Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

“Okay, Tom.”

“We’ll keep at it.”

“Sure, call me.” Holly hung up and went back to where Stone had sat down.

“Anything new?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Hamish opened the closet door and took the key to the steamer trunk from his pocket, opened it, and swung open the door. The finely machined panel glowed in the light from the overhead bulb.

Hamish inserted his T-key into the slot at the top of the panel and turned it ninety degrees to the right. With a click, the clock was powered, displaying a row of zeros. Hamish checked his wristwatch, added the number of hours until eight-thirty P.M., then carefully tapped the hours and minutes into the keypad. He took a deep breath and let it out, then he pressed the enter button, and the clock began its downward march to zero.

The concert would begin at seven P.M., perhaps a few minutes later. It was scheduled to run until eight-thirty, so the device would detonate at about the time of the last number in the concert, or, perhaps, during an encore. Even if the detonation came late there would still be fifteen hundred people in the Arrington Bowl, among them the presidents of the United States and Mexico. All the others-movie moguls, movie stars, entertainers of various skills, the cream of Los Angeles society, business leaders-would simply be cannon fodder for the greatest lethal attack on the United States ever recorded. Upward of a million people would die in an instant-many more of their injuries or radiation sickness in the months and years to come.

The loss of the great Osama bin Laden would be avenged. Any evidence of the perpetrators would be vaporized in the initial blast, so no one would ever know who had caused it, until the announcement was made worldwide on the Internet. Neither he nor Mo nor Jasmine nor any of the people who had helped them would ever be known to the authorities. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod would be dead.

Hamish checked his watch again: he would leave The Arrington at three P.M.; his flight from LAX would depart at five P.M. and arrive in London after a nonstop flight at midmorning the following day. He would drop off his luggage at his house, then have lunch at his club.

He closed the trunk and locked it, then put the two keys into his pocket. He would have time for a nice lunch at the patio restaurant; he had already booked the table, late, for two P.M.

He packed his two Vuitton cases with his clothes and set them near the front door for collection by Hans, then he showered, shaved, and began to dress for lunch.

–

H olly Barker returned to the presidential cottage with the president and the first lady after the press conference. The president seemed in a particularly good mood, and so did the first lady.

“Lunch in half an hour,” Kate Lee said, and at that moment, Holly’s phone rang.

“Holly Barker.”

“It’s Tom Riley: scramble.”

She scrambled. “Yes, Tom?”

“I don’t know why we took this long,” Riley said sheepishly. “We should have had it last night.”

“What, Tom?”

“Algernon.”

“Yes?”

“When we ran the search on Mo, we got his birth certificate; we got Hamish’s, too, in his birth name of Ari Shazaz. What we didn’t pick up on was the deed poll.”

“Tom, what the hell is a deed poll?”

“It’s the legal procedure used when the name of a British subject is changed. Ari Shazaz’s name was changed at the age of nine, after his parents’ divorce. His full name became Hamish Algernon McCallister.”

Holly’s knees went weak, and she sank into a chair. “Tom,” she said.

“Yes, Holly?”

“Phone in a fire alarm on the house on the Chelsea Embankment. Put some smoke on the roof, if you can, for verisimilitude. When the fire brigade arrives, send your people in with them and detain both Hamish and Mo. Get them to a quiet place quickly and start interrogating them. No nice chat-use whatever you have to use to find out what they did in Palo Alto. No police department, no intelligence service is to be brought into this. When you have everything you can get from the two men, get them out of the country to Gitmo. Is that clearly understood?”

“It’s understood, Holly, but I’m going to have to hear it from the director, in person, before I can do any of that.”

“Stand by, Tom, don’t hang up.” Holly went into the next room and looked for the first lady; she was nowhere in sight. Clutching her phone, she ran up the stairs to the second floor where the first couple’s bedroom was. A Secret Service agent stood at the top of the stairs.

“Yes, ma’am?” the man said, blocking her way. “How may I help you?”

“I must see the first lady immediately, priority one.”

“And your name, ma’am?”

“Oh, God, you’re new, aren’t you?” Holly asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Holly Barker, assistant director of intelligence. I’m Mrs. Lee’s number two.”

“May I see identification to that effect, please?”

Holly smote her forehead. “It’s in my handbag downstairs.”

“I’ll wait while you get it, ma’am.”

“I don’t have time for this. Go and tell the first lady I’m waiting. I’ll be right here. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“I think I’d better call my supervisor,” the man said, producing a handheld radio. “Just a moment.”

“I don’t have a moment,” Holly said.

But the man was already speaking into the radio; he wasn’t moving, and he was too big for Holly to move. “This is Special Agent Jack Shorstein,” he said into the radio. “Chief of detail, please, priority.” He took the radio away from his lips. “This will take just a moment.”

Holly began to take deep breaths, trying to bring her rate of respiration down. She raised her phone. “You still there, Tom?”

“Yes, Holly. I can hear you having difficulties.”

“Just hang on.”

The agent’s radio crackled, and he put it to his hear. “Yes? Special Agent Shorstein, sir. A woman who says her name is Holly Barker is demanding to see the first lady. She has no ID. Yes, sir.” He handed the radio to Holly. “Special Agent Rifkin wishes to speak with you.”

Holly snatched the radio from him. “Steve? It’s Holly. I’ve got to see the first lady right now. ”

“Holly, give the radio back to my agent.”

She handed him the radio and waited while he listened, then put the radio back on his belt. “You’re cleared to see the first lady, ma’am,” he said, stepping aside.

Holly ran down the hall to the master bedroom and knocked on the door. It was answered by a maid.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’d like to see the first lady at once,” Holly said.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but she’s in the bath.”

Holly shoved the woman aside and went for the bath. She opened the door without knocking, stepped into the bathroom, and saw, clearly, the president of the United States and the first lady in the shower together.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” Holly shouted over the noise of the running water, “but this can’t wait!”

Kate Lee sat in a terry-cloth hotel robe and listened to Holly’s story. “Hamish’s middle name is Algernon,” Holly said.

Kate looked stunned. “This doesn’t seem possible.”

“Ma’am, Hamish recruited-or at least, assigned-Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. All the e-mails the NSA and the Brits intercepted originated from him. We’ve got to interrogate him at once.” Holly held out the cell phone to her.

Kate took the phone. “Tom? It’s Kate Lee.”

Nothing.

“The phone’s dead,” Kate said.

Holly took it from her and redialed the number.