by Stuart Woods
Viv and Pat excused themselves to unpack, and Dino poured himself and Stone another glass of sherry. “So,” he said, “bring me up to date on Reeves.”
Stone told him about the events of yesterday.
“I’d better call Sir Martin and give him the latest sighting of Kevin Keyes,” Dino said.
“They may have already left the country by now. We last saw Reeves’s airplane at Coventry when we landed. It might be a good idea to alert U.S. Customs that they’re on their way home. They have to file a notice of when and where they’ll cross the border and clear customs. Keyes won’t put his name on it, but Reeves will, and that will be a good excuse to throw a net over both of them.”
“I’ll call everybody,” Dino said.
“What bothers me is I think Pat is still holding out on telling me the whole story. I’ve gone at her three or four times, and on each occasion she’s told me a little more, but I still don’t think I have it all, and I’m worried that she won’t confide in me.”
“What do you think she’s hiding?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be worried.”
“When are you and I headed back?”
“The day after tomorrow. Pat will drop us at Coventry Airport, then we’ll go on to Reykjavik from there, about a three-hour flight. Pat will drive on to the Cessna Service Center north of there, where her client is having the pre-purchase inspection done on his new airplane.”
“Will she take the same route back as we do?”
“No, she’s got a twenty-five-hundred-mile range with the CJ4, so she can refuel at Shannon, then go nonstop to Newfoundland.”
“Alone?”
“No, her client is going along, because he has to train for his new airplane in Wichita. She’ll deliver him there, then fly commercial back to New York.”
“What about Reeves? What route will he take?”
“The Blue Spruce route, like us. His airplane has less range than mine.”
“And where will he clear U.S. Customs?”
“Bangor, Maine, I guess.”
“So that would be the place to interrupt his trip and bag Keyes?”
“I guess. He has to clear customs at the nearest airport of entry after crossing the Canadian border.”
Dino got out his phone and started making calls.
They had dinner in the main dining room, and Stone kept expecting to see Paul Reeves stroll in.
“Relax, Stone,” Dino said. “You’re looking way too nervous for you.”
Stone ordered another bottle of wine.
42
MILLIE GOT EXCITED. “That’s great news. Can you e-mail it to me?”
“Already done,” Quentin said. “Mind you, the photo is fifteen years old, and it’s not perfect, but our lab can do some work on it to help bring it up to date.”
“And when will we see that?”
“Later today, maybe tomorrow. I’ve put a rush on it.”
“That’s terrific. I’ll pass it on to MI6. Talk to you later.” She hung up and turned back to Ian. “That was my FBI guy. He’s turned up a fifteen-year-old photograph of Moe.” She went into her phone and found the e-mailed photo. “There,” she said, holding it up for inspection. The photo showed a young couple sitting on a stone wall with some mountainous scenery in the background.
Ian examined it closely. “Not bad,” he said. “Pity we can’t judge his height, since he’s sitting down.”
“I’ll e-mail it to you,” she said, and did so, copying Holly.
“I’ll send it on to our wizards and see what they can tell us from it.”
“The FBI is doing the same.”
Ian asked for the check, and Millie excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. Once there, she called Holly.
“What’s up?”
“Quentin just called. He’s found a photo of Moe, and I’ve e-mailed it to you.”
“Just a minute,” Holly said. “Okay, got it.”
“Both the FBI and MI6 are working on it. I’ll copy you on any results.”
“You do that.”
“Something else: I’ve just had lunch with Ian Rattle, from MI6, and he’s concerned about Stone Barrington.”
“Why on earth would Stone concern him?”
“Stone is on some sort of watch list that alerts MI6 when he enters the country.”
“That sounds like Felicity wanting to know when he’s here, for her own purposes. Is he in the country?”
“They got word that he was reported at a country inn in Devon, but he’s not shown as having entered at any port or airport of entry.”
“Let me call you back,” Holly said.
Millie used the toilet and was freshening her makeup when Holly called back. “I talked to Stone’s secretary. Here’s what happened: Stone flew his own airplane across the Atlantic and landed at Coventry Airport. They have customs there, but apparently didn’t check him in. That sort of thing happens with general aviation.”
“Okay, I’ll pass that on.”
“Anything new on the Stooges from Ian?”
“Not yet.”
“Where did Rattle take you for lunch?”
“A pub called the Grenadier, in Belgravia.”
“I know it well. Word has it, Rattle is something of a rake, so watch yourself.”
“I’ll watch him,” Millie said. They said goodbye and hung up, and she returned to the table. “I have some news on Stone Barrington,” she said.
“Fire away.”
“He flew his own airplane across the Atlantic and landed at Coventry. Apparently, the officials there didn’t bother checking him in.”
“Ah, makes perfect sense. I’ll pass that on.”
“To Dame Felicity?”
“To a list of people who will want to know.”
He walked her back to her car, which was waiting nearby. “I see you’ve got Denny for a driver,” he said.
“You approve?”
“He’s good. He’ll get between you and any passing bullet, and he’s a damned good shot.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. Can I drop you anywhere?”
“Where are you headed?”
“To Harrods.”
“I’m going the other way. I’ll find a taxi.”
She shook his hand, got into the car, and Denny drove her away.
“Interesting companion, your lunch mate,” Denny said.
“He speaks highly of you, too.”
“I saved his arse once. Don’t be misled by the good suits and haircut. Ian is very good at what he does, and that includes killing, when he needs to. He’s almost as good a shot as I am.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“He’s honey for the honeybees, too, if you catch my drift.”
Millie laughed. “I believe I do.”
She spent two hours in Harrods, then Denny drove her back to the Connaught, where a fax from Quentin awaited her.
“The lab ran Moe through our facial recognition software and came up with zilch,” he said. “Attached are two versions of how he might look today.”
She looked at the photos: one with a receding hairline and a little more weight; one with a short beard. She studied them carefully, committing them to memory.
Holly arrived around six, and they ordered drinks.
“I just got this fax from Quentin,” she said, handing her the report.
She read it carefully. “Let me see the photographs,” she said.
Millie handed them to her. She studied both carefully. “Holy shit,” she said.
“What?”
She handed Millie the photo with the beard. “This one. I saw him at a party in D.C. the night of the Inaugural Ball. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Someone told me he was some sort of officia
l at the Saudi embassy.”
“Could it have been the Dahai embassy?”
“Maybe.” She got out her secure cell phone and called a number.
Millie waited to see who she was calling.
“Lance? It’s Holly.” She gave him a description of the man, while Millie photographed the image and e-mailed it to Lance Cabot.
“Do you know him?”
“No,” Lance replied.
“I saw him at a big party in D.C. on inaugural night. I remember he had a good-sized diamond in one ear, I’m not sure which.”
“I’ll get somebody on it.”
“We need a name and a location,” Holly said. “This one is very important.”
“We’ll do our best,” Lance said.
Holly hung up. “Progress at last,” she said.
43
HOLLY WAS GONE when Millie woke up, and after breakfast she busied herself with moving into the suite. The maids had just left after changing the bed and cleaning when her cell rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Ian. Sleep well?”
“It’s one of the things I do best.”
“Anything new from the FBI?”
“Yes. They were unable to match the photograph of Moe with any existing face in their database, but they came up with two drawings of how he might look now. I showed them to Holly Barker last night, and she believed she recognized one of them as someone she saw at a party in Washington on the night of the inauguration of the president. He may be an official at either the Saudi or the Dahai embassy in Washington. It’s being checked out.”
“I hope that’s true—it would be very helpful.”
“What did your people come up with?”
“Nothing on Moe. However, I’ve been chatting with some of our people who have served in Dahai in the past, and one of them provided an interesting rumor.”
“I love a good rumor.”
“Well, hang on to your hat. The rumor is that a favored woman in the sultan’s harem gave birth to twin boys around thirty years ago.”
“That works, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Apparently, there was great excitement surrounding the births. Some adherents of Islam believe that twins are a special gift from God and that they have unusual powers.”
“What sort of powers?”
“I don’t know, and I haven’t been able to find out.”
“Does Dahai keep birth records?”
“Yes, but we don’t know yet if members of the sultan’s household would be registered. It’s being checked. Another thing—the woman who was the mother was Egyptian and had very light skin. Most people took her for a European.”
“This all fits with the boys from Eton,” she said, “and with the special transportation provided for them when they left. Surely not even a sultan would send a large private jet for non-royals of no particular distinction. But if these boys are his sons . . .”
“Yes, it all ties in very neatly, and it’s not the sort of thing one could make up, is it?”
“What we need now is an asset in the sultan’s household. Does MI6 have one of those?”
“If we did I would deny it.”
“Are you denying it?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t tell you anything, does it?”
“I suppose not.”
“I believe the next step is to find out if your people down at that place in Virginia have such an asset.”
“If they did,” Millie said, “I think their attitude would be much the same as yours.”
“You said your boss was an old Agency hand—maybe they’ll tell her.”
“She left this morning to fly with the president to Paris, Berlin, and Rome.”
“I believe they have telephone service on Air Force One, do they not?”
“I’ll call her. You go and rattle the cage of your tech guys. I want to know if they were able do anything with that photograph.”
“Roger, over and out.” Ian hung up.
Millie called Holly and got her voice mail. “Call me, as soon as you can,” she said.
Less than an hour later, Holly called. “We’re in the motorcade to the Élysée Palace,” she said. “What’s up?”
Millie passed on the rumor regarding the twins. “Can you find out if the Agency has an asset in the sultan’s household? We need to know a lot more.”
“I’ll call Lance,” Holly said. “Gotta run, we’re passing through the gates of the palace.” She hung up.
Millie had nothing to do for the rest of the day, so she went shopping again.
Two hours later, while sharing the backseat of her car with half a dozen carrier bags, her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“I have Lance Cabot for you,” a woman said. “Can you accept the call?”
“Yes.”
“Is that Millicent Martindale?” a smooth voice asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Are you on a secure line in a secure location?”
“I’m on my White House cell phone in an embassy car, in London,” she replied. “Is that secure enough?”
“That will do,” Cabot said. “This is the first time we’ve spoken, is it not?”
“It is.”
“I trust it won’t be the last. Tell me about this rumor you’ve heard. It’s from our friends at MI6, I believe?”
“It is.” Millie explained about the twins.
“I don’t believe our British friends have enough imagination to invent that,” Lance said. “I’ll see what assets we might have in place.”
“You might check with former or retired assets,” Millie said, “since the births would have been around thirty years ago.”
“Very good. Now, about the stooge you call Moe: we have ascertained that the photograph—the one with the beard—may be of the chargé d’affaires at the Dahai embassy in Washington. His name is Ali Mahmoud, and he’s quite the social animal around town.”
“That’s very interesting,” Millie said, “because the twins, while they were at Eton, received regular funds from an account at the Devin Bank in London belonging to a Sheik Mahmoud, of Dahai.”
“Very interesting, indeed,” Lance said. “Perhaps you should ask your friend at the Bureau to begin surveilling him.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You should ask him for maximum surveillance, which means by every available means.”
“I’ll ask for that.”
“When do you return to Washington?”
“I don’t know. That will depend on what I can get done here.”
“It sounds as if you’re getting quite a lot done. When you come back, perhaps you should come out to Langley for lunch and meet some people.”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
Lance hung up.
“Denny,” she said to her driver, “I’m starving. Where can I go for lunch?”
“Do you like Italian food?”
“Very much.”
“Well, then, it’s La Famiglia.” He made a quick U-turn and aimed at Chelsea.
44
DENNY PULLED UP outside a modest-looking restaurant near World’s End, in the King’s Road. “La Famiglia,” he said. “I booked you a table in the garden. Alvaro Macchione, the owner, died a few months ago, but it’s still up and running, and the food has held up, too.”
“Thank you, Denny.” He opened the door for her, and she got out and went inside. She was wondering how chilly it might be in the garden, but she was led through the restaurant and into a space with a glass roof and heaters. It was quite comfortable. The menu was very large, but she was hungry and got through it in a hurry. She ordered the bruschetta and the roasted wild boar. She had never before had that.
The place was only half full, and she didn’t feel crowded, so she cal
led Quentin at home.
“Hello?” he said sleepily.
“Aren’t you up and about yet?” she asked. “I’ve already consulted with MI6 and the CIA.”
Quentin groaned. “You’d better have something good,” he said.
“How about this: Moe—Harold Charles St. John Malvern—has been made.”
“You’re kidding me. How did you do that so fast?”
She explained the process she had been through. “His name is Ali Mahmoud, and he’s the chargé d’affaires at Dahai’s embassy in Washington.”
“Jesus, that’s troubling,” Quentin said.
“You have a point—too close to home.”
“Damn straight.”
“All the more reason to start surveilling him pronto. I’d like maximum surveillance, please, of every sort. I’m told the FBI is good at that.”
“We are indeed. I’ll have to get Lev Epstein’s approval, but he’ll go for it.”
“Will you get back to me the minute you’ve talked to him? I need to know that the work is under way.”
“All right. He gets in early, so I’d better get to the office. I’ll call you.” He hung up.
She had barely hung up when some Americans were seated next to her—two men and a woman. They seemed to have had a couple of drinks before arriving, and it was now one-thirty PM. They immediately ordered a bottle of wine, and continued to talk loudly, especially a red-faced man who looked as if he’d done a lot of drinking in his day—maybe on this day.
She finished her lunch and asked for the check. Then she heard a familiar name.
“So,” the younger and beefier of the two men said, “how are you going to handle Barrington?”
“I have already handled him,” the other man said, and they laughed loudly again.
Millie paid her bill, then went back into the restaurant and found the headwaiter. “Could you please tell me the names of the people at that table?” She nodded toward the garden door. “I think I may know them.”
The headwaiter consulted his reservations book. “The table was booked in the name of Reeves,” he said. “I’m not sure which gentleman he is.”
“Thank you. It was an excellent lunch.” She went back to the car, where Denny was waiting with the door open.
