Stuart Woods: Below the Belt

He picked up the phone and called Christian St. Clair.

“Yes?”

“It’s Erik. I’ve found the family,” he said. He explained what had happened.

“It’s damned clever of you to figure that out, Erik,” St. Clair said.

“Thank you, sir. How do you want to proceed?”

“You know who to call in my London office,” St. Clair said. “The two of you should assess the situation and take action.”

“How extreme an action?”

“I don’t want them returning to the United States,” St. Clair said. “And I don’t want them making calls to people in the States. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Macher said. It was late in London; he looked up the cell phone number of his counterpart there and made the call.

The Gulfstream set down gently on the runway at Windward Hall, rolled down the runway, then taxied back to the ramp in front of the hangar. The pilots shut down the left engine, and the flight attendant opened the forward door and dropped it into place as an airstair.

The Parkers gathered their things, and when they reached the tarmac a Land Rover pulled up and loaded their luggage. A man in the front passenger seat got out and came toward them. “I’m Major Bugg,” he said, offering his hand. “Welcome to Windward Hall.”

As they got into the vehicle the left engine of the airplane restarted, and the big jet began taxiing back to the end of the runway.

“You’re being housed in Chestnut Cottage,” Bugg said to the family. “It has three bedrooms, and you may decide which of them you wish to use.”

They drove along a dark road, made a turn, and pulled up before the cottage. Two men in dark clothing walked toward them out of the darkness. “These are your security people,” Bugg said, “Dan and Walter.” Everybody shook hands.

“We’ll be working outside the cottage,” Dan said.

The driver handled their luggage, while Bugg escorted them inside. A yellow Labrador retriever welcomed them in the foyer, wagging all over.

“This is Maggie,” Bugg said. “She’s everyone’s favorite dog on the estate. Her food is in the pantry, and she has a cup of food and a biscuit three times a day.”

Tommy and Maggie appeared to already be in love.

They walked into a living room where the lamps were on. Bugg took them from room to room and their luggage was put in the two bedrooms they chose.

“The fridge is stocked, and so is the pantry,” he said. “There’s a laundry room just behind the kitchen, and the bar in the living room has also been stocked.” He showed them how to use the telephone system, which was much like that of a hotel, with buttons for calling various extensions. “I’ll be back at work tomorrow morning at eight, and the kitchen help begin arriving at six.” He handed them some keys. “These are the cottage keys and the key to the car, which is in the garage. Sleep as late as you like — you have no schedule to keep here. You can drive into the village or see the countryside. There are maps in the car and a GPS system, as well. Please let me know tomorrow if you have any questions.”

They all shook hands with him and the major left in the Land Rover.

“Hank,” Marty said, “this is better than home.”

“This is Alfred Brand,” a voice said.

“Alf, it’s Erik Macher. We met when you were in New York last time.”

“Ah, yes, Erik. I’ve had a text from the chief that you would call and to give you every assistance. What’s up?”

“A family of three has arrived in the south of England this evening, from the United States,” Macher said. “In short, the chief doesn’t want them to return.”

“Ah, yes. How do you wish to handle it?”

“I wish you to handle it,” Macher said, “since I’m in the United States. I can’t be of much help there, I’m afraid.”

“What is the time frame?”

“As soon as possible, but not so hurried that mistakes are made.”

“Where are they?”

“At a country house called Windward Hall, south of Beaulieu, in Hampshire.”

“I know the area, but not the house.”

“Neither do I. I should think your first move would be to reconnoiter the place and determine their exact location.”

“Does the chief have a means in mind?”

“Well, he doesn’t want them shot in the head.”

“An accident, then?”

“I think that would be best.”

“Do they have a car?”

“I don’t know. This operation is a clean sheet of paper. Reconnoiter, then get back to me with questions or a plan.” Macher gave him his cell number. “Please remember that it’s five hours earlier here than where you are. No middle-of-the-night calls, except in an emergency.” He gave the man the names and descriptions.

“I’ll have people there by dawn to take a look at the situation,” Brand said. “Can I have a week to get it done?”

“Let me know your schedule tomorrow.”

“I’ll do that.” He hung up.

Macher hung up, too, glad not to have to deal with the operation himself.

Stone had a call the following day from Major Bugg, reporting that the family was settled in and comfortable.

“Is security in place?” Stone asked.

“Two men, armed. They’ll work shifts, and there will always be two on duty.”

“Thank you, Major.”

Shortly, Ed Rawls called.

“Good morning, Ed.”

“Good morning, Stone. How’d the transfer go?”

“I’ve just had a call. They’re comfortable and happy, and security is on the job.”

“Good. I’ve had a call myself, and it’s disturbing. The next-door neighbor of the Parkers in Cape May called to say that two vehicles were watching the place very early yesterday morning, around five-thirty AM — a gray van and a black sedan.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Exactly. The Strategic Services car arrived just before six and pulled into the garage, as planned. It left ten minutes later and both the van and the sedan made U-turns and followed. I think they must have followed them all the way to Teterboro, and if they did, they probably got a look at the airplane’s registration number, and if they got that, they could use tracking software to follow it to a landing.”

“That’s okay, Ed. The crew filed for Brussels, then, when they were in British airspace, they would have requested a new destination to my property.”

“Stone, that software works as well over land as over sea, unless the pilot was clever enough to turn off his transponder before making the turn for England.”

“No, he wouldn’t have done that. ATC would have been all over him — that’s how they track flights.”

“Then we’re faced with the distinct possibility that St. Clair’s people know about where it landed.”

“There’s no airport there on the aeronautical charts.”

“But they would see the airplane stop moving, then start again.”

“Well, shit.”

“I know how you feel, but you’d better tighten security over there.”

“I’ll get on it, Ed.” The two men hung up.

Alf Brand went online and found a satellite photograph of Windward Hall, which showed the main house and all the outbuildings. This was bad; these people could be in the main house or any one of the half-dozen cottages he could see. Clearly, this was going to be an on-the-belly-in-the-grass operation. He rousted four of his men out of their beds and put them on the alert, setting a meeting at a country pub south of Beaulieu at noon, then he packed some clothes and a weapons bag and got into his car, a dark green Range Rover.

Two hours later, he was climbing over a stone wall and onto the Windward Hall estate. He had chosen a wooded area to breach the wall and he sparingly used a pinpoint flashlight to make his way through the trees toward the main house. He wanted to get a close-up view of every cottage on the place before believing they were in the big house.