Severe Clear (27 page)

“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.”

“Wait a minute, I know that name from when I was at the London station. Man-about-town, and all that.”

“He’s our asset, reporting directly to the director.”

“What?”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Lance. All will be explained later. You are to remove McCallister to our East Side facility in the city and isolate him pending further instructions. He’s suspected of being the ringleader in a plot to bomb The Arrington.”

“Hamish McCallister? That fop? He’s harmless!”

“He’s real trouble, Lance. You have less than three hours to put this together, and I suggest that once you’ve given the orders, you chopper to New York and take charge.”

“All right, tell the director it shall be done. Anything else?”

“Call me when he’s in hand.”

“Certainly.” Lance hung up.

 56 

K
elli Keane dressed for the Immi Gotham concert. She had been saving her best dress for the event, and she thought she looked sensational, while remaining entirely professional. The image in the mirror was very reassuring.

What was not reassuring, however, was Hamish’s advice to her on the phone earlier. He wanted her to leave the hotel because of a likely disturbance to come; he had already left the hotel—left the country, in fact, and without checking out. This didn’t make any sense.

He had not actually used the word “terrorist,” but “disturbance” sounded to her like British understatement. She needed to tell somebody about this, she reckoned, but she didn’t fancy walking up to some security guard and trying to explain to him, or his boss, that a slight acquaintance had warned her to leave the hotel because of a possible “disturbance.”

She checked her makeup one last time. Stone Barrington: he was plugged into everything at the hotel; he’d know what to do with this information.

She grabbed her clutch bag, left her room, and got into her electric cart, then drove to the reception building and walked to the building behind it that she understood to be Stone’s cottage. She rang the doorbell and waited, then rang it again.

A man in a white-jacketed uniform finally answered the door. “Yes, may I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Kelli Keane, from
Vanity Fair
magazine, and I’d like to speak to Stone Barrington.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Barrington isn’t in right now,” the man said.

“When do you expect him?”

“Probably not until later tonight, certainly not until after the concert. He’s having drinks at the presidential cottage right now, and they’re all going to the concert together.”

“That’s just across the street, behind this house?”

“Yes, ma’am, but you’re not going to get in there without an invitation. The Secret Service will see to that.”

“Thanks very much,” Kelli said, and left the cottage. She walked around to the street behind and looked at the presidential cottage. Two men in dark suits stood at the door.

She went back to the cart. She wasn’t about to get into it with the Secret Service; maybe she’d see Stone at the concert. Perhaps she should just go straight there now; it was getting dark, and her press pass didn’t give her reserved seating.

She drove down to the Arrington Bowl and found a parking spot, then wandered in with the crowd, which was streaming in in great numbers, all in formal dress. The place was beautiful, spread out in a fan shape with a lovely band shell as if from some gigantic scallop.

The orchestra was beginning to take their seats, now, and a concert grand piano stood at center stage. Tune-up sounds wafted from the pit. Kelli looked at her watch: seven
P.M
. They would be starting any minute.

She looked over her shoulder and up to a private box near the top of the seating area. The president and first lady were entering and finding seats, while a file of others followed them. She saw Stone among them.

She ran up the stairs to the top of the Bowl and around the seats toward the presidential box. She could already see a man and a woman with pins in their lapels moving to head her off.

Kelli stopped. “My name is Kelli Keane, I’m from
Vanity Fair
magazine.”

“Yes?” the man said.

“It’s extremely important that I speak to Mr. Stone Barrington, who is sitting in the presidential box.”

The man and the woman exchanged a glance. “Will you come this way, please?” the woman said, slipping her hand under Kelli’s arm. They led her to one side of the box and out of its view. “Now,” the man said, “please let me see your press pass.”

Kelli dug the pass from her bag and handed it over.

“And who was it you wanted to see?”

“Mr. Stone Barrington.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

Another man joined them from the direction of the box, then just stood and listened.

“It’s a personal matter,” Kelli said. “If you could please just ask Mr. Barrington to step over here for a moment.”

Then the other man spoke. “You’re from the press, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Kelli Keane, from
Vanity Fair.
”

“Thank you,” the man said to the Secret Service duo. “It’s all right, I’ll deal with this.” The two nodded and stepped away.

“Thank you,” Kelli said. “I was beginning to have visions of being taken away in handcuffs.”

“I’m Michael Freeman,” the man said, “from Strategic Services. We’re in charge of security here. You seem very concerned. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I wanted to tell Stone, because he could tell the right people, but I guess you’ll do.”

Mike smiled. “I’ll do. What is it?”

“Well, there was a man from London at the hotel named Hamish McCallister. He called me from the airport this afternoon and said I should leave the hotel before the concert, that there would be some sort of disturbance.”

The audience burst into applause as the conductor strode to the podium and bowed, then a disembodied voice rumbled through the crowd. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, our special guest, Miss Hattie Patrick, of the Yale School of Music, who will perform our opening number with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.”

A pretty young girl walked onto the stage, bowed once to the audience, and sat down at the piano.

“Wait right here,” Mike said to Kelli. “Don’t move.”

A clarinetist began the opening trill to “Rhapsody in Blue” and the orchestra joined in, followed by the guest pianist.

For a moment, Kelli forgot her anxiety and just let the music wash over her.

A moment later, Mike Freeman was back with Stone and two other men. Mike led them up a flight of stairs to an exit, and they stopped on the lawn.

“Kelli, what is this about Hamish McCallister?” Stone asked.

“I had dinner with him the other night, and we got along very well. Then, this afternoon, he called me from the airport and asked me to fly to London with him. I said I couldn’t, I had to cover the concert, and he told me, in a very serious manner, that I should avoid the concert and leave the hotel and go back to New York.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said there would be a serious disturbance at the hotel tonight.”

“At the concert?”

“No, he said at the hotel. Or, at least, that’s what I inferred.”

“Kelli, this is my friend Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti from the NYPD, and this is Special Agent Steve Rifkin, who is in command of the Secret Service presidential detail.”

“How do you do?” Kelli said to the two men.

“Thank you for letting us know about this,” Stone said. “We’re aware of Mr. McCallister and that he’s on a plane to London.”

“How did you know that?” Kelli asked, ever the reporter.

“We got word,” Stone replied. “The airplane will make an unscheduled stop in New York, and Mr. McCallister will be removed from the flight.”

Steve Rifkin spoke up. “It would be helpful if you could make yourself available for further interviewing after we have Mr. McCallister in custody.”

“What do you suspect him of?” Kelli asked.

“There’s nothing specific at the moment,” Rifkin replied. A radio on his belt crackled, and Rifkin answered it. “Tell the chief of the bomb squad to meet me at the top of the Bowl right now.” He replaced the radio on his belt.

“Bomb squad?” Kelli asked. “Is there a bomb somewhere around here?”

“The grounds have been thoroughly searched,” Rifkin replied, “and security has been very strict with anyone entering the grounds. It’s very unlikely that anyone could have smuggled a bomb in. Anything large enough to hold a significant bomb would have been searched immediately.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” Kelli said. “Tell me, would a steamer trunk be large enough?”

Everyone turned and stared at her.

 57 

T
he group moved up the hill from the Bowl, and Mike Freeman saw four of his men in their Strategic Services shirts standing on the grass, listening to the concert. He broke off from the group he was with.

“Good evening,” he said to the men.

They suddenly looked sheepish.

“What are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be manning the surveillance center, aren’t you?”

One of the men spoke up. “It’s very quiet around the hotel, because everybody’s at the concert,” he said. “Our supervisor said that we could come upstairs and listen for a while, he’d cover us and he’d radio if anything came up.”

“Who is your supervisor tonight?” Mike asked.

“Rick,” the man said.

“And he’s down there by himself?”

“Yes, sir, like I said, there’s nothing going on.”

Mike’s mind was spinning backward to his earlier conversation with Steve Rifkin about the screening of his men. “Did the Secret Service search our bunker?” he asked.

The men looked at each other. “No, sir,” one of them said. “Not on my shift. I mean, we’re security; why would they search us?”

“Follow me,” Mike said, “but stay well back behind me.” He strode up to the entrance of the half-underground bunker, tapped in the security code, and quietly opened the door. He had a terrible, terrible feeling, and he was beginning to sweat. He unholstered his Glock and let himself into the bunker, then walked down the flight of stairs into a vestibule. The door to the surveillance room was closed. He tried the knob: locked from the inside. He switched the pistol to his left hand and fumbled for his key ring, finally found the right key, and inserted it into the lock, turning it slowly to avoid a loud click. He pushed the door open slowly and stepped into the room.

Rick was standing at the end of a workbench, inspecting something in front of him. He snapped open the locks of a case and folded down the lid.

Mike could see just enough of it to recognize the case as identical to the one the search had turned up in the wine storage room.

Rick rooted around in a pocket and came up with a T-shaped key. He inserted it into a slot at the top of the metal panel.

“If you turn that key, I’ll kill you where you stand,” Mike said quietly but firmly. He racked the slide on the pistol for emphasis.

Rick froze but said nothing. Mike walked forward, pressed the Glock to Rick’s head, and pushed him aside with his elbow. Mike’s left hand closed over his on the key. “Let it go right now,” he said, nuzzling Rick’s head with the barrel of the pistol.

Mike could feel him trying to turn it, but he held tightly to the younger man’s hand, pulling until the key left the slot. Mike took the key from him. “On your knees, back to me,” he said. He took the key from his hand as he went down and put it into his jacket pocket.

“Mr. Freeman,” a voice behind him said, “is everything all right?”

“Get me a pair of handcuffs from the equipment locker and get over here,” Mike said, holding his left hand out behind him. He heard the locker open, then the cuffs were placed in his hand. “Hands on top of your head, fingers interlaced,” he said to Rick, who complied. He cuffed the man, then put his foot between his shoulder blades and pushed him onto his belly. Then he turned toward the four waiting men.

“Get a manacle set from the equipment locker and secure this man hand and foot, then search him thoroughly. Then I want him on the floor under guard until the Secret Service comes for him.” He closed the case on the workbench. “Give them this case when they come. Now get back to your consoles.”

Mike walked up the stairs holstering his weapon and came out into the cool night air. His shirt was sticking to his body. He looked around. Now where did everybody go?

Applause rippled from the Bowl; cheering and whistling and the stamping of feet were heard. “Encore!” the crowd was shouting. Then the noise died, and Immi Gotham said, “Seventy-five years ago, very near this place, George Gershwin was at the piano working on the last song he ever wrote. A few days later, he was dead at the age of thirty-eight. This is the song he wrote.”

A piano introduction could be heard, then Gotham began to sing “Our Love Is Here to Stay.”

—

S
tone sat beside Kelli Keane as she drove her electric cart rapidly along a path toward a row of cottages. Another cart followed, driven by the chief bomb technician. “His place is next door to mine,” she said, finally slowing to a halt. “Right there.” She pointed at a door. A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the knob.

A bellman cruised past them, and Steve Rifkin signaled for him to stop. He flashed his ID. “Secret Service,” he said. “Give me your pass card.”

“Yes, sir.” The bellman retrieved the card from his shirt pocket.

Rifkin slid the card into the door lock; a green light came on, and he pushed the door open.

Kelli spoke up. “The trunk was in a bedroom closet, to your left.” Stone, Dino, Rifkin, and the two bomb men filed into the suite, and she followed them.