by Stuart Woods
Holly’s knees went weak, and she sank into a chair. “Tom,” she said.
“Yes, Holly?”
“Phone in a fire alarm on the house on the Chelsea Embankment. Put some smoke on the roof, if you can, for verisimilitude. When the fire brigade arrives, send your people in with them and detain both Hamish and Mo. Get them to a quiet place quickly and start interrogating them. No nice chat—use whatever you have to use to find out what they did in Palo Alto. No police department, no intelligence service is to be brought into this. When you have everything you can get from the two men, get them out of the country to Gitmo. Is that clearly understood?”
“It’s understood, Holly, but I’m going to have to hear it from the director, in person, before I can do any of that.”
“Stand by, Tom, don’t hang up.” Holly went into the next room and looked for the first lady; she was nowhere in sight. Clutching her phone, she ran up the stairs to the second floor where the first couple’s bedroom was. A Secret Service agent stood at the top of the stairs.
“Yes, ma’am?” the man said, blocking her way. “How may I help you?”
“I must see the first lady immediately, priority one.”
“And your name, ma’am?”
“Oh, God, you’re new, aren’t you?” Holly asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Holly Barker, assistant director of intelligence. I’m Mrs. Lee’s number two.”
“May I see identification to that effect, please?”
Holly smote her forehead. “It’s in my handbag downstairs.”
“I’ll wait while you get it, ma’am.”
“I don’t have time for this. Go and tell the first lady I’m waiting. I’ll be right here. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“I think I’d better call my supervisor,” the man said, producing a handheld radio. “Just a moment.”
“I don’t have a moment,” Holly said.
But the man was already speaking into the radio; he wasn’t moving, and he was too big for Holly to move. “This is Special Agent Jack Shorstein,” he said into the radio. “Chief of detail, please, priority.” He took the radio away from his lips. “This will take just a moment.”
Holly began to take deep breaths, trying to bring her rate of respiration down. She raised her phone. “You still there, Tom?”
“Yes, Holly. I can hear you having difficulties.”
“Just hang on.”
The agent’s radio crackled, and he put it to his hear. “Yes? Special Agent Shorstein, sir. A woman who says her name is Holly Barker is demanding to see the first lady. She has no ID. Yes, sir.” He handed the radio to Holly. “Special Agent Rifkin wishes to speak with you.”
Holly snatched the radio from him. “Steve? It’s Holly. I’ve got to see the first lady right now.”
“Holly, give the radio back to my agent.”
She handed him the radio and waited while he listened, then put the radio back on his belt. “You’re cleared to see the first lady, ma’am,” he said, stepping aside.
Holly ran down the hall to the master bedroom and knocked on the door. It was answered by a maid.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’d like to see the first lady at once,” Holly said.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but she’s in the bath.”
Holly shoved the woman aside and went for the bath. She opened the door without knocking, stepped into the bathroom, and saw, clearly, the president of the United States and the first lady in the shower together.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” Holly shouted over the noise of the running water, “but this can’t wait!”
53
Kate Lee sat in a terry-cloth hotel robe and listened to Holly’s story. “Hamish’s middle name is Algernon,” Holly said.
Kate looked stunned. “This doesn’t seem possible.”
“Ma’am, Hamish recruited—or at least, assigned—Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. All the e-mails the NSA and the Brits intercepted originated from him. We’ve got to interrogate him at once.” Holly held out the cell phone to her.
Kate took the phone. “Tom? It’s Kate Lee.”
Nothing.
“The phone’s dead,” Kate said.
Holly took it from her and redialed the number.
“Tom Riley.”
“Tom, we got cut off. Here’s the director.” She handed the phone back to Kate.
“Tom, it’s Kate Lee. You recognize my voice?”
“Yes, Director.”
“Carry out Holly’s instructions and report back to her at every stage of the operation. Get the two men to that air force base in the Midlands and on an airplane to Guantanamo. The brothers are to be isolated from each other and everyone else. Am I clear?”
“Absolutely clear, ma’am.”
“Good-bye. Let us hear from you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Riley hung up.
Kate handed back the phone to Holly. “I hope this is productive,” she said, “because, believe me, this is going to come back and bite me on the ass. Probably the president, too.”
“You can always blame me,” Holly said. “I’ve still got my army pension.”
“I hope you won’t need it,” Kate said. “Can my husband and I get dressed now?”
Holly turned red. “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“What do you want to bet this makes his memoirs?”
“Oh, God, I hope not.”
“You can hope.”
Holly ran for the door, then downstairs to her room and installed a fresh battery in her cell phone. Almost immediately, it rang. “Hello?”
“It’s Stone. Want to have some lunch?”
“Yes, please, I need to think about something else.”
“Something else than what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Meet me at the patio restaurant in ten minutes,” Stone said. “I’ve got a table.”
“See you there.” Holly ran into the bathroom, checked her makeup, then hurried out of the presidential cottage. She hopped into her electric cart and barreled down the cart path toward the restaurant.
Stone was sitting at a table, drinking iced tea. Holly joined him.
“This,” she said, “is the first time I’ve ever been able to see three movie stars in one place, live.”
“I know,” Stone replied, “the place is infested with them.” He waved at someone behind Holly.
“Who are you waving at?”
“Charlene Joiner.”
“Another movie star? How do you know her?”
“Don’t ask.”
“She’s the one who had an affair with Will Lee when he was still a senator, right?”
“I think it was more of a one-nighter, and they were both single at the time. I’ve heard some opinions expressed that when the news of that incident broke, he picked up half a million votes.”
Holly laughed. “America wanted a stud president?”
“I guess so. Now, what were you so discombobulated about when I called?”
“Well, I barged into Kate Lee’s bathroom without knocking and caught her in the shower with her husband.”
Stone burst out laughing. “No kidding?”
“I kid you not. She says the incident will probably make his memoirs.”
“It’s nice to know they still have that kind of relationship.”
“I guess so.”
“What was so important that you went into her bathroom without knocking?”
Holly sighed. “I wish I could tell you.”
“Are you forgetting that I’m still under contract to the Agency as a consultant and that I have the highest security clearance?”
“That’s right—you do, don’t you? All right, here’s what’s happened.” She told him everything from her phone call to Hamish at Annabel’s the day before.
“Who the hell is Hamish?”
“He’s an asset of the Agency who reports only to Kate and me.”
“How
did that come about?”
“Your cousin, Dick Stone, was running him when he was still station chief in London, and when he left London he handed Hamish off to Kate, who kept him. I think she found it entertaining that she had her own asset that nobody else knew about.”
“I hope that relationship doesn’t come back to bite her on the ass,” Stone said.
“Funny, that’s what she said.”
A waiter brought them each a huge lobster salad.
“I hope you don’t mind my ordering for you,” Stone said.
“Not a bit if it’s lobster salad.”
“I understand the lobsters here are flown in from Ireland.”
“Ireland? Whatever happened to Maine?”
“The Irish lobsters have a very high reputation, but nearly all of them are sold to the French. It’s just one of those little touches that makes The Arrington The Arrington.”
Holly dug into her salad. “God, this is good. Maybe they have a point about the Irish lobsters.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I’d love that, but I have to remain stone-cold sober for the rest of the day. Iced tea will do nicely.”
Stone ordered her an iced tea. “Do you have any time off coming?” he asked.
“I’ve got about two years of vacation I haven’t used,” she replied.
“Tell you what, why don’t you fly back to New York with us and spend a few days there with me?”
“That’s very tempting,” Holly replied. “Let me talk to Kate—maybe we’ll have a bit of a lull when this business here is all over.”
“You do that.”
They finished lunch and chatted for a while. Holly checked her phone to be sure she hadn’t missed a call. “I’ve got to get back,” she said, “there’s too much going on.”
Stone signed the check and stood up with her. “Call me when you know if you can fly back with us.”
“I’ll do that.”
They headed off in different directions, Holly toward where she had parked her cart.
“Holly? Is that you?” a voice from a table behind her said. A familiar voice.
She turned and looked over her shoulder. He sat there, sipping an espresso, beautifully turned out in a white linen suit. “Hamish?!”
“Good afternoon,” Hamish said, rising to greet her.
“But I spoke to you in London yesterday. What are you doing here?”
“I caught a ride on a friend’s corporate jet. We landed this morning. I wanted to stay here, but of course that was impossible, so I’m at the Beverly Hills.”
Holly’s cell phone buzzed at her belt. She grabbed it. “Excuse me a moment,” she said to Hamish, then walked a few paces away for privacy. “Hello?”
“It’s Tom Riley: scramble.”
She scrambled. “Okay, what?”
“We went into the house this morning, but it was empty, except for staff.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, since Hamish is sitting at a table in The Arrington’s garden restaurant, sipping espresso, just a few yards away from me.”
“It begins to make sense,” Tom said. “We checked out the car phone on the Bentley and found an agency GPS card in it. We checked with the doorman at Annabel’s—the car was parked out front all evening, but Hamish and Mo were not in the club. We’ve been chasing our own tails.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Holly said defensively. “Now I’ve got to go and wrap this up. Bye.” She hung up and turned back to where Hamish sat. He was gone.
—
Hamish walked quickly through the back of the garden and got into the white Cayenne at the curb with Hans at the wheel. “Did you pick up my two bags?”
“Yes, in the back.”
“How about your device?”
“In the spare tire well, under the trunk.”
“Drive normally and get us out of here.”
54
Holly darted around the restaurant, looking for Hamish. She opened the men’s room door and shouted his name. A man elbowed past her. “Sorry, wrong guy.”
“Is there anyone else in there?” she shouted at him.
“Not a soul, lady.” He hurried away.
Holly got on her phone. She had to look up Steve Rifkin’s number, which took a minute. Finally, she had it ringing.
“Rifkin,” he said.
“It’s Holly Barker.”
“I’m going to have to call you back,” Rifkin said.
“No, no!” But he had already hung up. She looked up Mike Freeman’s number and tried that.
“Freeman,” he said.
“Mike, it’s Holly Barker.”
“How are you, Holly?”
“Listen, Hamish McCallister is on the hotel grounds.”
“Who?”
“Algernon!”
“How do you know that?”
“I just had a conversation with him in the garden restaurant, but I lost him. Can you alert your security people? It’s vital that we interrogate him.”
“Is he registered at The Arrington?”
“No, at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Description?”
“Five-nine, bald with a dark fringe of hair, one-sixty, tanned.”
“Any particular place we should look?”
“Everywhere!”
“Did you call Steve Rifkin?”
“I did, but he couldn’t talk and hung up on me.”
“We’re on it.”
“Call me when you find him.” But Mike had already hung up.
—
The white Cayenne approached the main gate and slowed; the uniformed guard, recognizing the car and driver, waved them through.
“Turn left,” Hamish said. “LAX, British Airways.”
“You’re leaving the country?” Hans asked.
“No, but I want certain people to think so.”
Traffic was moderately light at that time of day, and half an hour later, the car stopped at the curb.
“Stay in the car,” Hamish said. “I’ll deal with the luggage. Here are your instructions: drive to Santa Monica Airport and go to the hangar where the Cessna Caravan is stored. The pilot will be waiting there. Drive the car inside the hangar. I’m going to check my bags through to London, then I’ll take a cab to Santa Monica, and we’ll fly north from there.”
“What about the device?”
“Leave it alone. I’ll deal with it when I arrive.”
“Got it.”
Hamish got out of the car, and Hans pressed the button to open the hatch. Hamish allowed a porter to take the two bags. “London,” he said, “first class.” Then he opened the spare tire well, opened the device case, inserted his key into the lock, turned it clockwise ninety degrees, then set the timer for forty-five minutes. He closed the case, closed the lid, and pressed the button to close the hatch. He slapped the car twice on the fender, and Hans drove away.
Hamish followed the porter to the first-class ticket counter, checked his bags, cleared security, and went to the first-class lounge. He was sitting at a table by the window with a drink, looking north, when the device detonated at Santa Monica Airport. A crowd gathered at the window, staring at the towering smoke and flames five miles to the north.
Hamish had seen all he needed to. He got out his throwaway cell phone and sent a text to Wynken. At 8:20 P.M. sharp set device for thirty minutes and leave the area. Wynken would get quite a surprise when he turned the key in the device.
Then Hamish relaxed, finished his drink, and ordered another.
—
Holly went to Stone’s cottage and hammered on the door. Stone opened it and took one look at her. “What’s going on?”
Holly went into the house, dialing Mike Freeman’s number.
“Freeman.”
“It’s Holly. Have you found him?”
“He’s in none of the obvious places,” Mike replied. “We’re searching the grounds, and Steve Rifkin’s people are helping, and Steve has sent a te
am to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“When you find him, bring him to Stone’s house in handcuffs.” She hung up.
“Bring who here?” Stone said. “And why in handcuffs?”
“Algernon. Hamish McCallister. He was sitting a few tables away from us at the restaurant.”
“I thought you said he was in London.”
“I was wrong.” She dialed Kate Lee.
“Yes?”
“Director, we’ve had a surprise. Hamish McCallister is here, on the hotel grounds.”
“But I thought . . .”
“Yes, ma’am, but we were wrong. He took the GPS tracking device out of his phone and put it in his car phone. He told me he hitched a ride in a corporate jet to Burbank, landing this morning, said he’s staying at the Beverly Hills. The Secret Service is looking for him there.”
“I thought you said he was here.”
“He disappeared.”
“Well, at least we don’t have to send him to Gitmo in order to interrogate him. Keep me posted.” She hung up.
The doorbell rang, and Special Agent Steve Rifkin entered the house. “Nothing yet,” he said.
“Steve, we’ve got to do the search for a bomb all over again,” Holly said.
“You think he brought something onto the hotel grounds? That’s impossible—he would never have gotten through security.”
“Steve is right,” Stone said, “and if we start a new search with all of the guests arriving, we’ll be all over CNN in five minutes. I don’t think we want that.”
“This is my call, Holly,” Steve said. “No new search.”
Holly threw up her hands. “Well, what are we going to do?”
“Nothing,” Steve said. “Sometimes nothing is the best thing to do. It won’t help us to alarm the arriving guests.” His cell phone rang. “Rifkin.” He listened for a moment. “I don’t see how that can be anything to do with us. Keep me posted on the investigation.” He hung up.
“What happened?” Holly asked.
“There was a huge explosion five minutes ago at Santa Monica Airport.”
Stone switched on the TV. A local channel was on with a banner saying, “Breaking News.” “We now have footage from chopper five on that explosion at Santa Monica Airport. Five hangars are in flames, some of them with aircraft inside.” The camera moved along a row of burning hangars.
