fuel cards to get the best prices.”

  “As I do,” Stone said. “I’ve never once paid for fuel in cash. Have you ever seen any other client do that?”

  “Nope, not once.”

  “So we know that he’s in several businesses and that he prefers landing at small-town airports, rather than large ones, where there might be a police presence, and he pays his personal expenses with cash.”

  “He paid me in cash. Kevin, too.”

  “It does sound like drugs,” Stone said. “He has someone else deliver, he gets paid in cash. He’s probably in some legitimate businesses, so that he can account for the sources of his income. I’ll bet the IRS would like to know more about him.”

  “Are you going to turn him in to the IRS?”

  “I don’t have enough
on him to do that, but if I can get more, then you should turn him in.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’d get whistle-blower money—I think ten percent, maybe more, of what they recover from him. That could be useful in establishing your business.”

  “That’s a thought,” she said, “but not unless you’re sure about what he’s doing.”

  “Maybe I’ll do some looking into Mr. Reeves,” Stone said.

  40

  MILLIE GOT into her car, an anonymous-looking British Ford, and introduced herself to the driver.

  “I’m Denny,” the man said.

  “Are you armed, Denny?”

  “I have a Glock on my belt and an Uzi in the center console and five magazines for each.” He had, maybe, a Cockney accent.

  “Then I am reassured.”

  “And there’s a turbocharged V8 under the bonnet and a racing suspension.”

  “Just what we need to get to Harrods.”

  Denny drove away in a sedate manner.

  Her cell rang, and she looked at her watch. Quentin, maybe. She got a little tingle thinking about him. “Hello?”

  “My name is Ian Rattle,” a very British voice said. “Do you recall it being mentioned to you?”

  “I do,” Millie replied. “How do you do?”

  “I do better after a good lunch. Will you join me?”

  “Where and when?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “We’ve just left the embassy.”

  “Then meet me at the Grenadier, a pub in Wilton Row, behind Wilton Crescent. Your driver will probably know it. Fifteen minutes?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Right.” He hung up.

  “Denny, do you know a pub called the Grenadier?”

  “In Wilton Row? Of course.”

  “There, then. Harrods later.”

  “Righto.”

  Ten minutes later they came to a barrier with a guardhouse. Denny had a word with the uniformed security guard there, and the barrier rose. They drove into a charming mews and stopped at the end, before the Grenadier.

  “I’ll be nearby,” Denny said, handing her a card. “Ring me when you’re ready.”

  She climbed the steps to the pub and entered a bar, where a dozen or so well-dressed people and a few men in working clothes were having a pint. She looked up to see a tall, slender man beckoning to her from the adjacent dining room, and she joined him.

  He was well-tailored, well-barbered, and looked well-heeled. His suit fit, and his shirt and tie were a little offbeat. “I’m Ian,” he said, “and you’re Millie. Take a pew.” He sat her down at a table with her back to the door, and he took the gunfighter’s seat in the corner.

  “Now,” he said, “drink?”

  “I’ll have a glass with lunch.” She picked up a menu. “The gammon steak, please, and chips.”

  A waitress appeared, and he ordered for both of them, including a bottle of wine. When she was gone he handed Millie a card. “Whenever you need anything from our shop, call me at this number. I can get through faster to anybody than you can going through the switchboard. Half the people who ring that number are crackpots with conspiracy theories.” He had a very upper-class drawl, probably an Oxbridge man, she reckoned.

  “I know little about you,” he said. “Mind a few pointed questions?”

  “Not at all. I expect I’ll have a few for you, too.”

  “Fair enough. Give me a sixty-second bio, please.”

  “Born Washington, Connecticut, small village. Educated in the Montessori school there, followed by Harvard, undergrad and law, followed by White House staff.”

  “Pretty short.”

  “I’m pretty young. You?”

  “I’m forty. Born Cowes, village on the Isle of Wight, off the south coast from Southampton. Educated Eton, Cambridge. Royal Marines intelligence, then MI6. How long have you been at the White House?”

  “Not too long.”

  “Have you had any intelligence experience?”

  “Not until recently.”

  “Do you know anybody in intelligence?”

  “My boss was CIA station chief in New York before becoming national security adviser to the president. Her boss was the director of Central Intelligence.”

  “Do you know Lance Cabot?”

  “Slightly.”

  “Have you ever heard of someone called Stone Barrington?”

  That stopped her. “Yes, I have.”

  “Ever met him?”

  “Not yet. How did that name pop into your head?”

  “It popped into my computer this morning,” Ian said. “He’s on a kind of watch list—not the pejorative sort, it’s a bit of a compliment, really. His name just pops up when he enters the country, and when it happens, I let my chief know.”

  “Mr. Barrington and your chief are acquainted, I believe, and he’s close to my boss and our president, as well.”

  “I reckoned something like that.”

  “So he’s in the country?”

  “Apparently so, though he did not clear immigration at any port or airport. A friend of ours, retired officer, reported him at quite an elegant country hotel in Devon called Gidleigh Park. Heard of it?”

  “No, I’ve not been to Devon.”

  “Quite posh, I believe. Can you fill me in on Mr. Barrington?”

  “He’s a New York attorney with a very prestigious firm, Woodman & Weld. A widower—wife murdered by a former lover a few years back. One son, now a Hollywood producer and director. The dead wife was previously married to the film star Vance Calder, and she left a good deal of Calder’s money to Mr. Barrington when she died. That’s about it. Oh, when Katharine Lee was preparing to run for president, a group of twenty-one people contributed a million dollars each to get her started. Mr. Barrington was one of them.”

  Ian winced slightly. “So he is important, then.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Important to your boss and mine,” she replied.

  “Now I’m left with wondering how the hell he got into the country. Any ideas on that?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” she said.

  Their lunch arrived, and Ian tasted the wine. “We’ll drink it,” he said to the waitress.

  They ate in silence for a little while. Finally Millie broke it. “Anything new on Larry and Curly?”

  He looked at her askance. “Are we talking about the Three Stooges?”

  “The twins,” she replied. “Moe is the one we’re tracking in the States.”

  “Ah, the twins.”

  “Did you know them at Eton?”

  “I was at Oxford when they were at Eton.”

  “Does your service have any assets in Dahai who could be of help?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that. Suffice it to say that they are scratching around the edges of the sultan’s court for word of the boys. Optimism is high.”

  “It would seem that the boys were trained to be British, and that Moe, as we call him, was trained to be American.”

  “Yes, it would seem so. Worrying, isn’t it? It’s so much easier to spot them when they wear turbans and costumes and speak in tongues.”

  “Isn’t it? Easier, too, when they have names and photographs and fingerprints in our databases.”

  “That would be convenient, yes. But someone has gone to a great deal of trouble and expense over a period of many years to hide those things from us, and I find it very annoying. Perhaps you and I and your FBI friend can do something about that.”

  “It’s why I’m here,” Millie said. Her cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “It’s Quentin. We have a photograph of Moe.”

  41

  THEY WERE at mid-morning before leaving Gidleigh Park, after a hot breakfast and hot
sex. Pat’s packing took longer than Stone thought it should.

  They loaded the car, paid the bill, and made their way back up the single track between the hedgerows, not meeting any opposing traffic on the way, and were soon on the motorway, headed north, then east. They stopped at a restaurant recommended by their GPS, for lunch, and then they pulled up in front of Cliveden House, a huge residence going back to the eighteenth century, lately a hotel. They had barely gotten out of the car when Dino and Viv arrived in a chauffeured Mercedes.

  “Holy shit,” Dino said quietly, looking at the imposing house, “I hope the concierge didn’t take the whole place for us.”

  They entered an enormous hall furnished with scattered furniture, and with a huge fireplace at one end. An assistant manager registered them and delivered them to their suite, and their luggage was not far behind. Stone poured them all a glass of sherry from a decanter on the coffee table, and they relaxed.

  “This is wonderful, Stone,” Viv said. “Can we live here, please?”

  “Sure, if Dino can convince the mayor he can run the NYPD from here, and he can get a bill through the city council to pay for it.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Dino said.

  “I saw something about Lord Astor in a brochure downstairs.”

  “This was his home, and his wife, Nancy, who was American, became a member of Parliament. This house was the center of an amazing group of characters called the Cliveden Set, which included people like George Bernard Shaw, Charlie Chaplin, and a few Mitford sisters, one of whom was married to Sir Oswald Mosley, the British fascist who was imprisoned during World War Two to keep him out of mischief. Also a part of the crowd was John Profumo, minister of Defence at the time, who met a young woman here called Christine Keeler, a sort of part-time prostitute, I think, who was also having an affair with the Soviet military attaché. Between the three of them, they nearly brought down the government. Profumo lied to a parliamentary committee about it and got sacked for his trouble.”

  “I’m not sure I can keep that pace,” Viv said. “Dino will have to trade me in on a racier model.”

  “You’ll do,” Dino said.

  “Now all that remains,” Stone said, “is to wait for Paul Reeves to show up.”