by Stuart Woods
“I immediately took my newborn baby and left New York City, fearing for my life. I moved to a small town in southern New Jersey called Greenwich, where I went to work for a sailmaker, who trained me to sew sails.
“Two years ago I met a retired army master sergeant, and eventually we married and he adopted my son. We bought a house in another town and moved there. Recently, I learned that two men with badges had visited my former employer in Greenwich and were looking for me, and remembering what had happened to Helen Trimble, I became frightened. My family and I have now moved to a location that will remain undisclosed until I feel safe in returning to my home.”
She held up a photograph. “This is a picture of Nelson Knott,” she said, then held up another photograph. “This is a picture of my son, who is now twelve years old. As you can see, he strongly resembles his biological father. He has given a blood sample which may be used to compare my son’s DNA with that of Nelson Knott.” After another minute, the image faded.
Stone took the disc from his computer and buzzed Joan; she came in. He shook the FedEx envelope and a tube, labeled, dated, and identified as Thomas Parker’s blood, fell out. He handed Joan the disc. “Please call Bob Cantor and have him make two hundred and ten copies of this DVD ASAP. When they arrive, put one in each envelope in the wine cellar and the rest in my safe.” He handed her the vial. “Please call my doctor and find out where a DNA profile can be made of this blood and send it there.”
“You betcha,” she said. She took the disc and the vial and went back to her office.
Stone thought for a moment, then called Lance Cabot.
“Yes, Stone?”
“Ed Rawls has located the mother of the twelve-year-old, who is now remarried. I have spirited her, her son, and her husband out of the country, where they will remain until it is safe for them to return.”
“That’s good news. We’ll need to get her interviewed at once.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. She sent me a DVD, on which she relates how she worked as an executive assistant to Nelson Knott, who raped her in his office. She later gave birth to a son, now twelve. She knew the other mother, whose name was Helen Trimble, whose story was much the same as the second mother’s. I am having the DVD duplicated and I will include one with each of Ed Rawls’s books. She also sent me a vial of her son’s blood for DNA purposes, which I am sending out for a profile.”
“That is excellent news,” Lance said.
“Will you find a way to let Will know?”
“I have a meeting in Washington later today, and he will be there.”
“Good. You might discuss with him when would be a good time for me to have the books mailed.”
“Certainly.”
“Lance, you employ a lot of people who are sneaky for a living, do you think one or more of them might contrive to get a DNA sample from Nelson Knott?”
“What a good idea,” Lance said, but he didn’t say he was going to do it. “E-mail me the DVD, and I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
Stone called Ed Rawls.
“Hello, Stone.”
“The family is off,” Stone said. “They’re about halfway across the Atlantic as we speak.”
“Great news.”
“There’s more.” Stone told him about the DVD. “I’ll send it to you.”
“That is fantastic. I wish I’d thought of it.”
“I wish I’d thought of it, too. And,” he said, “she sent a blood sample from her son. I’m sending it out for a DNA profile, and Lance is working on getting a DNA sample from Nelson Knott.”
“Wow! What a great woman!”
“Lance has a meeting with Will today. He’ll get back to me.”
“And you get back to me,” Ed said.
52
ERIK MACHER GOT BACK TO his office, switched on his computer, and brought up his aircraft tracking software. He found the Gulfstream, identified by its tail number, halfway across the Atlantic. He estimated the distance to Brussels and calculated that the flight would land at about ten PM, European time. He called his contact in Brussels and conveyed that information to him.
Brussels? Why Brussels? It seemed an unlikely place to hide a family, but perhaps that was reason enough to choose it. He set his iPhone alarm to warn him when the aircraft would be approaching Brussels. It was very important that the family be intercepted and followed at the airport, because once in the city, they might be impossible to find.
—
AT EIGHT-THIRTY PM his alarm chimed, and he went back to the tracking software to recalculate the Gulfstream’s landing time. Its tail number was nowhere to be seen. He rebooted the software and looked again; the aircraft was not on the line between its former mid-Atlantic position and Brussels. He felt a rising wave of panic; if he lost these people St. Clair would kill him.
Then he saw the tail number, not over the English Channel, where he would have expected it, but over southern England. He got out an aeronautical chart of the area and put the position of the airplane between the Bournemouth and Southampton airports, headed west. He watched as the aircraft made a 180-degree turn back to the east, and a couple of minutes later it stopped moving. That was impossible; the airplane couldn’t hover, and there was no airport where it had landed. You didn’t put down an aircraft of that size on a grass strip somewhere; you needed pavement, and a lot of it, if you ever planned to take off again.
He continued to stare at the symbol, and perhaps ten minutes later it began to move again, very slowly. It was taxiing back to the west end of what must be a runway for takeoff. Sure enough, as he watched it picked up speed and left, turning toward the Channel. Clearly, the family had been dropped off in an area with no airport.
He brought up the opposition research file on Stone Barrington and looked for a connection with England. There it was: he owned a house called Windward Hall, on land just south of the village of Beaulieu. He Googled Windward Hall and found a history of the house, including the information that, during World War II, British Bomber Command had had a base on the property, with a seven-thousand-foot runway. It had been used mainly for intelligence and surveillance flights, and as a departure point for Special Operations executive agents being parachuted into France. That would have kept it off aeronautical charts; that and camouflage would have made it difficult for the Germans to locate.
He picked up the phone and called Christian St. Clair.
“Yes?”
“It’s Erik. I’ve found the family,” he said. He explained what had happened.
“It’s damned clever of you to figure that out, Erik,” St. Clair said.
“Thank you, sir. How do you want to proceed?”
“You know who to call in my London office,” St. Clair said. “The two of you should assess the situation and take action.”
“How extreme an action?”
“I don’t want them returning to the United States,” St. Clair said. “And I don’t want them making calls to people in the States. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Macher said. It was late in London; he looked up the cell phone number of his counterpart there and made the call.
—
THE GULFSTREAM SET down gently on the runway at Windward Hall, rolled down the runway, then taxied back to the ramp in front of the hangar. The pilots shut down the left engine, and the flight attendant opened the forward door and dropped it into place as an airstair.
The Parkers gathered their things, and when they reached the tarmac a Land Rover pulled up and loaded their luggage. A man in the front passenger seat got out and came toward them. “I’m Major Bugg,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Windward Hall.”
As they got into the vehicle the left engine of the airplane restarted, and the big jet began taxiing back to the end of the runway.
“You’re being
housed in Chestnut Cottage,” Bugg said to the family. “It has three bedrooms, and you may decide which of them you wish to use.”
They drove along a dark road, made a turn, and pulled up before the cottage. Two men in dark clothing walked toward them out of the darkness. “These are your security people,” Bugg said, “Dan and Walter.” Everybody shook hands.
“We’ll be working outside the cottage,” Dan said.
The driver handled their luggage, while Bugg escorted them inside. A yellow Labrador retriever welcomed them in the foyer, wagging all over.
“This is Maggie,” Bugg said. “She’s everyone’s favorite dog on the estate. Her food is in the pantry, and she has a cup of food and a biscuit three times a day.”
Tommy and Maggie appeared to already be in love.
They walked into a living room where the lamps were on. Bugg took them from room to room and their luggage was put in the two bedrooms they chose.
“The fridge is stocked, and so is the pantry,” he said. “There’s a laundry room just behind the kitchen, and the bar in the living room has also been stocked.” He showed them how to use the telephone system, which was much like that of a hotel, with buttons for calling various extensions. “I’ll be back at work tomorrow morning at eight, and the kitchen help begin arriving at six.” He handed them some keys. “These are the cottage keys and the key to the car, which is in the garage. Sleep as late as you like—you have no schedule to keep here. You can drive into the village or see the countryside. There are maps in the car and a GPS system, as well. Please let me know tomorrow if you have any questions.”
They all shook hands with him and the major left in the Land Rover.
“Hank,” Marty said, “this is better than home.”
—
“THIS IS ALFRED BRAND,” a voice said.
“Alf, it’s Erik Macher. We met when you were in New York last time.”
“Ah, yes, Erik. I’ve had a text from the chief that you would call and to give you every assistance. What’s up?”
“A family of three has arrived in the south of England this evening, from the United States,” Macher said. “In short, the chief doesn’t want them to return.”
“Ah, yes. How do you wish to handle it?”
“I wish you to handle it,” Macher said, “since I’m in the United States. I can’t be of much help there, I’m afraid.”
“What is the time frame?”
“As soon as possible, but not so hurried that mistakes are made.”
“Where are they?”
“At a country house called Windward Hall, south of Beaulieu, in Hampshire.”
“I know the area, but not the house.”
“Neither do I. I should think your first move would be to reconnoiter the place and determine their exact location.”
“Does the chief have a means in mind?”
“Well, he doesn’t want them shot in the head.”
“An accident, then?”
“I think that would be best.”
“Do they have a car?”
“I don’t know. This operation is a clean sheet of paper. Reconnoiter, then get back to me with questions or a plan.” Macher gave him his cell number. “Please remember that it’s five hours earlier here than where you are. No middle-of-the-night calls, except in an emergency.” He gave the man the names and descriptions.
“I’ll have people there by dawn to take a look at the situation,” Brand said. “Can I have a week to get it done?”
“Let me know your schedule tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that.” He hung up.
Macher hung up, too, glad not to have to deal with the operation himself.
53
STONE HAD A CALL the following day from Major Bugg, reporting that the family was settled in and comfortable.
“Is security in place?” Stone asked.
“Two men, armed. They’ll work shifts, and there will always be two on duty.”
“Thank you, Major.”
—
SHORTLY, Ed Rawls called.
“Good morning, Ed.”
“Good morning, Stone. How’d the transfer go?”
“I’ve just had a call. They’re comfortable and happy, and security is on the job.”
“Good. I’ve had a call myself, and it’s disturbing. The next-door neighbor of the Parkers in Cape May called to say that two vehicles were watching the place very early yesterday morning, around five-thirty AM—a gray van and a black sedan.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Exactly. The Strategic Services car arrived just before six and pulled into the garage, as planned. It left ten minutes later and both the van and the sedan made U-turns and followed. I think they must have followed them all the way to Teterboro, and if they did, they probably got a look at the airplane’s registration number, and if they got that, they could use tracking software to follow it to a landing.”
“That’s okay, Ed. The crew filed for Brussels, then, when they were in British airspace, they would have requested a new destination to my property.”
“Stone, that software works as well over land as over sea, unless the pilot was clever enough to turn off his transponder before making the turn for England.”
“No, he wouldn’t have done that. ATC would have been all over him—that’s how they track flights.”
“Then we’re faced with the distinct possibility that St. Clair’s people know about where it landed.”
“There’s no airport there on the aeronautical charts.”
“But they would see the airplane stop moving, then start again.”
“Well, shit.”
“I know how you feel, but you’d better tighten security over there.”
“I’ll get on it, Ed.” The two men hung up.
—
ALF BRAND WENT online and found a satellite photograph of Windward Hall, which showed the main house and all the outbuildings. This was bad; these people could be in the main house or any one of the half-dozen cottages he could see. Clearly, this was going to be an on-the-belly-in-the-grass operation. He rousted four of his men out of their beds and put them on the alert, setting a meeting at a country pub south of Beaulieu at noon, then he packed some clothes and a weapons bag and got into his car, a dark green Range Rover.
Two hours later, he was climbing over a stone wall and onto the Windward Hall estate. He had chosen a wooded area to breach the wall and he sparingly used a pinpoint flashlight to make his way through the trees toward the main house. He wanted to get a close-up view of every cottage on the place before believing they were in the big house.
The woods ended thirty yards from the largest, southernmost cottage, and a single light burned in what was probably the living room. Brand sat down and leaned against a tree just inside the tree line and dug a sandwich out of his kit. He sat, munching and drinking coffee from a thermos jug while the moon came up.
He finished the sandwich, then used night binoculars to sweep the property. To his surprise, he caught a movement in the moon shadow of the nearest cottage and trained his glasses there. A man sat cross-legged on the ground, leaning against the cottage, eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a thermos jug. A short automatic weapon rested on his lap. “One guard and counting,” Brand muttered to himself. This would be a much simpler job, he reflected, if he could just put a round into that man’s head, then enter the cottage and shoot everybody. Well, at least he knew where the family was sleeping. Nobody would guard an empty cottage.
—
STONE FINALLY GOT Mike Freeman on his cell phone in Brussels.
“Hello, Stone.”
“Hello, Mike.”
“We dropped your people last night, and all was well when I left them.”
“I’m afraid we have a problem. We’ve learned that two vehicl
es followed them from Cape May to Teterboro, and it’s likely that they got the tail number of your airplane and tracked it.”
“That’s bad news,” Mike said. “I think we’re going to have to increase security.”
“My very reason for calling,” Stone said.
“I’ll put six men on each shift—that way they can spread out and have a wider field of fire. I’ll also put two of them inside the cottage.”
“That sounds good.”
“I should think that any attempt would be made after dark.”
“I agree.”
“Then I’ll have everybody in place by nightfall. Is that satisfactory?”
“It is.”
“I’ll give you a ring when everything is complete.”
“Good.” Stone hung up.
—
THE PARKERS SLEPT late; it was eleven o’clock before they were up and dressed.
There was a knock on the front door, and Hank answered it.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker,” one of the guards said. “We’re changing shifts now. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks very much. Say, do you know the area around the estate?”
“I grew up near here.”
“Is there some nice place in the country where we could go for lunch?”
“Yes, there’s a very cozy country pub a couple of miles up the road toward the village. It’s called the Rose & Crown, and the food is very good.”
“That sounds ideal.”
“Just turn right out the gate and you’ll come upon the pub on your left a couple of miles up. A couple of our men will go along and show you the way, then tail you wherever you go.”
“Thanks so much.” Hank went back inside. “How about lunch at a country pub?” he asked his wife and son. They were agreeable.
“Can we take Maggie?” Tommy asked.
“I expect so, the Brits like their dogs.”
—
ALF BRAND ARRIVED at the pub for his meeting at noon. Two of his men were already at a table in a nook by the fireplace, and he joined them. A couple of minutes later, the other two came in and sat down.
