Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

“No, no!” But he had already hung up. She looked up Mike Freeman’s number and tried that.

“Freeman,” he said.

“Mike, it’s Holly Barker.”

“How are you, Holly?”

“Listen, Hamish McCallister is on the hotel grounds.”

“Who?”

“Algernon!”

“How do you know that?”

“I just had a conversation with him in the garden restaurant, but I lost him. Can you alert your security people? It’s vital that we interrogate him.”

“Is he registered at The Arrington?”

“No, at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“Description?”

“Five-nine, bald with a dark fringe of hair, one-sixty, tanned.”

“Any particular place we should look?”

“Everywhere!”

“Did you call Steve Rifkin?”

“I did, but he couldn’t talk and hung up on me.”

“We’re on it.”

“Call me when you find him.” But Mike had already hung up.

The white Cayenne approached the main gate and slowed; the uniformed guard, recognizing the car and driver, waved them through.

“Turn left,” Hamish said. “LAX, British Airways.”

“You’re leaving the country?” Hans asked.

“No, but I want certain people to think so.”

Traffic was moderately light at that time of day, and half an hour later, the car stopped at the curb.

“Stay in the car,” Hamish said. “I’ll deal with the luggage. Here are your instructions: drive to Santa Monica Airport and go to the hangar where the Cessna Caravan is stored. The pilot will be waiting there. Drive the car inside the hangar. I’m going to check my bags through to London, then I’ll take a cab to Santa Monica, and we’ll fly north from there.”

“What about the device?”

“Leave it alone. I’ll deal with it when I arrive.”

“Got it.”

Hamish got out of the car, and Hans pressed the button to open the hatch. Hamish allowed a porter to take the two bags. “London,” he said, “first class.” Then he opened the spare tire well, opened the device case, inserted his key into the lock, turned it clockwise ninety degrees, then set the timer for forty-five minutes. He closed the case, closed the lid, and pressed the button to close the hatch. He slapped the car twice on the fender, and Hans drove away.

Hamish followed the porter to the first-class ticket counter, checked his bags, cleared security, and went to the first-class lounge. He was sitting at a table by the window with a drink, looking north, when the device detonated at Santa Monica Airport. A crowd gathered at the window, staring at the towering smoke and flames five miles to the north.

Hamish had seen all he needed to. He got out his throwaway cell phone and sent a text to Wynken. At 8:20 P.M. sharp set device for thirty minutes and leave the area. Wynken would get quite a surprise when he turned the key in the device.

Then Hamish relaxed, finished his drink, and ordered another.

Holly went to Stone’s cottage and hammered on the door. Stone opened it and took one look at her. “What’s going on?”

Holly went into the house, dialing Mike Freeman’s number.

“Freeman.”

“It’s Holly. Have you found him?”

“He’s in none of the obvious places,” Mike replied. “We’re searching the grounds, and Steve Rifkin’s people are helping, and Steve has sent a team to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“When you find him, bring him to Stone’s house in handcuffs.” She hung up.

“Bring who here?” Stone said. “And why in handcuffs?”

“Algernon. Hamish McCallister. He was sitting a few tables away from us at the restaurant.”

“I thought you said he was in London.”

“I was wrong.” She dialed Kate Lee.

“Yes?”

“Director, we’ve had a surprise. Hamish McCallister is here, on the hotel grounds.”

“But I thought…”

“Yes, ma’am, but we were wrong. He took the GPS tracking device out of his phone and put it in his car phone. He told me he hitched a ride in a corporate jet to Burbank, landing this morning, said he’s staying at the Beverly Hills. The Secret Service is looking for him there.”

“I thought you said he was here.”

“He disappeared.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to send him to Gitmo in order to interrogate him. Keep me posted.” She hung up.

The doorbell rang, and Special Agent Steve Rifkin entered the house. “Nothing yet,” he said.

“Steve, we’ve got to do the search for a bomb all over again,” Holly said.

“You think he brought something onto the hotel grounds? That’s impossible-he would never have gotten through security.”

“Steve is right,” Stone said, “and if we start a new search with all of the guests arriving, we’ll be all over CNN in five minutes. I don’t think we want that.”

“This is my call, Holly,” Steve said. “No new search.”

Holly threw up her hands. “Well, what are we going to do?”

“Nothing,” Steve said. “Sometimes nothing is the best thing to do. It won’t help us to alarm the arriving guests.” His cell phone rang. “Rifkin.” He listened for a moment. “I don’t see how that can be anything to do with us. Keep me posted on the investigation.” He hung up.

“What happened?” Holly asked.

“There was a huge explosion five minutes ago at Santa Monica Airport.”

Stone switched on the TV. A local channel was on with a banner saying, “Breaking News.” “We now have footage from chopper five on that explosion at Santa Monica Airport. Five hangars are in flames, some of them with aircraft inside.” The camera moved along a row of burning hangars.

“I think that may have been one of the two bombs we were looking for,” Stone said.

“I hope it was,” Holly replied. “And I hope Hamish was standing next to it when it went off.”

“One to go,” Stone said.

Kelli Keane left her room and went next door to Hamish McCallister’s suite. There was a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, and when she rang the bell no one answered.

Where the hell had he gone? Lunch, maybe? She drove her cart down the hill to the garden restaurant and walked through the tables, noting celebrities for her piece and looking for Hamish, but he was nowhere to be found. She got out her cell phone and called The Arrington’s front desk.

“Good afternoon, The Arrington. How may I help you?”

“Please ring the suite of Mr. Hamish McCallister, and please stay on the line if he doesn’t answer.”

“Of course,” the woman said. The number began ringing. “I’m sorry, there’s no answer from that suite.”

“Has Mr. McCallister checked out?”

“One moment… No, he’s not due to check out until tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Kelli hung up and immediately her cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Hamish. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Same here. Where are you?”

“On my way to London, I’m afraid. Why don’t you join me? You’ll have to hurry, though, my flight leaves in forty minutes.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got to work the concert tonight with the photographers. It’s important to my piece, and I’m going to want more work from this magazine.”

“I understand. Kelli, I have to give you some serious advice, but what I’m going to tell you is completely confidential. Is that agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“There is very likely going to be a serious disruption at the hotel sometime this evening. Skip the concert and get the next flight back to New York. Do you understand?”

“No, not really.”

“Leave the hotel. Got it?”

“I’ve got it, I guess.”

“I’ll call you from London next week, and we’ll reschedule. Good-bye, love.”