Hot Pursuit (12 page)

MILLIE GOT BACK
to the White House after lunch and found Holly in the mess.

“How’d your fabulous lunch go?” Holly asked.

Millie sat down and told her about what Lev Epstein had said.

“So we have a suspect. Lev Epstein identified a likely man who was an assistant professor in the economics department and knows a lot about the Middle East oil industry. He never knew the man’s name, but I tracked it down through the department office: Jacob Riis. That’s almost certainly made up. It’s the name of a famous journalist, social activist, and photographer from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. That’s a good start. How do you want to proceed?”

“I think we should kick it right back to Lev Epstein,” Millie said. “He’s got the manpower on the coast to run this down, and we don’t want to appear ungrateful for his help.”

“All right, call him and tell him that, before the day is out, the president will call the director and request his counterintelligence unit to identify and locate Mr. Jacob Riis.”

“Perfect,” Millie said.

“And tell him to copy us on all his reports.”

“Will do.” Millie ran back to her desk and called Quentin Phillips.

“Special Agent Phillips.”

“It’s Millie.”

“Hi there.”

“The president will call your director today and ask for your unit to be put on finding Jacob Riis. By the way, you know that’s not his name, don’t you?”

“If it were, he’d be a very old man. How about dinner tonight?”

“Not a bad idea, but I’ll have to call you back when I see what the rest of the day is like. Where?”

“Your place?”

“Nah.”

“My place?”

“All right, my place, but you have to bring food or have it delivered.”

“What time?”

“Seven-thirty, subject to later confirmation.”

“Great!”

“Now go tell Lev he’s on the case. It’ll make you look good if he hears it from you before he hears it from the director.”

“Done. See you at seven-thirty, subject to confirmation.”

Quentin walked quickly down to Epstein’s office. “Please tell him I need to see him,” he said to the secretary, Betty.

She buzzed her boss and got him admitted. “Why is he seeing you, instead of your supervisor?” she asked Quentin.

“It looks like I may be reporting directly on this one.”

“I’m impressed,” she said.

Quentin found Epstein tapping away at his computer. He took a seat and waited.

“Okay,” Epstein said, “what now?”

“The president is calling the director requesting counterintelligence to handle Mr. Riis.”

“I figured,” Epstein replied. “You know that’s not his name, don’t you?”

“I know who Jacob Riis was.”

Epstein’s secretary buzzed. “The director, on line one.”

He picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, Director.”

He listened, nodding to himself. “Yes, sir, I understand. Special Agent Quentin Phillips, a Harvard man.” He listened some more. “Right away, Director. Good day, sir.” He hung up. And turned to Quentin.

“Betty has a ticket to San Francisco and a travel voucher for you. You’re on an early plane tomorrow. Take the night off and collect your reward from Ms. Martindale. The AIC out there will assign a couple of rookies to you. I want to know who and where Jacob Riis is. Get out.”

“Yes, sir!” Quentin replied, bolting for the door. “How did you know—”

“I said get out.”

As he passed out the door, Betty held out an envelope for him. “Good luck,” she said, then went back to her computer.

Quentin glanced at his watch as he ran back to his desk. He had time to pack and get to Millie’s place; he could leave for the airport from there. The phone was ringing as he reached his cubicle. Millie confirmed.

—

MILLIE GOT HOME
at six, an unheard-of hour for her. She vacuumed, dusted, and changed the sheets and washed three days of dirty dishes, then she showered, washed her hair, and put on a short dress, not bothering with underwear. She filled the ice bucket with cubes and sat down to wait. Her doorbell buzzed. He was not late. She opened the door to find him holding a suitcase and a briefcase.

“Going somewhere?”

“To dinner,” he said, brushing past her and setting down his load. “The food will be here in half an hour. Can I have a drink, please?”

“Sure, what’ll it be?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “That, first,” he said, “then scotch, rocks.” He kissed her again.

“So what’s the luggage for? I hope you don’t think you’re moving in.”

“Just for the night,” he said. “I’ve got a seven
AM
flight for San Francisco, car coming at five.” He tried to kiss her again, but she fended him off with his drink.

“Take a slug of that and sit down,” she said, pointing at the sofa, then poured herself a scotch and sat down beside him. “So you’re on the case, then?”

“I’m in charge of it. They’ve assigned two agents to me out there. This is one hell of a break for me, Millie, and I have you to thank for it.”

“You certainly do,” she said, “and don’t you forget it.”

They were halfway through their drinks when the doorbell rang. Quentin answered it and traded some cash for two large paper bags of food. “I hope you like Chinese,” he said, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Love it,” she said. “Have a seat at the table, and I’ll make it look like I cooked it.”

—

WHEN THEY HAD FINISHED,
Quentin made short work of her dress, which she had counted on, and they flailed about in the throes of first-time sex for the better part of an hour.

When they had caught their breath and her head was on his shoulder, she said, “I hope you don’t think we’re going to make a regular thing of this.”

“Not unless you can get loose to come to San Francisco,” he said. “If not, then you’ll have to wait until I’m back for it to become a regular thing.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to manage San Francisco,” she said. “I’m too new to the job.”

“Then I guess it’ll have to be phone sex,” he said, kissing her and rolling over on top of her.

THREE THOUSAND MILES
and a big time change away, Stone and Pat were using their time well, at least until room service interrupted them by turning up with breakfast. They managed to climax everything just in time for the knock on the door.

“The front desk has booked you a cab in ninety minutes,” the waiter said, putting the tray and a paper bag with their sandwiches on the bed, then retreating.

They breakfasted greedily, showered, packed, and were downstairs with the bill already paid when the cab turned up. Half an hour later Stone sat in the cockpit, running through the checklist while the fuel truck did its work and Pat filed their flight plan. By the time she got in and closed and locked the cabin door, Stone had his clearance from the tower and had one engine running. Now he started the other. He listened to the latest recorded weather, then asked for a taxi clearance. Five minutes later they were climbing to flight level 410 and headed toward an invisible intersection halfway to Scotland.

At noon, local time, they ate their sandwiches and settled down for the last hour of the flight. Scotland was under its permanent national cloud cover, but Stone sighted land on the synthetic vision display. “Land, ho!” he said.

“I knew you were going to say that,” Pat replied.

“It’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”

“Only if you’re on a boat.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

They passed over the northern coast of Scotland a few miles from the closest airport, Stornoway, and they were handed over to Scottish ATC. The controller, for reasons Stone could not fathom, seemed to have an Italian accent. With ten minutes left on their three-hour flight plan they passed Birmingham and were given vectors to the Instrument Landing System at Coventry, but they popped out of a cloud with the airport in sight and made a visual approach.

Stone set down on the six-thousand-foot runway and came to a stop, but he couldn’t see a taxiway.

“There’s no taxiway,” Pat said.

He spoke to the tower and was told to reverse-taxi to the first exit, and when he did so, he found a small group of people waiting on the ramp, among them a large man leaning against a Jaguar XJ sedan. The Mustang they had been seeing along the way was parked on the ramp with nobody aboard.

“That’s my client Johnny MacDee,” Pat said, nodding toward the man with the car. “You’ll like him.”

Stone liked him immediately; he was warm, bluff, and welcoming. Pat made the introductions. “Where’s your airplane?” Pat asked.

“My CJ4 arrived this morning at the Citation Service Center at Doncaster, north of here, for the pre-buy inspection,” he said. “It’s going to be there for a week or so. I’m sorry for the delay,” Johnny said, “so by way of apology, I’ve arranged for you to stay in the Jaguar suite at the Taj Hotel, in Buckingham Gate, London. You’ve already cleared customs.” The driver of the car got out. “This is Tony Ridgeway, who will be your driver while you’re here. If you want to get out of town, you can ditch him and take the car. I’ll keep you posted on the progress of the inspection, and, Stone, the folks here will hangar your airplane while you’re here, if you like.”

“I certainly like,” Stone said. He unloaded their luggage, Tony put it into the Jaguar, and after turning off the airplane’s battery and installing the engine covers, they were on their way to London, with Tony driving swiftly and smoothly through the English countryside.

—

IN LONDON
they drove past Buckingham Palace and down a street into a central courtyard, surrounded by the hotel. Stone didn’t know the Taj; he usually stayed at the Connaught, but when they were shown into the Jaguar suite, he didn’t mind the change. They had two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen, and study, all of it filled with Jaguar mementos. Their butler, Sergio, explained that Jaguar owned the hotel, and that the company’s design department had decorated the suite.

Stone’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You alive?”

“Don’t I sound alive?”

“How was the transatlantic?”

“A piece of cake. I had a good copilot.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll be at the Connaught.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Stone said. “Cancel the Connaught, and when you arrive, tell your driver to take you to the Taj Hotel, in Buckingham Gate. We’ve got a large suite. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Whatever you say, pal. I always unquestioningly accept your recommendations of hotels and restaurants.”

“Is Viv going to fly back with us?”

“No, she’s staying in London for ten days, doing some work for Strategic Services.” Dino’s wife, Viv, was a retired police detective, now an executive of the second-largest security company in the world. “I’m going to be here for the better part of a week, too, meeting with various security people in the government. If you have to be back soon, you’ll have to fly home alone.”

“I don’t need that. I’m good for a week here, anyway.”

“See you the day after tomorrow, then,” Dino said, and hung up.

—

THAT EVENING,
Tony drove Stone and Pat to Langan’s Brasserie, an old favorite of his. The place was as crowded as ever, and Stone insisted that Pat order the spinach soufflé as a first course, which came with hollandaise sauce flavored with anchovy.

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like it,” Pat said. “Good choice.” They both had the Dover sole and a good bottle of white burgundy. The only distraction was from a drunk at the other end of the restaurant who was singing, dancing, trying to disrobe, and, in general, making an ass of himself. Finally, the management came to his table and, apparently, requested his immediate absence; he was shepherded out of the restaurant by two men from his table, followed by the rest of his party.

“That’s a relief,” Stone said. “I feel sorry for the people at the adjacent tables.”

“I know the guy,” Pat said. “His name is Paul Reeves, and he’s the owner of the Mustang we’ve been seeing in our travels. I’m just glad he didn’t see me.”

“I’m glad, too.”

“I have another reason for being glad,” Pat said. “One of the two men who got him out of the restaurant was Kevin Keyes.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said.

“Who do we call about that?”

“Hang on a minute.” Stone got up and walked quickly from the restaurant. As he came out the front door a large, old Daimler limousine drove away from the curb, down the block, and turned a corner.

Stone went back inside and called Robert Miller.

“Miller.”

“It’s Stone Barrington, Bob. I’ve just seen Kevin Keyes.”

“Great! Where?”

“In Stratton Street, London.”

“London, Ontario?”

“London, England. He just drove away with a man named Paul Reeves, an American, who was roaring drunk and got thrown out of a restaurant.”

“This I hadn’t expected,” Miller said. “I haven’t issued any international bulletins.”

“Keyes may have arrived in England in Reeves’s Citation Mustang. They were flying the same route we were, but a little ahead of us. I’m afraid I don’t remember the tail number.”

“I’ll get on it right away. Thanks, Stone.” He hung up.

“That’s all we can do,” Stone said to Pat.

“At least he doesn’t know we’re in London,” she said.

“Maybe it’s time to get out of London,” Stone replied.

QUENTIN PHILLIPS ARRIVED
at the San Francisco FBI office and was immediately admitted to the office of the agent in charge, who awaited him with two young agents.

“Welcome to San Francisco,” the AOC said. “These are special agents Peter Egan and Annie Rogers, who will be helping you. You’re booked into the Fairmont Hotel, a couple of blocks from here, and I’ve put a car at your disposal. Why don’t you go get checked in and have some lunch, then you can drive out to Berkeley.”

“Yes, sir,” Quentin replied.

“Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“Yes, sir. You could have someone from the office telephone the head of the economics department over there and make an appointment for me to see him this afternoon.”

“Certainly. I’ll take care of that.”

—

QUENTIN SHOWERED
and had a club sandwich from room service, then went downstairs and got into the backseat of his loaned Crown Victoria. Peter Egan was driving, and Annie Rogers was riding shotgun.

“Okay,” Quentin said, “anybody got any idea where the University of California at Berkeley is?”

“I got my law degree there,” Annie said. “We’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so, depending on traffic.”

Forty minutes later they parked in a campus lot and walked to Evans Hall and the Department of Economics. After a trip up in the elevator and a short wait, they were ushered into the office of the head of the department, Dr. David Schmidt.

Quentin introduced his group, and they all displayed their credentials.

“Please have a seat over here,” Schmidt said, waving them to a seating area, then joining them. “It’s been a long time since this department has had a visit from the FBI,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“We’re seeking information on and the whereabouts of a Jacob Riis—no relation to the journalist—who we believe taught in this department some years back.”

“Ah, yes,” Schmidt said. “That was the last time we had a visit from the FBI.”

“Can you recall the circumstances?” Quentin asked.

“Only as a spectator,” Schmidt replied. “I was too junior to be directly involved. I was an assistant professor at the time, and I came back from my summer break and was introduced to Dr. Riis—or so he called himself. He had been hired as an adjunct professor to teach a class on the economics of Mideast crude oil production, I believe. No one had ever heard of him, but he looked good, especially on paper, and I assume his credentials had been checked, and he made friends easily. He was handsome, charming, well dressed, and seemed to know his subject. Our department head at the time, who is now deceased, was particularly taken with him, and it seemed that he had a future in this department, perhaps even in the university at large.”

“How long was he here?” Quentin asked.

“Until the middle of the spring semester,” Schmidt said. “Then one day he didn’t show up for his class.”

“Was he ill?”

“I don’t know, he just wasn’t here. Dr. Fineman, the department head, had his secretary make inquiries, and someone was sent to his home to see if he was all right. His apartment, in a seedy neighborhood, was uninhabited, and there was no sign that anyone had lived there recently. Dr. Fineman—I got all this from his secretary later—called the police, concerned that he might have come to harm. After a few days they reported back that Dr. Jacob Riis did not exist, at least under that name. The information on his employment application, his academic record and degrees, and his references were either fiction or just lies. Everyone was baffled.”

“Had some incident that might have disturbed Riis occurred? Had anyone come looking for him?”

“No, nothing. In fact, he had had dinner with Dr. Fineman at the faculty club the evening before, and they had parted on cordial terms.”

“To your knowledge, had anyone contacted Dr. Fineman concerning Riis, or had any information emerged about his background?”

“I don’t know,” Schmidt said. “His secretary still works here, though, as head of departmental personnel. She hires and supervises non-academic employees. Would you like to speak to her?”

“Very much so,” Quentin said.

“Give me a moment.” Schmidt went to his desk and made a phone call, then returned. “Her name is Margaret Shames. She’s just down the hall—she’ll be here momentarily.”

A middle-aged woman in a business suit entered the office carrying a file folder, was introduced, and took a chair.

“I’ve been wondering for years if and when someone from your office would turn up.”

“Didn’t the FBI visit the department after Dr. Riis disappeared?” Schmidt asked.

“For about five minutes. They said to file a missing persons report with the local police, and we did that, but nothing came of it.” She placed the file folder on the coffee table. “This is Dr. Riis’s personnel file,” she said. “I made a copy for you.”

Quentin opened the file and glanced through it.

“I know,” Shames said, “it seems perfectly straightforward, even mundane, but then, Dr. Riis didn’t have long to establish a record of working here.”

“Ms. Shames,” Quentin said, “who was in charge of vetting Dr. Riis after he applied for employment here?”

“I was,” she said. “I sent out requests for his academic records and letters to his references, and they all came back seeming authentic.” She paused for a moment, seeming to remember something. “There was something odd, though,” she said.

“What was that?”

“It is my recollection—I had completely forgotten this—that his records and his references came back to us in a single packet that was delivered about a week after my letters went out.”

“Do you remember where the packet came from?”

“No, it was delivered by messenger, I think, in a plain file folder.”

“Didn’t you think that odd at the time?”

“I did, but I was overwhelmed with work at the time, and I never thought to tell anyone or investigate further. His academic record was excellent and his references glowing.”

Quentin looked through the references. “Are these fictitious?”

“Not the names—they were all established educators at various institutions. With hindsight, though, their recommendations were fictitious.”

“May I have the original of this file and leave the copy with you?” Quentin asked.

“I suppose so, if it’s all right with Dr. Schmidt.”

“Perfectly all right,” he responded.

“Dr. Schmidt, did you have any sort of personal relationship with Dr. Riis?”

“Not really. I had lunch with him two or three times in our cafeteria, but that’s it.”

“Did he ever reveal anything of himself during those lunches?”

Dr. Schmidt closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate. “He liked cars,” he said finally. “Fast cars. He always had an auto magazine with him, and he talked about Ferraris and Aston Martins. He also seemed to like wristwatches. He never seemed to wear the same one two days in a row, and they were all expensive—Cartiers, Rolexes, that sort of thing. That’s about it.”

“You said he wore expensive clothes. Did you ever chance to see a label in a jacket, or anything like that?”

“No, but with hindsight, I would say that they were tailor-made, not off the rack, as they say. They fit him perfectly, and the fabrics didn’t look like those that anyone I knew wore. I didn’t think much of it—lots of people have family money or independent means. Still, he had awfully good taste.”

“You said he liked cars: Did you ever see what he drove?”

Schmidt thought about it. “No, I don’t think I ever saw him drive or get into or out of a car.”

“Any references to his background? Family?”

“I believe he said he was from Los Angeles. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.”

Margaret Shames left the room, came back with the original file, and exchanged it for the copy she had given Quentin.

On the way back in the car, Quentin looked through the file again, then handed it to Annie. “Send this to the lab and have it checked out—paper types, ink, watermarks—anything they can come up with.”

“Sure thing,” Annie said.