Hot Pursuit (19 page)

MILLIE HAD JUST
given up on the cricket match when Ian Rattle called again. “Are you up for a last-minute invitation?” he asked.

“If it’s a good enough invitation,” she replied.

“Dinner at Dame Felicity’s.”

“Dame Felicity’s what?”

“House.”

“Sounds nice.”

“I hope you brought a good dress. It’s black-tie.”

“I did, and I’ve bought two more since I’ve been here.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“I’ll do the choosing, thank you.”

“I’ll pick you up at six-forty-five. May we meet downstairs at that hour? Dame Felicity is a stickler for punctuality.”

“I will be on time. See you then.” She hung up, emptied two shopping bags, and hung up the three competing dresses for comparison. She awarded the prize to a simple black one that would show off just enough of her ample breasts, and with a slight flare just above the knee. It had not required alterations. She checked her watch, called downstairs and asked the concierge to send up a manicurist in an hour, then headed for a shower and shampoo.

—

MILLIE WAS STANDING
under the outer canopy at the front door, all shiny and new, when a steel-gray Jaguar pulled up front. The doorman helped her into the rear seat next to Ian.

“You look perfectly marvelous,” he said, as the car moved away and into Mount Street.

“Where does Dame Felicity live?” she asked.

“I’m afraid you may not know that,” Ian replied, “and if you figure it out, you are sworn to secrecy. Or I can blindfold you.”

“I swear,” she said. They were there in twelve minutes, and she knew it immediately. It was a house in Wilton Crescent, one that backed up onto Wilton Mews, where the Grenadier was situated.

“You know it, don’t you? I can tell by your look.”

“Well, of course I know it, we had lunch right behind it.”

They got out of the car and rang the bell. “I believe this was formerly the home of Edward Heath, a prime minister of his day,” Ian said. There was no more time for history, because a uniformed butler admitted them, and as they entered the drawing room, announced them. “Mr. Ian Rattle and Ms. Millicent Martindale,” he intoned just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to bring all conversation to a halt.

Dame Felicity separated herself from a knot of guests and came toward Millie with her hand out. “Good evening, Millie. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. One of my guests died, figuratively speaking, and you are such a lovely replacement. What a perfect dress!”

“Thank you, Dame Felicity. I’m very pleased to be here.”

Shortly she was conversing with the foreign secretary and his wife. The man leaned in and whispered, “I’ve been briefed on your, ah, project, and I am delighted with the results so far.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied.

“You are awfully pretty for a spy,” his wife said, giving her husband a sharp look.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I am only a White House staffer, with no cover story.” Over the next few minutes she was introduced to the home secretary and a Sir Edward Antrim, who, Ian whispered, was the director of MI5, Dame Felicity’s counterpart on the domestic side. At seven-fifteen, the prime minister and his wife arrived and took a glass of champagne, then Millie was introduced to them, she being the only guest with whom they were not acquainted. She thought of curtsying, but then thought better of it.

At precisely seven-thirty a silver bell tinkled, and the butler announced dinner. As they were filing into the dining room the doorbell rang, and another guest was admitted, and more introductions were made around the table.

“Millie, this is Stone Barrington, whom you may already know.”

“Only on the phone,” Millie replied, shaking his hand. His place card was on Dame Felicity’s left, and Millie’s was next to his. The prime minister was seated on her hostess’s right.

A first course of sautéed foie gras was brought immediately, and champagne was poured. Millie tasted it and rolled her eyes.

“Do you like it?” Barrington asked her.

“It is the best champagne I have ever tasted,” she replied.

He laughed. “That’s because it is the best champagne ever made: a Krug 1978—I caught a glimpse of the label.”

“I shall never drink anything else,” she said, taking another sip.

“The best of luck with that,” he replied, then turned to chat with his hostess.

Millie thought that the back of his head looked better than the face of most men.

“Now may I have your attention?” Ian asked in a low voice. “You’re not going to just sit there and wait for him to speak to you again, are you?”

“Of course not,” she replied with a smile, trying not to blush. “I will dance with who brung me.” As it happened, Stone did not speak to her again during dinner—he was too occupied with Dame Felicity and the prime minister.

The foie gras melted in her mouth, and a second course of fried goujons of Dover sole did, too. The main course came: a perfectly cooked fat duckling, and with it a Chateau something-or-other; she couldn’t see the label—but it was wonderful. A mille-feuille was served for dessert, and when everyone had finished, all the women at the table got up and left the room. Millie suddenly remembered the British custom of the men being left to their cigars and port, and she started to rise, but Dame Felicity stopped her.

“Millie, please remain,” she said. “Stone, would you be kind enough to attend to the ladies? We have business.”

“Of course,” Barrington said. He got up and was let out of the dining room by a man with a bulge under his black jacket and a military haircut, whom Millie had not noticed before.

“Now, if everyone has enough port, two of my guests have information to impart. I thought it better to do this at my home rather than attract attention by a more noticeable meeting of you all. First, Millicent Martindale, who is assistant national security adviser to the president of the United States. Millie?”

Millie noted the inflation of her importance by the omission of “to” from her title.

“From the beginning, please.”

“Dame Felicity, Prime Minister, gentlemen,” she began, keeping her voice low and steady, “after reports from two intelligence sources that a major terrorist plot against the West was being put together, the president assigned my superior, National Security Adviser Holly Barker, and the directors of Central Intelligence and the FBI to locate and identify three deeply buried persons who may be crucial to the effort, who we now call Moe, Larry, and Curly, the Three Stooges.” That got a short laugh. “After an extraordinarily cooperative effort among our services and MI6, we have managed to identify all three. One is located at the embassy of Dahai, in Washington. The other two, while associated with that country, are so far unaccounted for, though a spirited search is under way. In Washington, as of this hour, some three dozen FBI agents and as many technical supporters have undertaken a round-the-clock surveillance of Moe, whose name is Ali Mahmoud and who is the chargé d’affaires at the Dahai embassy. Ian Rattle will bring you up to date on Larry and Curly.”

Ian took a sip of his port. “Dame Felicity, Prime Minister, gentlemen. Larry and Curly are believed to be the natural sons of the sultan of Dahai, mothered by an Egyptian member of his harem thirty years ago. They were sent to Britain to study at Eton, where they led an unusually sequestered existence, chaperoned by a member of the sultan’s household and supported by funds sent through the Devin Bank from the account of Sheik Hari Mahmoud, who is very likely the father of Moe, Ali Mahmoud.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Rattle,” the prime minister said suddenly, “are we to understand that the whereabouts of these two men, now grown, are unknown to your service?”

“They are being actively sought, Prime Minister. This should be thought of as a preliminary report.”

“Dame Felicity?” the prime minister said.

“Prime Minister,” she replied, “there is a beginning, a middle, and an end to every operation. We are now in the middle of this one.”

“I see,” the prime minister said, though he obviously did not.

“Now,” Dame Felicity said, “I think we’ve kept the ladies waiting long enough.” They rose and went back to the drawing room.

—

LATER, AS THE GUESTS
were leaving, Stone Barrington took Millie’s hand. “I’m delighted to have met you face-to-face,” he said. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

“Thank you,” she replied, “I’ll look forward to that.” She watched Barrington kiss his hostess on the cheek, then get into a waiting car.

—

BACK IN THE CAR,
Ian said, “You did very well.”

“You did better than could have been wished, in the circumstances,” Millie replied, “and Dame Felicity backed you.”

“Thank God for that,” Ian said.

STONE LET HIMSELF
into the suite at Cliveden and found himself alone in the sitting room. He shucked off his jacket, pulled his bow tie loose, unbuttoned his collar, poured himself a glass of sherry, and collapsed into a chair.

Dino appeared from his bedroom, clad in pajamas and a silk dressing gown.

“I can see that Viv has visited Turnbull & Asser,” Stone said.

“Yeah, she insists that I be well dressed, even in bed.” He poured himself a sherry and occupied the sofa, putting his feet up. “So, what took you away from us this evening that you couldn’t tell us about?”

“When we got back here this afternoon I found a note waiting for me from Felicity Devonshire, commanding my presence at dinner at her house, and it was top secret.”

“Commanding?”

“She’s like that on her home turf. It was a glittering party, if small: only the prime minister, the foreign secretary, the home secretary, and the director of MI5, and their wives. Also, Millie Martindale—Holly’s assistant—and one of Felicity’s minions.”

“That’s pretty rich cream. What was the occasion?”

“I never really found out. When the ladies excused themselves after dinner, Felicity invited me to join them. All I heard about was the appalling prices of ladies’ designer clothing these days.”

“I could have told you about that,” Dino said ruefully.

Stone laughed. “I expect you could. Anyway, when I returned to the table for port and Stilton, the beans had already been spilled to those authorized, and nothing more was said about it.”

“I’m fascinated by the makeup of the party,” Dino said. “That would be like Viv and me having the president, the governor, the secretary of state, Lance Cabot, and the Bureau director at our table. That could never happen.”

“I suspect that whatever was discussed is so hot that Felicity didn’t want the meeting to take place in a public building, so as not to raise questions.” Stone looked at his watch: “I guess it’s a little late to call Holly and ask her what the hell is going on.”

“Not that she’d tell you.”

“You have a point.”

“I had a stroll around the grounds before bedtime,” Dino said. “I even circumnavigated this house, which took a while. Nothing going on.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Stone said, “although I wish Reeves would get over with whatever he has planned for me. I mean, he could have easily had me shot on Dartmoor, if he wanted me dead.”

“And why would he want that?”

“It’s something to do with Pat, but I don’t know what. She says he made a couple of passes at her a while back, but who’s that jealous?”

“Her former boyfriend Kevin Keyes?”

“Then why didn’t he shoot us both? He had a silenced rifle and it was foggy and pouring with rain. Nobody would have seen or heard anything, and we wouldn’t have been found until the next day.”

“Maybe more important, why would Keyes have a silenced rifle? Nobody has those, except military snipers and pro hit men.”

“Maybe he has a sideline in contract killing,” Stone ventured, “with Reeves as his employer. Certainly Reeves is dirty—probably drugs.”

“What is Reeves’s legal business?”

“Pat says electronics—surveillance equipment, or something like that. He may be in oil, too.”

“If he’s in oil, why would he bother with drugs?”

“Maybe he hit a dry well.”

“He just bought a new jet airplane,” Dino pointed out.

“Maybe, but one of the smallest on the market, so he’s not a kingpin at whatever he’s into.”

“Maybe, like you, he wanted one he could fly himself. You could certainly afford a bigger airplane.”

“I’m just working my way up the tree,” Stone said. “Cessna is revamping their CitationJet 3, installing the identical avionics I have in my M2, so I could step into it with very little retraining. The cockpits are identical. I’d want High Definition Radio to go oceanic, instead of the Blue Spruce route.”

“Why would you want it?”

“Because it has range of a little over eighteen hundred miles. We could have flown nonstop from Newfoundland to Shannon, obviating Greenland and Iceland, and flown home via the Azores, where the weather is very nice most of the time. I’m already worried about what the weather will be like on our return trip.”

“Gee, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear—thanks a lot.”

“Oh, I always worry about the weather, until I break out of the clouds and see the runway dead ahead. We’ll be okay.”

“Until we’re not.”

“The weather forecasts are very good these days.”

“Until they’re not.”

“I’m just a worrier—you’re an out-and-out pessimist.”

“Life has taught me that if something bad can happen, it will.”

“I take the view that if something bad can happen, I need to be ready to handle it.” Stone tossed off his sherry and stood up. “I’m going to bed, before you get
me
worrying.”

“Sweet dreams,” Dino said sweetly.

“Yeah, sure.” Stone went to bed.

ALI MAHMOUD
stepped outside the door of the large house where Dahai’s highest-ranked diplomats lived. It was an unusually warm and sunny morning, and he thought he might walk to the embassy. Then he saw the Comcast cable truck across the street, and a man wearing a tool belt up a utility pole, poking around inside a steel box at the top. Ali stretched, all the while eyeing the van from side to side, top to bottom. In the center of the O in Comcast, he saw a hole. Not a very big one, but a hole nevertheless. Something to think about.

He walked down the steps of his building to the sidewalk and turned toward Dupont Circle, near which lay his embassy. As he walked he heard a car stop behind him, and a mid-sized Japanese sedan drove slowly by, a woman at the wheel, a man in the front passenger seat, and a baby seat mounted in the rear. Neither of them looked at him, although he thought he saw the woman driving glance into her rearview mirror after she had passed him.

He walked on, and a man in a suit left an apartment building ahead of him carrying a briefcase, a newspaper tucked under his arm, also headed toward Dupont Circle. That’s three opportunities, Ali said to himself. Then the Comcast truck passed him and there was a small hole in the O on the other side of the truck, too. That’s four. He continued to the circle, crossed it, and walked the dozen yards to his embassy. Once inside, he went to an entrance hall window and watched the street for a moment. Down the street perhaps forty yards he saw the Comcast truck parked on the other side, its driver taking his tool belt from the rear and hooking it around his hips.

Ali took the elevator to his top-floor office and sat down at his desk. A year and a half he had been here, and all of a sudden he felt watched. Or maybe this feeling was a product of the hangover he had from last night’s party. He tried to shake it off.

He got up and swung open a fake bookcase, revealing a large safe behind it. He tapped in the combination, spun the wheel, opened the door, and removed his laptop and brought it back to his desk. While it booted up he phoned the embassy’s head of security. “In my office, now,” he said.

The man rapped on his office door less than a minute later.

“Come!”

The man walked in, looking nervous. “Yes, sir?”

“Come and sit down,” Ali said, indicating a chair across his desk. The man sat. “Did you make your usual rounds this morning?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, of course. I started at six
AM
and finished at around seven-thirty.”

“Was there anything—
anything
—out of order in the slightest degree?”

“No, sir. Everything was perfect. I ran all the security system checks and tested the firewalls, as usual.”

“Was there a broken window? A mark around the lock on a door? Anything at all that might appear insecure?”

“No, sir, not a thing. Everything was perfect.”

“There’s a cable repair truck down the street about thirty yards. Was that there when you arrived this morning?”

“No, sir, but there are cable trucks everywhere. They always seem to be repairing something—under the street, in a building, up a telephone pole.”

“Have you noticed a couple—a man and a woman—in a blue Nissan sedan with a baby seat in the rear?”

“No, sir.”

“I want you to sweep my office.”

“When, sir?”

“Now. Get somebody up here and go through the room, and be thorough.”

Shortly two men in coveralls arrived with ladders and began sweeping the bookcases, the bar, the concealed safe, his desk and chair, the draperies, and the carpet edges. They were at it for more than an hour.

Finally, their supervisor came back. “Your office is clean,” he said to Ali.

“How clean?”

“Squeaky clean, not a sign of anything—no cameras, no bugs, no anything.”

“Thank you,” Ali said. “Now get these people out of here. Go down to the garage and sweep all the cars.” They took their gear and left, and he felt a bit better.

He checked his e-mail. Only one message, in Arabic, interested him.
The birds have arrived from the south and are nesting
, it read. Finally, he thought. The attempt on the president’s life in London by some Al Qaeda affiliate or other had queered everything for a week, brought things to a halt. Now that the papers were reporting that the fourth man had died in the hospital, maybe things would return to normal.

One of his two cell phones vibrated on his belt, and he retrieved it. “Yes?”

“Did you get my message this morning?”

“Yes,” he said, irritated, “why would I not get it?”

“I’m simply being thorough,” the man said placatingly.

“Are the birds happy in their nest?”

“Chirping, just as they should. They are anxious to be out and about.”

“Not until you are absolutely certain that there is no interest of any kind in the house. They are not to go out, until then.”

“I understand.”

“And I want everything in the wine cellar inventoried and confirmed to be in perfect working order. I want no chance of a mistake, do you hear?”

“I understand perfectly. It will be done as you say.”

“I have had an e-mail this morning confirming the receipt of funds by the bank. There will be no check written, except those cashed inside the bank. They may use their cash cards at machines for day-to-day expenses.”

“I understand.”

“Be certain that the birds do, too. And keep them out of Annabel’s—it’s a nest of Americans, half of them CIA.”

“Perhaps that is too strict, Ali. They would not be out of place there, not attract attention the way they might at other places. I would see that they were accompanied.”

“Well, all right, you have a point. They should pay cash, though, no credit cards.”

“They are well-disciplined men, Ali, you should trust them more.”

“They have been cooped up at home for too long,” Ali said. “I don’t want them to start feeling their oats. I want them to view every stranger as a threat. I want them anxious and on their toes at all times.”

“They want to do some shopping, too.”

“All right, they can do that. Again, cash only.”

“A good decision. Is there anything else?”

“No, not for the present. Perhaps we will speak tomorrow.”

—

IN A BASEMENT ROOM
at FBI headquarters a man picked up a phone. “Special Agent Phillips?”

“Yes.”

“Everything is working perfectly. His laptop must have been stored somewhere, but we’ve got their wi-fi now. You’ll want to read the e-mails. There’s an interesting phone conversation to listen to, as well, but, of course, we have only his end of it.”

“I’ll be right down,” Quentin said.