by Stuart Woods
Kelli looked over by the windows. “What happened to your steamer trunk?”
“I unpacked it, and a bellman took it away for storage until my departure.”
“What do you travel with that you need a trunk?”
“Habitually, four suits, a dinner jacket, tails on some occasions, a blazer, two tweed jackets, a dozen shirts and a dozen each of socks and underwear, six pairs of shoes, two hats, a jewelry box, a toiletries case, and enough neckties to choke a very large horse. Also, depending on the weather at my destination, a trench coat or an overcoat or both.”
“That explains the trunk,” Kelli said.
“I believe it does. The simple truth is, you can take as much luggage as you wish, anywhere in the world, as long as you are prepared to pay a baggage overcharge or bribe a ticket agent—and tip well.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Kelli said. “I’m always just trying to jam my carry-on into the overhead bin.”
“Poor darling, you must learn to be more extravagant, you’d be much happier.”
“I must learn to earn enough to be extravagant,” she replied.
“That is entirely unnecessary,” Hamish replied. “You must simply do a better job of choosing men.”
“I hate to say it, but you have a point,” Kelli said. “Take my present beau: he’s handsome, charming, well educated, well housed, and well employed, but he’s not rich—not until he comes into his inheritance, anyway—and that might require a wait of some years or, perhaps, murder.”
“He does have most of the qualifications.”
“What else must he have?”
“A generosity of spirit and an absence of parsimony.”
“Ah, well. How would you define an absence of parsimony?”
“Before a man can be generous with you, he must first be generous with himself. Then, if he is paying three thousand pounds for a Savile Row suit, two hundred for a Jermyn Street shirt, and two thousand a pair for shoes, he cannot, in good conscience, deprive his woman of similar accoutrements. He cannot travel in first class and expect her to occupy steerage.”
“Ah, so I should encourage him to dress more expensively and travel better?”
“Certainly. Then, as the night follows the day . . .”
“You’re an eminently sensible man, Hamish.”
“And of course, the frequency of and competency in sex must be sustained at a high level.”
“No objections there,” Kelli said. “More often, my men have been unable to keep up.”
Hamish laughed.
“I don’t suppose you would care to form a more lasting bond than a one-nighter in a grand hotel?”
“We can talk about that,” Hamish replied, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Excuse me, call of nature.”
Kelli looked around. “Where can I find a robe?”
“Closet,” Hamish replied, closing the bathroom door.
Kelli got out of bed and approached the closet, of which there were two. She chose the left and found herself staring at a steamer trunk.
Then there was singing coming from the bathroom, in a language she did not understand.
44
Herbie Fisher and his girl, Harp Connor, got off their airplane at LAX and hoofed it to baggage claim, where they found a small booth emblazoned with the name THE ARRINGTON. Minutes later they were ensconced in a Bentley, headed for the hotel.
Herbie called Stone Barrington’s cell number.
“Hello, Herb, welcome to L.A. Where are you?”
“On the way from the airport. Be there in, I don’t know, twenty minutes?”
“It’s going to take longer than that, pal. Getting through the front gate is going to take a while and may require a cavity search.”
“Are you serious?”
“Almost. We’ve got two presidents in residence. Come for dinner tonight?”
“Love to. How are we dressing?”
“We’re doing it New York style—wear a necktie. Oh, and there’s a secret guest of honor.”
“Who’s that?”
“Didn’t I just say it’s a secret? Drinks at seven. Ask your bellman to show you my cottage on the site map. See ya!” Stone hung up.
“We’re invited for dinner, and there’s a secret guest of honor,” Herbie said to Harp.
“Who?”
“Didn’t I just say it’s a secret? Listen, Stone managed to get us into the hotel on short notice, but it will be a room, not a suite, and it may be small.”
“I can live with that,” Harp replied. “I’m a simple woman. All I need is a closet, a bed, a bathtub, and a minibar.”
“I expect you’ll have all of that, and if there’s no minibar, there’s always room service. Oh, by the way, security will be severe at the gate, so expect, maybe, a cavity search.”
“Promises, promises.”
—
They were received at reception with apologies for the lack of more luxurious accommodations, then driven in an electric cart to their room, which had a very nice view of a stucco wall around someone else’s patio.
The bellman handed Herbie the key to the golf cart. “Compliments of Mr. Barrington,” he said.
“Could you give me directions to his house?”
The man unfolded the hotel map and pointed out the Barrington cottage, then he left, having been rewarded with a very good tip.
“Pretty nice,” Harp said, looking around.
“It’s where they put the help, like corporate pilots,” Herbie explained.
Harp unpacked everything and put her things in the closet and chest of drawers provided, then kicked her cases under the bed.
“I’m impressed,” Herbie said, looking around.
“This way we have more space,” she replied, and Herbie followed suit.
“What should I wear to dinner?” she asked.
“I’ve been instructed to wear a necktie, and presumably, a suit. An LBD should do.”
“An LBD it is,” Harp replied, inspecting the minibar and retrieving two tiny bottles of Chivas Regal.
“Are those both for you, or may I have one?” Herbie asked.
Harp poured them into separate glasses and handed him one. They toasted, then she reached behind and unzipped her dress. “Now,” she said, “I believe you promised me a cavity search.”
—
Herbie and Harp arrived at Stone’s cottage at ten past seven, and were met at the door by their host. “Come and meet everybody,” he said. He led them into the living room. “You know Dino and Viv, of course, but you haven’t met my son, Peter, his girl, Hattie, and Dino’s son, Ben, and his girl, Emma.” Then he turned toward a tall, blonde beauty in a knockout dress. “And this is Hattie’s guest, Immi Gotham.”
Herbie went weak in the knees but managed to shake her hand. Harp was more composed. “Like everybody else, I’m a great admirer of your work,” she said.
“Immi is giving a concert tomorrow night,” Stone explained, “and Hattie, on piano, is going to open for her, and later, accompany Immi for her encore.”
“I can’t wait,” Herbie said, accepting a scotch from a waiter.
“I understand you’re an attorney with Stone’s firm in New York,” Immi said.
“That is correct,” Herbie replied. “Stone was my mentor and role model.”
“I’m going to be buying a place in New York soon,” Immi said, “and Stone is going to help me with the legal work.”
“I’m sure the whole firm will be standing in line to help you,” Herbie replied.
“And, Harp,” Immi said, “I understand you’re a private eye?”
“For lack of a better term,” Harp replied.
“I’ll let you know if I need any private eyeing,” the actress said.
The doorbell rang. “Excuse me, we’re quite a crowd tonight. It’s going to be a buffet.” Stone went to answer the door and came back with Felicity Devonshire, Holly Barker, and the president and first lady.
Herbie and Har
p, having been surprised to meet Ms. Gotham, were now stunned and nearly speechless.
“I hope your talks went well,” Stone said to Will Lee.
“Indeed they did. We’re signing our agreement tomorrow morning, and then I’m on vacation for a couple of days.”
“You deserve it,” Stone said.
The president and first lady fell into conversation with Immi Gotham, and Holly managed to cut Stone from the herd and get him in a corner.
“I heard about the gloves,” she said.
“Yes, that was disturbing.”
“Fortunately, the bomb specialist’s lab was unable to detect any trace of radiation.”
“Let’s hope they were being used as oven mitts,” Stone said.
“How did this come about?”
“The NSA managed to locate the site, an apartment in Palo Alto, and Mike Freeman’s people searched it and found the gloves. This fellow Shazaz had apparently been living there and made some bombs, one of which, as you’ve probably heard, was found in the wine storage room today.”
“Yes, but what was that name again?”
“Shazaz? I think that’s it.”
Holly blanched. “First name?”
“Mo, for Mohammad.” Stone looked at her closely. “Is something wrong?
“Excuse me,” Holly said, “I need to talk to the first lady.”
45
Holly stood at the edge of the group around Immi Gotham, waiting for a moment to get Kate Lee away from them. Finally, as a waiter invaded the crowd with a tray of canapés, she was able to touch Kate’s elbow. The two retreated to a corner.
“Don’t look so concerned,” Kate said, smiling, “you’ll scare everybody.”
Holly forced the frown away from her face. “Something disturbing has just arisen,” she said, then she told Kate about the name. “Does Hamish have any siblings?” she asked.
Kate’s smile had disappeared. “As I recall, after his parents were divorced his father remarried and had a son and a daughter, so they would be some years younger than Hamish. Why don’t you call Langley and have them run their names?”
“Apparently, the brother’s first name was Mo, short for Mohammad, but I don’t know the girl’s name.”
“Well, see what you can come up with.”
Holly excused herself, went into the study, and called Langley. Twenty minutes later, she returned, and the first lady rejoined her.
“There’s nothing on them,” she said. “There were hits on the father’s name, but that’s it.”
“Did the search produce anyone else at all named Shazaz?”
“No.”
“Try to get in touch with Hamish,” Kate said. “Ask him for the whereabouts of his brother for the last month. If he can give us that, we’ll have something to go on.”
“Right,” Holly replied. She went back to the study and called the number she had for Hamish. There was a long pause before she was connected.
“Hello?”
“Hamish?”
“Yes.”
“Encode.”
There was some electronic noise, then Hamish came back. “Is that you, Holly?”
“Yes. Something has come up.”
“How can I help?”
“I understand you have a half brother.”
“Mo? Yes.”
“Do you know where he has been for the past thirty days?”
“Yes, he was at my family’s home on the Scottish isle of Murk, south of the Hebrides.”
“For the entire period?”
“Until recently.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Yes, he’s at Annabel’s, a London nightclub, sitting right across the table from me. Would you like to speak with him?”
“Ah, no. Was there any break between his time in Scotland and tonight?”
“Only travel time. He arrived by train yesterday.”
“I see.”
“What is your interest in my half brother?” Hamish asked.
“Tell me, is Shazaz a common name?”
“It’s not uncommon, at least, not in the Middle East.”
“Has your brother ever visited the United States?”
“He attended a boys’ school in Virginia for a semester, when he was eight, but he was unhappy there, so he returned to England and completed his education here.”
“Is he an observant Muslim?”
“Yes, but not radically so. I mean, at this moment he is consuming a glass of champagne. I would say he is about as observant as I.”
Holly couldn’t think of anything else to ask. She ended the call and went back to the living room, where people were starting to move into the garden for the buffet dinner, and found the first lady.
Kate listened intently to Holly’s report of her conversation with Hamish. “Well,” she said, “maybe it’s just a coincidence, if the name is not uncommon in the Middle East.”
“I remember that Hamish’s mother’s family has a home—a castle, I think—on a Scottish island,” Holly said.
“Yes, that’s correct.” She was quiet for a moment, looking up at the stars, then she turned back to Holly. “May I borrow your agency phone?” she asked. She walked away toward the light coming from the living room, dialed a number, and spoke to someone.
—
Who was on the phone?” Kelli Keane asked.
“Just an acquaintance.”
“Why did you say you were at Annabel’s?”
Hamish smiled. “Because she’s in L.A., and if she knew I was here, well . . .”
“She would be displacing me in bed?”
Hamish turned toward her and took her in his arms. “No chance of that at all,” he said.
—
Kate came back and handed Holly her phone. “Thank you. I’ve had Langley track Hamish’s phone, and it puts him in Berkeley Square, London.”
—
Hamish went into the bathroom, taking his phone with him. He pressed a speed dial button, and the phone took a moment to connect.
“Yes?”
“It is I. Where are you parked?”
“Just outside Annabel’s.”
“Wait one hour, then go back to my address and park the car outside the house.”
“It will be done.”
Hamish flushed the toilet, then went back into the bedroom. “Where were we?” he asked, jumping into bed.
46
Stone took his plate and went to sit by Dino. Viv was in deep conversation with Immi Gotham a few yards away.
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen much of you the past couple of days,” Stone said.
“Not your fault, pal. I’ve been pretty busy myself.”
“And I don’t blame you a bit,” Stone said. “Viv is a knockout.”
“Okay, so what the fuck is going on around here? What have you and Mike and that Secret Service dick been up to?”
“You got something against the Secret Service?”
“I’ve got something against all feds,” Dino replied. “Every time I’ve tried to work with them I’ve gotten fucked.”
“Well, there is that.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Dino pointed out.
“Would you believe me if I told you you wouldn’t want to know?”
“Half of what I know I didn’t want to know.”
“You probably noticed a lot of security around here—I mean, more than when we arrived.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Well, they searched the whole property, and they found a bomb in a wine storage room adjacent to the main restaurant.”
“What kind of bomb?”
“Both simple and sophisticated, the expert said. A kilo or two of plastique.”
“Since we’re sitting here having dinner with the president, my guess is they disarmed it.”
“Right, but there may be two more. Not here, because the place has been ransacked, but somewhere. They may try to get them onto the grounds.”
&nb
sp; “I hear they’re practically strip-searching every arrival.”
“That’s true, so if the bombs are not here, it’s a pretty sure thing that they’re not going to be.”
Dino nodded. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you look like you know something you don’t want anybody else to know.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Come on, are you kidding me? Should I be running for a flight out of here?”
“I think the answer to your question is right over there,” Stone said, nodding in the direction of the president, “eating fried chicken with his fingers.”
“I always thought that was the best way,” Dino said. “I mean, if you’re gonna eat fried chicken. And if he feels safe, so I and mine should feel safe?”
“You see the young man talking to the president?”
“I think I recognize him. He’s related to you, isn’t he?”
“He is. And if I thought he weren’t safe, he would be on a plane back to New York, along with the rest of us.”
—
Peter Barrington sat on the sofa next to the president of the United States and ate his fried chicken with his fingers.
“You know,” Will Lee said, “I’ve got a son—stepson, really—who’s a little older than you. His name is Peter, too.”
“I heard that,” Peter replied. “I heard he slipped up and went to Harvard.”
Lee laughed and handed his plate to a passing waiter, then wiped his hands carefully. “Our Peter sent us a copy of your film, Autumn Kill. Kate and I thought it was terrific, and I couldn’t believe a student did it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Peter replied.
“How much of it was true?”
Peter shrugged. “Well, nobody has sued me yet, though I hear it caused quite a stir at my old school. It was based on rumors, really, kind of a legend that gets handed down from class to class. I filled in a lot of blanks, just made up stuff, but the reaction made me think I might have guessed right.” Peter wiped his fingers, and a waiter took his plate and the president’s napkin.
“You’re at Yale Drama, right?”
“That’s right. Ben Bacchetti and I are, anyway. Hattie, whom you met, is studying composition at the School of Music.”
