Hot Pursuit (16 page)

MILLIE WALKED OUT
of the Connaught with Holly, and they turned up Mount Street, with its elegant shops.

“Pity there’s no time for shopping,” she said.

“Maybe later,” Holly replied.

“Are we going on with the president to Paris, Berlin, and Rome?” Millie asked.

“Would you like that?”

“I wouldn’t mind, but I think I might be of more use here, working with MI6.”

“You have a point,” Holly said. “I have to stick with her, since I came along to consult as we traveled, but you’re running out of things to do for her.”

“I’ve felt that.”

They walked up South Audley Street to the embassy and entered through the rear door, showing ID, even though the guards knew them by now. Holly led the way to a different elevator at the north end of the building. She ran her White House ID through a scanner to summon the car, and to Millie’s surprise, they went down a couple of floors before getting off.

When they did there was a door ahead of them marked “No Entry.” Holly ran her ID through the scanner again; there was a clicking noise and the door opened half an inch. “Follow me,” she said, pushing the door open.

Millie found herself in a suite of offices that did not resemble those on the upper floors of the building. They were smaller, dingier, and less decorated, and there were no windows. Holly led her down the hallway to a corner office and rapped on the door, looking up at a camera screwed to the wall. There was another click.

“Come in, Holly,” a deep male voice said.

They went into the room and Millie was surprised to find that the big voice belonged to a pale, skinny man wearing black glasses. “Heard you were in town,” he said, standing up to shake her hand.

“Bill, this is my colleague Millicent Martindale. Millie, this is Bill French.”

Millie shook his hand and accepted the gesture offering them seats.

“What’s up?” Bill asked.

“We’ve both been traveling with the president on this trip, but we’re also working on something with MI6.”

“And what would that be?”

“It’s not passing through the station,” Holly said.

Bill nodded sagely, as if that were neither unexpected nor a bad idea.

“I’m going on to the continent with the president, but Millie is going to stay in London to work with Felicity’s crowd and liaise with the FBI—in D.C., not here.”

Bill nodded again. “You need anything?”

“Do you have a vacant office where Millie could camp for a while?”

“I’ve got an officer on maternity leave—she gave birth last night. Millie could sit there, after we’ve swept it clean.”

“Thanks, Bill, that’s very good of you.”

Bill picked up the phone and pressed a button. “It’s Bill,” he said. “Please thoroughly clean and secure Vanessa’s office, ASAP,” he said. “We’re going to have a guest with us for a while.” He listened for a reply. “Thanks.” He hung up. “Half an hour,” he said. “Would you two like some coffee while you wait?”

“Sure,” Holly said. “Both black.”

Bill got up, opened a cabinet door, and came back with two steaming mugs. “How’s life at the White House, Holly?”

“Very interesting, but a little crazy.”

“Do you miss the New York station?”

“Every time I request something and have to explain why.”

“I know what you mean. How’s the living in D.C.?”

“I got lucky with an apartment in Georgetown. It was easy to secure. The owner is ex-military and has an antique shop downstairs. The apartment was his, until he moved into a house.”

“You wouldn’t believe what the housing prices are like here. The city has been ruined for regular folks. Everything’s a zillion dollars. I heard a big-time movie star wanted to buy a flat here—nothing terribly special—and the price was fourteen million pounds.”

“That’s pretty breathtaking,” Holly replied. “Who has that much?”

“Arabs and Russians. The Arabs have been around forever, but who knew there would suddenly be Russian billionaires?”

“How about schools?”

“That’s pretty easy for us, with the embassy doing the looking. As long as the kids can cut it, they’re in. My boy is at Harrow, the girl is at Lady Eden’s. They’re going to have to learn to talk American again when they get home, or they’ll be beaten up daily.”

“I was an army brat,” Holly said, “so it was pretty easy for me. Every time we moved, all I had to do was either talk southern or talk Yankee, depending.”

Bill’s phone rang, and he picked it up. “Yeah? Thanks.”

He hung up again and got up. “Come on, I’ll walk you down there.” A few yards down the hall Bill stopped at a cubicle and spoke to a middle-aged woman. “Hey, Tip,” he said. “This is Holly Barker and your sublet, Millie Martindale.”

Tip shook both their hands. “The place is clean,” she said, handing Millie a key card. “I’ll help you with whatever you need—don’t hesitate to ask. I’ve got time on my hands with Vanessa out.”

“Thanks, Tip. What’s the name short for?”

“Tatania—everybody here thinks it’s too Russian.”

Millie laughed.

“Millie’s clearance is White House,” Bill said to her.

“Got it.”

“Right there,” Bill said to Millie, pointing. “I’ll leave you to it.” He walked back toward his office.

Millie went to the door and unlocked it with her key card, then entered a room larger than what she had expected. She sat down at the desk. “No computer,” she said.

“They’ve locked that up. Ask for a fresh one—better yet, use your laptop. Some things you should know: if you want to receive phone calls from outside, use your cell. Anybody who calls the embassy switchboard will be told they’ve never heard of you. Your White House ID will unlock secure doors and elevators. You can make outgoing calls on your desk phone. There’s a decent cafeteria in the building—Tip will direct you. You never bring anybody down here, of course.”

“What about FBI?”

“Is Quentin coming to London?”

“Who knows?”

“If you want to bring anybody down here—on business—give his name and affiliation to Tip, and she’ll get him in the computer, just as I did for you. If you want to meet with somebody who’s not cleared, ask Tip to get you a room upstairs. The key card she gave you will work there. By the way, don’t lose that card—replacing it is a genuine pain in the ass, and you may be locked out of your office for a few hours.”

“I can imagine.”

“When you leave the station your office will automatically lock for everybody but you and Tip.”

“Can I call on Bill for file searches and technical assistance?”

“You can call on Tip for everything. She’ll get the necessary permissions. Try not to ask Bill for help, unless it’s something Tip can’t handle, then don’t hesitate to ask.”

Millie nodded.

“Do you have any experience with firearms?”

“I grew up hunting with my father. I’ve had a forty-hour handgun course at SigArms, in New Hampshire.”

“Ask Tip to get you a weapon. There’s a range downstairs.”

“After yesterday, I think I’ll do that.”

“I took pains to see that your name wasn’t mentioned in the press reports of yesterday’s incident. That will help, but it’s possible you’ve been seen with me, like during our stroll over here this morning. Tip can always get you a car and driver—don’t be shy about asking, even when you leave the hotel in the evening. Request light armor—that means doors and glass, it won’t protect you from a large bomb.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Felicity has assigned an MI6 officer who will be your contact with her and her organization, generally. Do everything through him.” She handed Millie a card. “His name is Ian Rattle.”

Millie nodded.

“When I leave tomorrow, you can move into my suite—it’s leased by our government. If somebody more important than you—that’s almost anybody—wants a room, you’ll be moved, probably back to the room you’re in now. The suite is secure—reinforced outer walls and armored glass. There will always be those who don’t like us.”

“I understand.”

Holly looked at her watch. “I’ve got to see the president. If you want to do some shopping, now would be a good time. I’ll see you around six for drinks in the suite, then dinner?”

“That’s fine.”

“Have a nice day,” Holly said, then left.

Millie gave her five minutes to clear the building, then picked up the phone and pressed a button with Tip’s name on it.

“Yes, Millie?”

“Could you find me a weapon? Something light and concealable, maybe a .380?”

“Ten minutes,” Tip replied.

“And can you please get me a car and driver, light armor?”

“Twenty minutes, out back,” Tip said, then hung up.

BEFORE DINNER
Stone called Dino’s cell.

“Hey there.”

“How’s your trip going, Dino?”

“Pretty well. I’m wrapped up, more or less, or will be by tomorrow afternoon.”

“How about Viv?”

“She’s got a meeting on Monday—nothing until then.”

“Good. Why don’t you meet us tomorrow night at Cliveden? It’s a country house hotel near a village called Taplow, in Berkshire—an hour’s drive from London.”

“I guess we can do that. Are you and I flying from there?”

“From Coventry, an hour’s drive north of the hotel. Book us a two-bedroom suite for two nights. The concierge will do it for you and get you a car and driver.”

“Hang on.” Dino covered the phone and conversed with his wife, then came back. “You’re on,” he said.

“Dino, did you come over here armed?”

“Nope, didn’t figure I’d need it. Have you got some reason to believe I might? Or you might?”

“Forget it. I’ll explain when I see you. No need to call back, unless the hotel is fully booked or there’s some other problem.”

“See you tomorrow.” Dino hung up.

—

THEY WENT DOWN
for drinks at seven-thirty and were greeted with a smile by the restaurant manager. “Good evening, Mr. Barrington. You’ll be happy to know that Mr. Reeves and his companion checked out this afternoon.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Stone replied. “Was there a third person in his party?”

“Yes, a gentleman he described as his pilot. We were fully booked, so we put him in a B&B up the road and loaned him our Land Rover to get around.”

“Ah, that explains a lot. Tell me, when did Mr. Reeves book in here?”

“The day before yesterday,” the man replied. “He asked if we knew where you were headed next—said he wanted to avoid running into you again. I didn’t know what to tell him.”

“Telling him nothing was just fine.”

“May I get you something to drink?”

Stone placed their order, and they found a seat by the fireplace.

“What were you and the manager talking about?” Pat asked.

“Paul Reeves. He booked into here the day before yesterday, same day I did, and Keyes came with him. They didn’t have room for him in the house and put him in a nearby B&B.”

“So it was Kevin that was shooting at us today?”

“Shooting near us.”

“Near enough for me.”

“Pat, tell me everything you know about Reeves, and please don’t leave anything out.”

She took a sip of her drink. “I’ve told you how I know him.”

“And now I want to know what you know
about
him.”

“When we met he described himself as an entrepreneur,” she said. “I don’t know about all his interests, but I do know he has some sort of electronics company and that it has to do with security equipment. He also mentioned cattle and oil. It’s hard to pin down somebody like him.”

“What did he mean, exactly, by ‘security equipment’?”

“I’m not sure—that was his description.”

“Would it include surveillance equipment?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure he mentioned alarm systems. When I was flying with him, he wanted to go to odd places.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, his airplane was based at Love Field, Dallas, but his trips took him mostly to small towns in the Midwest and the South. He said he chose them for cheap fuel, but that wasn’t always the case. He had a briefcase with him, and he wouldn’t leave it on the plane. Once I saw him exchange his briefcase for another, identical one, with a man at an FBO. I mean, I was sitting there and saw the guy come into the building. He just walked over to where Paul was sitting and handed him a briefcase, then picked up Paul’s and walked away. They didn’t even shake hands or say hello. I thought at the time it might have something to do with drugs.”

“More likely with cash,” Stone said. “If he were in the drug business, he’d have somebody else do the transfers, and they would probably be bigger than what he could get into a briefcase. On the other hand, he could pack a million, maybe two, into a briefcase.”

“I see what you mean.”

“You say you did the acceptance on his new Mustang. Did you attend the closing?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take?”

“Five, ten minutes. He handed them a check, and they all signed some documents.”

“Was there any mention of a lender? Were any of the documents thick, with lots of signatures?”

“No.”

“Closing an airplane sale with a lender involved is like closing a real estate transaction where the buyer is taking out a mortgage. There are lots and lots of documents and signatures required. Sounds like he just gave them a cashier’s check.”

“I think you’re right. They didn’t call his bank while I was there.”

“How many individual flights did you make with Reeves in the new Mustang?”

“Half a dozen, eight. Kevin made some with him, too. His insurance company wanted him to have thirty hours with a mentor pilot, since it was his first jet. I guess I flew, maybe, twelve with him.”

“Did he have the briefcase with him on all those flights?”

“Yes, and as I said, he always took it into the FBO with him. I offered to lock it in the airplane once, but he insisted on having it with him.”

“How did he pay for his fuel?”

“Always in cash. I noticed that, because it’s very unusual where a fill-up is fifteen hundred, two thousand dollars. Most people have dedicated fuel cards to get the best prices.”

“As I do,” Stone said. “I’ve never once paid for fuel in cash. Have you ever seen any other client do that?”

“Nope, not once.”

“So we know that he’s in several businesses and that he prefers landing at small-town airports, rather than large ones, where there might be a police presence, and he pays his personal expenses with cash.”

“He paid me in cash. Kevin, too.”

“It does sound like drugs,” Stone said. “He has someone else deliver, he gets paid in cash. He’s probably in some legitimate businesses, so that he can account for the sources of his income. I’ll bet the IRS would like to know more about him.”

“Are you going to turn him in to the IRS?”

“I don’t have enough on him to do that, but if I can get more, then you should turn him in.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’d get whistle-blower money—I think ten percent, maybe more, of what they recover from him. That could be useful in establishing your business.”

“That’s a thought,” she said, “but not unless you’re sure about what he’s doing.”

“Maybe I’ll do some looking into Mr. Reeves,” Stone said.