Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

“Good-bye.” Kelli hung up. What the hell was he talking about?

Holly sat nervously with Stone, Mike, and Steve Rifkin, waiting for the results of the search. Rifkin’s phone rang.

“Steve Rifkin.” He listened for a moment, then hung up. “Nothing,” he said. “No Hamish McCallister.”

Holly thought for a moment. “Do an airline search for his name,” she said. “All flights departing for Europe.”

Mike Freeman spoke up. “I can do that faster than you can, Steve.” He made a call. “I’m on hold while they check,” he said. “Yes? Thank you very much.” He hung up.

“There’s a Hamish McCallister traveling to London on BA 106, nonstop to London Heathrow. Departed eight minutes ago.”

“Shit!” Holly said.

“You’ve got ten hours to arrange a reception committee for Mr. McCallister at Heathrow.”

“I don’t want him in London, we’d have to deal with the Home Office bureaucracy.”

Mike turned to Steve. “You must know somebody who can divert that flight to an American airport,” he said. “And you’d better get it done before that aircraft crosses the Canadian border,” Mike pointed out.

Steve got out his cell phone and called his director in Washington. He explained himself as quickly as he could, then asked that the flight be diverted to JFK on the excuse of mechanical trouble. There was some back-and-forth, then he hung up and put away his phone. “He’s going to get the flight diverted,” Steve said. “The only problem is, we’ve got to get the FBI involved.”

“Too bad,” Stone said. “That’s always a complication.”

“Yes,” Rifkin replied. “I hate it, but it’s a jurisdictional thing.”

Stone turned to Holly. “What are you going to do with him when you have him?”

“Good question,” Holly said. “I’ll need to talk with my director.” She left Stone’s cottage and went next door to the presidential cottage. She found the first lady in the living room talking to Felicity Devonshire.

“Oh, Holly,” Kate Lee said, “I was about to call you. Sit down with us, and let’s talk about Hamish McCallister.”

Holly sat down. “Hamish is on a flight from LAX to London as we speak.”

“Then I’d better mobilize my people,” Felicity said.

“No, that won’t be necessary. The Secret Service is arranging to have the flight diverted to JFK on some maintenance excuse. The FBI will pick him up there.”

“You’ve been busy,” Kate said.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry we couldn’t detain him here, it would have been easier. The question now is, once the FBI has him in New York, what do we do with him?”

“The same thing we were going to do with him before,” Kate said.

“With the FBI involved?”

Kate stood up. “Excuse me a moment, I think I know somebody who can get the FBI uninvolved.” She left them and went upstairs.

Felicity sighed. “This would have been a lot easier if you had just kidnapped him in London.”

Holly laughed. “Would that have been your preference?”

“I’d have been happy to have him off our hands,” Felicity said.

Ten minutes later, Kate returned. “All right,” she said, “the FBI is off the case. Holly, you call Langley and get a crew out to JFK to greet the gentleman. Have them remove him to our East Side facility in the city and locked down, no conversation with anybody. I’ll have further instructions for them when they have him secured there.”

Holly excused herself, went into the study, and called Lance Cabot.

“Yes?”

“It’s Holly.”

“Good day, Holly. I trust you’re enjoying the California sunshine. Everyone here hates you for being there.”

“Thanks so much. The director asked me to call you with some instructions.”

“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.

Kelli 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.