Stuart Woods: Severe Clear

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.”

Stone 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.

Stone found the closet first. “Here we are,” he said. He turned the knob. “Locked.”

The bomb chief took the pass card from Steve Rifkin, inserted it into the door lock, and opened the door.

The trunk stood there: elegant, with the patina of age and travel.

“Locked,” the chief said. “Bob, I need a jimmy, please.”

The other bomb man set down the case he was carrying, opened it, and handed his chief a small crowbar. The chief made short work of the lock.

“Do you think it might be booby-trapped?” Bob asked.

“I don’t think we have time to worry about that,” the chief replied, swinging open the trunk door. He stepped back, so that everyone could see the titanium panel with a slot and a digital clock at the top. The clock was counting down: forty-one, forty, thirty-nine…

Hamish McCallister lounged comfortably in his first-class berth, sipping his second mimosa, reading a magazine, and listening to Haydn over his headset. The music popped off and the pilot’s English-accented voice replaced it.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard our flight. As you know, we are nonstop to London, but we are encountering strong headwinds, and that is going to make it necessary for us to make a fuel stop at Kennedy Airport in New York. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it will add only less than an hour flight time, and with the extra fuel, we may be able to cut that down by flying at a higher power setting. We will be landing at Kennedy at eleven P.M., New York time, and in order to be back in the air as quickly as possible, we ask that you remain in your seats during our brief stop. Thank you so much for your patience.”

Hamish sighed, but the music resumed and he returned to his magazine. Then he stopped reading. His flight, he recalled, had pushed back at five minutes past five P.M., L.A. time. That would have been eight P.M., New York time, and the New York landing time of eleven P.M. would make their flight across the USA a four-hour one. Since a normal flight from LAX to JFK would take at least five hours, they were experiencing a strong tailwind, not a headwind. Something was wrong. He buzzed for the flight attendant.

“Yes, may I help you?” the young woman asked.

“Yes. Since we’re stopping in New York, I’d like to have a prescription medication delivered to me there, something I need but forgot to bring. Can you find out our gate number for me?”

“Of course,” she replied. She went forward, spoke over the intercom to the cockpit, then returned. “We will be refueling at gate ten,” she said, “and I’ve asked our gate agent to be on the lookout for your delivery.”

“Thank you so much,” Hamish said. When she had left he picked up his seat’s remote control, which was also a satphone, and called a New York number.

“Yes?” His brother Mo’s voice.

“It is I,” he said. “Listen carefully. Do we have a friend at Kennedy Airport?”

A brief silence. “Yes, a-”

“No further information, please.”

“I’m sorry. What do you need?”

“My aircraft is making an unscheduled stop at Kennedy. Ask our friend to arrange for an airport vehicle, appropriately lighted, to meet me at the foot of gate ten, flight BA 106. There may not be stairs. Our ETA is eleven P.M. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We will be leaving the airport area immediately. Please make arrangements for our departure from the airport and for secure accommodations.”

“It will be done.”

“See you soon. Good-bye.” Hamish broke the connection. They would arrive before the device in L.A. detonated, so there was time for a clean getaway.

–

M ike Freeman flagged a bellman with a cart and began looking for Stone, Dino, and Rifkin.

“Will they be in a cart, sir?” the bellman asked.

“Very probably.”

“I gave my pass card to a Secret Service agent at cottage 202. Is that who you’re looking for?”

“It is. Hurry, please.”

The man put his foot down.

Stone watched the clock count down. His mouth was dry, and his hands were sweating. Thirty-seven, thirty-six…

“Can you stop it?” Rifkin asked the bomb crew chief.

“Unlikely,” the man said, “but I can try.” He found a screwdriver and began removing screws from the panel.

“This isn’t going to happen fast enough,” Dino said under his breath.

Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three… “Give me the jimmy,” the chief said. He accepted the crowbar, placed its edge under the rim of the front panel, and with great force, pried it open. He took hold of the top edge of the panel and put all his weight into bending it down to the perpendicular. Now some of the inner workings were exposed, including the wiring. The chief began sorting through a bundle of wires. “Most of these do nothing,” he said. “They’re camouflage for the active wires.”

Ten, nine, eight…

Stone was salivating, now, and he swallowed hard. He thought of his son, Hattie, and Ben. Everyone he loved would die in six seconds. “Dino,” he said, “give me your gun.”

Dino handed over a snub-nosed. 38. “If you’re going to shoot yourself, shoot me first.”

Stone raised the revolver. “Out of the way, Chief,” he said, and cocked it for emphasis.