Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

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.

The 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.