“That is correct. It’s also quite common for general aviation aircraft and crews on the Blue Spruce route not to be checked too closely.”
“So if Keyes wanted to bring a gun into Britain, he wouldn’t have had any problem?”
“Only if they found it during a ramp check. I mean, the authorities at every stop have the right to make you empty the airplane and unpack your luggage, if they want to.”
“Then I’ll just assume that Keyes, wherever he is, is armed.”
“Look, we’ve only set eyes on Kevin once, at the restaurant. You’ve no reason to believe that he’s looking for us, so don’t let it bother you.”
“That’s true, but we’ve seen Paul Reeves everywhere, and that bothers me a lot. I can’t help having a bad feeling about this.”
“Stone, I don’t know what to tell you. Do you want to just pack this in and go home? If you want to fly commercial, I’ll arrange for a good pilot to fly your airplane home.”
“No, of course not. Anyway, where we’re going today nobody could find us.”
“Oh? Where is that? All I can see on the GPS map is a checkered flag in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s a pretty good description of where we’re going. You’ll see, later in the day.”
They spent an hour being amazed at Stonehenge, then continued their trip west on surface roads, which were alternately choked and lightly traveled, things improving as they left the tourist attraction behind. They stopped at a country pub and had a lunch of sausages and mash, then continued. The GPS predicted they would arrive at their destination at five-thirty PM. Half an hour before that, the roads had dwindled in size until they were down to a single track between high hedgerows.
“What is this place we’re going to?” Pat asked, laughing. “Has anyone ever been here before, except farm animals?”
Now and then they had to deal with a car or farm vehicle going in the opposite direction, which involved one of them reversing into a slightly wide indentation in the hedgerows and allowing the other to pass, or wait for a cow to make up her mind about where she was going. Encouragingly, they saw a sign or two for Gidleigh Park.
“What is Gidleigh Park?” Pat asked. “Some sort of tourist attraction?”
“Sort of, if the tourist is very discerning.”
Then they saw an occasional farmhouse and suddenly, they were at a side door of a very large house, in the Tudor style, and their luggage was being taken inside.
Pat peeked into various rooms as they followed their bags down the main hallway, then they were in a comfortable suite. “I think,” she said, “that as hideaways go, this one is top-notch. I smelled something good cooking, too.”
“Oh, they’ve won all sorts of awards over the years, including Best Restaurant in Britain, I think.”
“Did you find this when you were hitchhiking?”
“No, much later. I met the original owners, Paul and Kay Henderson, in London during their first summer in operation, and I’ve been back a couple of times since then.”
“Will we meet them?”
“No, they retired a few years ago. They live nearby but are, apparently, away for a few days.”
They unpacked, and without any discussion, got naked and fell into bed. Soon they were ready for a nap.
34
They were back in the motorcade, headed for the embassy, when the president put away her cell phone. “You did very nicely in there, Millie,” she said. “Mainly, you didn’t overdo it. It would have been a big mistake to try and make Felicity think you had more than you did, and to your credit, you stuck to the facts.”
“I didn’t think there was another choice, ma’am,” Millie said.
“Quite right.”
“You managed to keep your mouth shut at lunch, too,” Holly added.
“I had a father who didn’t much like chitchat at lunch. He wanted something substantive from me or nothing.”
“Sometimes nothing is the best choice,” Holly said.
“That was my father’s belief.”
“Is your father still alive?” the president asked.
“Yes, ma’am, and kicking.”
“Retired?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What did he do?”
“He was an attorney and a Republican, pretty much in that order. He clerked for Chief Justice Burger, and during the Reagan years he worked at Defense.”
“During what period?”
“If you’re referring to Iran-Contra, right about then. He knew nothing about it, until it hit the news, and when it did, he resigned and went to a Washington law firm.”
“Which one?”
“Miller, Chevalier, Peeler & Wilson, as it was in those days — Miller and Chevalier, by the time he retired.”
“My grandfather knew Stuart Chevalier,” she said. “They were both friends of Franklin Roosevelt when they were all young lawyers. Chevalier had polio as a child and spent his life on crutches or in a wheelchair. I suppose that helped create a bond between him and FDR.”
“I’ll tell my father about that. He would find it very interesting, if he doesn’t already know.”
“When will we have more on the Three Stooges?” she asked.
“Daily, I hope. Quentin Phillips is working on it flat-out.”
“He works for Lev Epstein?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He’ll learn a lot from Lev. He was considered a candidate for attorney general. He turned down an offer to head the criminal division of the Justice Department — said it was less interesting than what he’s doing now. It was a smart move, and Lev is noted for smart moves. I might call on him again before I’m done.”
“I’ve met him only once, but he impressed me,” Millie said.
The president was about to speak again when something struck the window on Millie’s side. She turned to look at it and saw a thick liquid streaming down the glass, then there was a faint whoomp, and the limousine was suddenly enveloped in flames.
“Nobody move,” Kate said firmly. “Just sit tight, and they’ll deal with it.”
Millie sat tight, willing herself not to open the door and run. Only the thought of what else might be out there stopped her.
There were gunshots now, muffled by the thick body and windows of the car, and then a white cloud surrounded the car and the flames went away. Police sirens and whoopers sounded, both near and far away, but approaching.
The car began to move again. They were in Grosvenor Square, no more than a block from the embassy, and the car bumped over the curb and into the park, swerving to avoid pedestrians. The motorcade left the park at North Audley Street and whipped around the embassy to the rear, where someone opened the door and the three passengers were hustled inside and, followed by four Secret Service agents, into an elevator operated by a marine sergeant. They got off on the top floor, and the president led the way down the hall with long strides into the apartment she was occupying. She walked over to the Grosvenor Square side and looked out the big windows. “Please, Madam President,” an agent said, “step away from the windows. We still don’t know what else might be down there.”
“I’m sorry, Ted,” she replied, stepping back, “that was foolish of me. The rubberneck instinct, I suppose.”
The building was not as soundproof as the limousine, and the noise from outside continued, minus the gunshots.
“Sounds like the firefight is over,” the president said.
The agent stood behind a column and peeked around it at the square. “That’s correct, ma’am, the fire trucks are making the most noise now, but the fire is out.”