Severe Clear sb-24

by Stuart Woods

  “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.”

  Stuart Woods

  Severe Clear

  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 team 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.

  “I think that may have been one of the two bombs we were looking for,” Stone said.

  “I hope it was,” Holly replied. “And I hope Hamish was standing next to it when it went off.”

  “One to go,” Stone said.

  55

  Kelli Keane left her room and went next door to Hamish McCallister’s suite. There was a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, and when she rang the bell no one answered.

  Where the hell had he gone? Lunch, maybe? She drove her cart down the hill to the garden restaurant and walked through the tables, noting celebrities for her piece and looking for Hamish, but he was nowhere to be found. She got out her cell phone and called The Arrington’s front desk.

  “Good afternoon, The Arrington. How may I help you?”

  “Please ring the suite of Mr. Hamish McCallister, and please stay on the line if he doesn’t answer.”

  “Of course,” the woman said. The number began ringing. “I’m sorry, there’s no answer from that suite.”

  “Has Mr. McCallister checked out?”

  “One moment… No, he’s not due to check out until tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Kelli hung up and immediately her cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Hi, it’s Hamish. I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Same here. Where are you?”

  “On my way to London, I’m afraid. Why don’t you join me? You’ll have to hurry, though, my flight leaves in forty minutes.”

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got to work the concert tonight with the photographers. It’s important to my piece, and I’m going to want more work from this magazine.”

  “I understand. Kelli, I have to give you some serious advice, but what I’m going to tell you is completely confidential. Is that agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “There is very likely going to be a serious disruption at the hotel sometime this evening. Skip the concert and get the next flight back to New York. Do you understand?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Leave the hotel. Got it?”

  “I’ve got it, I guess.”

  “I’ll call you from London next week, and we’ll reschedule. Good-bye, love.”

  “Good-bye.” Kelli hung up. What the hell was he talking about?

  Holly sat nervously with Stone, Mike, and Steve Rifkin, waiting for the results of the search. Rifkin’s phone rang.

  “Steve Rifkin.” He listened for a moment, then hung up. “Nothing,” he said. “No Hamish McCallister.”

  Holly thought for a moment. “Do an airline search for his name,” she said. “All flights departing for Europe.”

  Mike Freeman spoke up. “I can do that faster than you can, Steve.” He made a call. “I’m on hold while they check,” he said. “Yes? Thank you very much.” He hung up.

  “There’s a Hamish McCallister traveling to London on BA 106, nonstop to London Heathrow. Departed eight minutes ago.”

  “Shit!” Holly said.

  “You’ve got ten hours to arrange a reception committee for Mr. McCallister at Heathrow.”

  “I don’t want him in London, we’d have to deal with the Home Office bureaucracy.”

  Mike turned to Steve. “You must know somebody who can divert that flight to an American airport,” he said. “And you’d better get it done before that aircraft crosses the Canadian border,” Mike pointed out.

  Steve got out his cell phone and called his director in Washington. He explained himself as quickly as he could, then asked that the flight be diverted to JFK on the excuse of mechanical trouble. There was some back-and-forth, then he hung up and put away his phone. “He’s going to get the flight diverted,” Steve said. “The only problem is, we’ve got to get the FBI involved.”

  “Too bad,” Stone said. “That’s always a complication.”

  “Yes,” Rifkin replied. “I hate it, but it’s a jurisdictional thing.”

  Stone turned to Holly. “What are you going to do with him when you have him?”

  “Good question,” Holly said. “I’ll need
to talk with my director.” She left Stone’s cottage and went next door to the presidential cottage. She found the first lady in the living room talking to Felicity Devonshire.

  “Oh, Holly,” Kate Lee said, “I was about to call you. Sit down with us, and let’s talk about Hamish McCallister.”

  Holly sat down. “Hamish is on a flight from LAX to London as we speak.”

  “Then I’d better mobilize my people,” Felicity said.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. The Secret Service is arranging to have the flight diverted to JFK on some maintenance excuse. The FBI will pick him up there.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Kate said.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry we couldn’t detain him here, it would have been easier. The question now is, once the FBI has him in New York, what do we do with him?”

  “The same thing we were going to do with him before,” Kate said.

  “With the FBI involved?”

  Kate stood up. “Excuse me a moment, I think I know somebody who can get the FBI uninvolved.” She left them and went upstairs.

  Felicity sighed. “This would have been a lot easier if you had just kidnapped him in London.”

  Holly laughed. “Would that have been your preference?”

  “I’d have been happy to have him off our hands,” Felicity said.

  Ten minutes later, Kate returned. “All right,” she said, “the FBI is off the case. Holly, you call Langley and get a crew out to JFK to greet the gentleman. Have them remove him to our East Side facility in the city and locked down, no conversation with anybody. I’ll have further instructions for them when they have him secured there.”

  Holly excused herself, went into the study, and called Lance Cabot.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Holly.”

  “Good day, Holly. I trust you’re enjoying the California sunshine. Everyone here hates you for being there.”

  “Thanks so much. The director asked me to call you with some instructions.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s a passenger aboard British Airways Flight 106 from LAX to Heathrow, departed LAX about twenty minutes ago. The flight is going to be diverted to JFK, and the director would like for you to assemble a team and transportation and meet that flight. There’s a passenger named Hamish McCallister aboard.”