by Stuart Woods
“Where to?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“National Gallery? Tower of London? Anything touristy you haven’t done?”
“Just back to the Connaught, I think.” She dialed Holly’s cell number. It was answered immediately.
“What have you to report?” Holly asked.
Millie told her about the conversations with the new men in her life. “Quentin has to get Lev’s authorization to set up the surveillance—they’ll get back to me. And Lance will call me back when he’s looked into the sultan’s household in Dahai.”
“Good. We’re making progress.”
“Something odd just happened.”
“Uh-oh.”
“At lunch today I overheard some Americans talking at a table next to mine.”
“What about?”
“Barrington. I suppose that could be Stone?”
“It’s not a very common name. What did they have to say?”
“One of them asked the other, ‘What are you going to do about Barrington?’ And the other replied, ‘It’s already done.’ Then they had a good laugh.”
“Any idea who they were?”
“The table was booked in the name of Reeves.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell with me. Write down a number.” She dictated. “That’s Stone’s cell number. Call him and tell him about it. I’m too busy right now.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Hôtel de Marigny. It’s sort of the guesthouse for the Élysée Palace.”
“What’s it like?”
“Palatial. Got to run.” She hung up.
Stone, Dino, Viv, and Pat were finishing lunch at the Waterside Inn in Bray, a spectacular French restaurant in the village of Bray on the banks of the upper Thames River, not far from Cliveden, when his phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Stone Barrington?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Millicent Martindale. I work for Holly Barker.”
“You’re a lucky woman, then,” he said. “How is Holly?”
“She’s very well. She’s with the president in Paris right now, and she asked me to call you.”
“Oh?”
“Are you still in England?”
“At the moment I am in surroundings so French that I could doubt that.”
“MI6 said you were in the country.”
“How the hell would they know that?”
“Apparently, they know when you enter and leave Britain, but I understand that you flew yourself this time, so somehow you slipped past them. Someone at a country hotel spotted you—a retired MI6 officer.”
“Well, that’s fairly creepy,” Stone said.
“It gets creepier. I was at lunch today at a restaurant called La Famiglia . . .”
“I know it well.”
“. . . and I was seated next to two men and a woman—all Americans—and I heard your name mentioned.”
“In vain?”
“Maybe.” She told him about the overheard conversation.
“Well, he’s wrong, I haven’t been taken care of. Any idea who they were?”
“The table was booked in the name of Reeves. That’s all I know.”
“Swell,” Stone said with some feeling.
“I hope that’s not too upsetting. Holly felt you should know.”
“And I’m glad you called. Thank you very much. Can you describe the two men?”
“One was in his mid to late thirties, very beefy-looking. The other was, maybe fifty, florid complexion.”
“I believe I know them,” Stone said. “How long ago did you see them?”
“I left twenty minutes ago. They had just sat down for lunch.”
“That’s good to know,” Stone said.
“I’m based at the American embassy for a few more days. Is there anything I can do for you in London?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll be in touch if anything comes up.”
She did, and Stone wrote it down. He hung up. “Another coincidence,” he said to his party.
“Reeves again?”
Stone nodded. “This time in a London restaurant, sitting next to one of Holly Barker’s people.” He told them about what she had overheard.
“You’ve already been taken care of?” Dino asked. “Is that what Reeves said?”
“Apparently. Do I look taken care of to you?”
“Nope.”
“Then that must lie in my future,” Stone said.
“I think you’d better be careful until we’re out of the country,” Dino said. “And right now, I’m going to have a look around this place.”
“I think you should call Sir Martin and tell him that Reeves and Keyes are at La Famiglia, World’s End, Chelsea.”
“Right.” Dino got up and left the table.
“Well,” Stone said, having some more cheese, “I’m not going to let this ruin a good lunch.”
45
QUENTIN PHILLIPS got into the office an hour before hardly anybody else did, and he found Lev Epstein at his desk.
“Good morning,” Quentin said.
Lev looked up. “What the hell are you doing here at this hour, sucking up?”
“I suck up only when absolutely necessary. I’ve heard from Millie Martindale in London: Moe has been made and located.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not. Our lab couldn’t match the snapshot to anybody in our database, but they did two drawings of how he might look now. Holly Barker made one of them as somebody she saw at an inaugural party. His name turns out to be Ali Mahmoud, and he’s the chargé d’affaires at the embassy of Dahai.”
“I know that son of a bitch! I’ve had dinner with him at a big party! He is Moe?”
“He is also Jacob Riis and Harold Charles St. John Malvern.”
“Let this be a lesson to you on the importance of even tiny pieces of evidence. If that snapshot hadn’t been taken fifteen years ago, we might never have found the bastard.”
“The White House has requested maximum surveillance on Mahmoud around the clock. Shall I move on that?”
“What’s your idea of maximum surveillance?”
“Eight four-man teams working around the clock, a dozen different vehicles and disguises for them, full electronic surveillance on office and home, fixed and mobile.”
“And how much is that going to cost?”
“Half a million dollars for the first week, maybe three hundred thousand a week after that. Can you authorize it?”
“I can get it authorized.”
“Today?”
“This morning!” He opened his laptop and started typing. “I’m calling an agency-wide emergency conference, everybody from assistant director up.”
“Hang on a minute, Lev.”
Lev stopped typing. “Don’t slow me down.”
“We promised the White House absolute secrecy, closely held. You’re talking about at least three dozen people when you include deputies and secretaries.”
“My boss is in South America,” Lev said. “There’s nobody between me and the director.” He picked up his phone and dialed a number from memory. “Good morning, sir, it’s Lev Epstein. I’m sorry to have to trouble you at home.” He didn’t apologize for the hour. “I need an immediate appointment with you. It’s an emergency. Let me brief you when you come in. How long? Thank you, sir.” He hung up. “You and I are seeing the director at eight-thirty. We’ve got less than an hour to put our briefing together.”
“Right.”
“You put together a list of agents and equipment you need, and a list of tech people, as well. We’ll meet in my conference room at ten AM. Oh, request a fully teched-out conference room in the basement, in my name. You ever d
one a stakeout, Quentin?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s going to bore the ass off you.”
—
MILLIE WAS STRETCHED out on the bed in her suite, trying to make sense of a cricket match, when her cell went off. She muted the TV. “Hello?”
“It’s Quentin. Listen fast, I’m on the run.”
“Go.”
“Lev and I just met with the director, and it’s a go. We’re starting a meeting of the team in five minutes. They’ll be on the job by noon. It’s a maximum effort.”
“Go, then!”
“Bye.” He hung up.
Millie punched the air. “Yes!” she screamed. She called Holly.
“Yes?”
“Big news—the Bureau will be all over Moe by lunchtime in D.C. Maximum effort.”
“That’s great news, Millie. Congratulations on moving it so fast. Right now, I’m half dressed for a state dinner that started ten minutes ago. Gotta go.” She hung up.
Millie called Ian Rattle.
“Hahlew,” he drawled.
“The FBI has just uncorked a maximum-surveillance effort on Moe. I thought you and Dame Felicity would like to know.”
“She will be very pleased to hear it,” he said, “as am I. Will we get to watch any of this in progress?”
“Ian, it’s surveillance, not a raid. What’s to watch?”
“Oh, all right. When you do make a move, please remember that Dame Felicity becomes orgasmic when watching an operation in real time. It makes her feel omniscient, I think.”
“Whatever turns her on,” Millie said, then hung up.
—
AFTER DINO had cased the neighborhood to his satisfaction, checking out the rowers, the fishermen, and the swans on the Thames, they got into Pat’s borrowed Jaguar and left the restaurant. Stone drove quickly, turning down country lanes, seemingly at random.
“You going anywhere in particular?” Dino asked from a comfortable rear seat.
“Looking for a tail,” Stone said. “It bothers me that Reeves says I’m already taken care of—makes it sound like I missed it.”
“I’m going to take a nap,” Dino said. “I’m unaccustomed to port at lunch.” He thought about that. “I could get used to it, though.” He lay back on the cushioned headrest and closed his eyes.
Stone loved these country roads: they were beautifully engineered, perfectly drained, and always in good repair. He kept an eye on the GPS navigation display to be sure he was always headed in the general direction of Cliveden.
“You drive beautifully,” Pat said. “Especially right now—and with the steering wheel on the wrong side!”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “I hope we don’t meet too many vehicles coming the other way. My instinct would be to go left.”
“And the instinct of the oncoming driver would be to go right,” she replied. “And that would not be a good thing.”
Stone narrowly missed a baker’s van going the other way.
“Stone,” Pat said, “what do you think Paul Reeves meant when he said you had already been taken care of?”
“I don’t know,” Stone said. “And I don’t want to know. But I have a feeling I’m going to find out.”
He drove on.
Back at Cliveden Stone was given a hand-delivered note on very heavy paper. He read it and turned to the others. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t be with you for dinner, and I’ve been asked not to tell you why. I hope you will forgive me.”
46
MILLIE HAD JUST given up on the cricket match when Ian Rattle called again. “Are you up for a last-minute invitation?” he asked.
“If it’s a good enough invitation,” she replied.
“Dinner at Dame Felicity’s.”
“Dame Felicity’s what?”
“House.”
“Sounds nice.”
“I hope you brought a good dress. It’s black-tie.”
“I did, and I’ve bought two more since I’ve been here.”
“Do I get a choice?”
“I’ll do the choosing, thank you.”
“I’ll pick you up at six-forty-five. May we meet downstairs at that hour? Dame Felicity is a stickler for punctuality.”
“I will be on time. See you then.” She hung up, emptied two shopping bags, and hung up the three competing dresses for comparison. She awarded the prize to a simple black one that would show off just enough of her ample breasts, and with a slight flare just above the knee. It had not required alterations. She checked her watch, called downstairs and asked the concierge to send up a manicurist in an hour, then headed for a shower and shampoo.
—
MILLIE WAS STANDING under the outer canopy at the front door, all shiny and new, when a steel-gray Jaguar pulled up front. The doorman helped her into the rear seat next to Ian.
“You look perfectly marvelous,” he said, as the car moved away and into Mount Street.
“Where does Dame Felicity live?” she asked.
“I’m afraid you may not know that,” Ian replied, “and if you figure it out, you are sworn to secrecy. Or I can blindfold you.”
“I swear,” she said. They were there in twelve minutes, and she knew it immediately. It was a house in Wilton Crescent, one that backed up onto Wilton Mews, where the Grenadier was situated.
“You know it, don’t you? I can tell by your look.”
“Well, of course I know it, we had lunch right behind it.”
They got out of the car and rang the bell. “I believe this was formerly the home of Edward Heath, a prime minister of his day,” Ian said. There was no more time for history, because a uniformed butler admitted them, and as they entered the drawing room, announced them. “Mr. Ian Rattle and Ms. Millicent Martindale,” he intoned just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to bring all conversation to a halt.
Dame Felicity separated herself from a knot of guests and came toward Millie with her hand out. “Good evening, Millie. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. One of my guests died, figuratively speaking, and you are such a lovely replacement. What a perfect dress!”
“Thank you, Dame Felicity. I’m very pleased to be here.”
Shortly she was conversing with the foreign secretary and his wife. The man leaned in and whispered, “I’ve been briefed on your, ah, project, and I am delighted with the results so far.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied.
“You are awfully pretty for a spy,” his wife said, giving her husband a sharp look.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I am only a White House staffer, with no cover story.” Over the next few minutes she was introduced to the home secretary and a Sir Edward Antrim, who, Ian whispered, was the director of MI5, Dame Felicity’s counterpart on the domestic side. At seven-fifteen, the prime minister and his wife arrived and took a glass of champagne, then Millie was introduced to them, she being the only guest with whom they were not acquainted. She thought of curtsying, but then thought better of it.
At precisely seven-thirty a silver bell tinkled, and the butler announced dinner. As they were filing into the dining room the doorbell rang, and another guest was admitted, and more introductions were made around the table.
“Millie, this is Stone Barrington, whom you may already know.”
“Only on the phone,” Millie replied, shaking his hand. His place card was on Dame Felicity’s left, and Millie’s was next to his. The prime minister was seated on her hostess’s right.
A first course of sautéed foie gras was brought immediately, and champagne was poured. Millie tasted it and rolled her eyes.
“Do you like it?” Barrington asked her.
“It is the best champagne I have ever tasted,” she replied.
He laughed. “That’s because it is the best champagne ever
made: a Krug 1978—I caught a glimpse of the label.”
“I shall never drink anything else,” she said, taking another sip.
“The best of luck with that,” he replied, then turned to chat with his hostess.
Millie thought that the back of his head looked better than the face of most men.
“Now may I have your attention?” Ian asked in a low voice. “You’re not going to just sit there and wait for him to speak to you again, are you?”
“Of course not,” she replied with a smile, trying not to blush. “I will dance with who brung me.” As it happened, Stone did not speak to her again during dinner—he was too occupied with Dame Felicity and the prime minister.
The foie gras melted in her mouth, and a second course of fried goujons of Dover sole did, too. The main course came: a perfectly cooked fat duckling, and with it a Chateau something-or-other; she couldn’t see the label—but it was wonderful. A mille-feuille was served for dessert, and when everyone had finished, all the women at the table got up and left the room. Millie suddenly remembered the British custom of the men being left to their cigars and port, and she started to rise, but Dame Felicity stopped her.
“Millie, please remain,” she said. “Stone, would you be kind enough to attend to the ladies? We have business.”
“Of course,” Barrington said. He got up and was let out of the dining room by a man with a bulge under his black jacket and a military haircut, whom Millie had not noticed before.
“Now, if everyone has enough port, two of my guests have information to impart. I thought it better to do this at my home rather than attract attention by a more noticeable meeting of you all. First, Millicent Martindale, who is assistant national security adviser to the president of the United States. Millie?”
Millie noted the inflation of her importance by the omission of “to” from her title.
“From the beginning, please.”
“Dame Felicity, Prime Minister, gentlemen,” she began, keeping her voice low and steady, “after reports from two intelligence sources that a major terrorist plot against the West was being put together, the president assigned my superior, National Security Adviser Holly Barker, and the directors of Central Intelligence and the FBI to locate and identify three deeply buried persons who may be crucial to the effort, who we now call Moe, Larry, and Curly, the Three Stooges.” That got a short laugh. “After an extraordinarily cooperative effort among our services and MI6, we have managed to identify all three. One is located at the embassy of Dahai, in Washington. The other two, while associated with that country, are so far unaccounted for, though a spirited search is under way. In Washington, as of this hour, some three dozen FBI agents and as many technical supporters have undertaken a round-the-clock surveillance of Moe, whose name is Ali Mahmoud and who is the chargé d’affaires at the Dahai embassy. Ian Rattle will bring you up to date on Larry and Curly.”
