“Holly and I have met, of course,” Dame Felicity said. “How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, Dame Felicity,” Holly said. “May I introduce my colleague Millicent Martindale?”
Millie was greeted warmly and followed the group into an elevator that opened into an elegant foyer that opened into Dame Felicity’s large office, which Millie thought looked more like an Oxford library than a workspace. A gleaming burled walnut table in the center of the room had been set for lunch with handsome silver and beautiful china, but they were first shown to sofas and chairs across the room.
Chitchat was kept to a minimum. “We’re anxious to hear about any progress on your investigation of the Eton twins,” the president said, “and, of course, we’ll bring you up to date on our investigation.”
“Madam President, immediately after I received your telephone call and your request, I assigned various groups to the task,” Dame Felicity said. She opened a file folder and consulted her notes. “The twins led a sequestered existence at Eton,” she said. “They showed no interest in athletics at the school and devoted themselves to language studies and reading. They were cared for by a well-tailored gentleman, not British, but a reasonable facsimile, who took rooms at a local inn, where he received the boys on a weekly basis. They always returned with fresh haircuts and, we suspect, their blond hair retouched at the roots.
“On the pretense of an audit of the Devin Bank by the Bank of England, records were unearthed of the money that flowed through the bank to pay the boys’ expenses, which were considerable. The funds were transferred from the Bank of Dahai, in the small sultanate of the same name, which is sandwiched between Yemen and Oman, on the southern border of Saudi Arabia. The funds originated from the account of one Sheik Hari Mahmoud, a shadowy figure who hovered around the edges of the sultan’s court, and who was said to own more camels and goats than any man in the kingdom save the sultan himself. The source of this display of wealth was, of course, not livestock but oil, with which the kingdom is richly endowed.
“On the day the boys left Eton, we believe them to have been taken directly to Heathrow Airport, from whence a large private aircraft belonging to the sultan departed for Dahai. There is no record with customs and immigration of the boys having been seen at Heathrow, but they have not been seen anywhere since. An inquiry at the London embassy of Dahai met with blank stares and a denial of any knowledge of the twins. That is where we are at the moment, but we have assets in Dahai, and the investigation is being pursued there.”
“Thank you, Dame Felicity,” the president said. “Holly, what have you to report?”
Holly recounted the investigation to the point where the head of the economics department at Berkeley was interviewed. “I believe my colleague Millicent has later information to report.” She turned to Millie and waited.
“Madam President, Dame Felicity,” Millie began, “I have had the most recent report from our FBI agents in California only a few minutes ago. The agent in charge of the investigation, Special Agent Quentin Phillips, informs us that a man using the alias of Jacob Riis was hired by the economics department of the University of California at Berkeley to teach a class on the economics of oil production in the Mideast. He subsequently left without giving notice, and an investigation into his background and references conducted by the university yielded only that his name and credentials were false.
“Armed with only a physical description of the man, Special Agent Phillips called on the head of the business school at the University of California at Los Angeles, a member of whose staff recognized the description of the man in question and identified him as one Harold Charles St. John Malvern, a British subject and a student at UCLA fifteen years ago, who arrived with references from Eton, Oxford, and two members of the House of Lords, and who spent less than a full academic year at the university before disappearing. The FBI has since confirmed that all of these references were forgeries, albeit very good ones. And that is where we stand at the moment. I regret that this information is so fresh that we have not yet compiled a written report, but you will have one before the day is out.”
“Thank you, Miss Martindale,” Dame Felicity said. “It appears that we all have an intriguing mystery to solve. Now, may we have lunch?” She moved to the table, and her guests followed.
The conversation at lunch was fairly inconsequential, but Millie found it fascinating. She did not speak unless spoken to.
33
Stone and pat were downstairs at nine AM sharp, and Tony met them with the Jaguar and turned over the keys. “It’s keyless entry, Mr. Barrington, and there’s a start button, but your foot must be on the brake. The knob on the center console is the gearshift, foot on the brake again. The engine is a diesel, and the tank is full. There’s a GPS navigator built in. Would you like instructions?”
“I can handle that, Tony,” Pat said.
Tony handed her some maps. “These might come in handy at times,” he said.
The bellman arrived with their luggage and stowed it in the boot. Stone tipped him, thanked Tony for his help, tipped him, and they drove the car out through a short tunnel into Buckingham Gate. Stone followed the road to Buckingham Palace, around the roundabout, and thence to Hyde Park Corner, from where they headed west.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a stop,” Pat said.
“Where?”
“Stonehenge.”
“Put it into the GPS.” She did, and a voice began to speak in BBC English.
“Pat,” Stone said, “I have to ask you something.”
“Anything you like.”
“Is there anything you haven’t told me about Kevin Keyes?”
“A great deal. I’ve told you only the basics.”
“Is there anything else I should know about him that might be relevant in the circumstances?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“It troubles me that he got out of New York and to England so easily.”
“Well, as you said, his name wasn’t on a flight plan. You told the police about eAPIS, didn’t you?”
“What is that?”
“I thought you knew about it. I took care of it before our departure.”
“Took care of what?”
“It’s a sort of registry. You have to notify the government before you leave the country, and you have to list the crew and passengers, their dates of birth and passport numbers.”
“Where did you get my date of birth and passport number?”
“From Joan, where else?”
“And Paul Reeves would have had to file that report?”
“I suspect that Kevin filed it for him, as I did for you. He would have omitted his own name and information, of course, and nobody would know, unless they had a ramp check for documents, et cetera.”
“I’ve never been ramp checked,” Stone said. “How would that go?”
“Officials in the relevant country would ask to see your aircraft registration, airworthiness certificate, radio station license, proof of international insurance, weight and balance calculations, plus your RVSM and MSNP authorizations — those were the papers you signed. They’d also check to see that the airplane’s flight manual and avionics manual were aboard and that you had the required safety equipment — life raft, life jackets, et cetera, and they would check our licenses and medical certificates, in addition to our passports.”
“The only place where anyone showed the slightest interest in any of that was in Iceland, where they asked for our passports, but didn’t look inside the airplane.”