“I see what you mean.”
“You say you did the acceptance on his new Mustang. Did you attend the closing?”
“Yes.”
“How long did it take?”
“Five, ten minutes. He handed them a check, and they all signed some documents.”
“Was there any mention of a lender? Were any of the documents thick, with lots of signatures?”
“No.”
“Closing an airplane sale with a lender involved is like closing a real estate transaction where the buyer is taking out a mortgage. There are lots and lots of documents and signatures required. Sounds like he just gave them a cashier’s check.”
“I think you’re right. They didn’t call his bank while I was there.”
“How many individual flights did you make with Reeves in the new Mustang?”
“Half a dozen, eight. Kevin made some with him, too. His insurance company wanted him to have thirty hours with a mentor pilot, since it was his first jet. I guess I flew, maybe, twelve with him.”
“Did he have the briefcase with him on all those flights?”
“Yes, and as I said, he always took it into the FBO with him. I offered to lock it in the airplane once, but he insisted on having it with him.”
“How did he pay for his fuel?”
“Always in cash. I noticed that, because it’s very unusual where a fill-up is fifteen hundred, two thousand dollars. Most people have dedicated fuel cards to get the best prices.”
“As I do,” Stone said. “I’ve never once paid for fuel in cash. Have you ever seen any other client do that?”
“Nope, not once.”
“So we know that he’s in several businesses and that he prefers landing at small-town airports, rather than large ones, where there might be a police presence, and he pays his personal expenses with cash.”
“He paid me in cash. Kevin, too.”
“It does sound like drugs,” Stone said. “He has someone else deliver, he gets paid in cash. He’s probably in some legitimate businesses, so that he can account for the sources of his income. I’ll bet the IRS would like to know more about him.”
“Are you going to turn him in to the IRS?”
“I don’t have enough on him to do that, but if I can get more, then you should turn him in.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’d get whistle-blower money — I think ten percent, maybe more, of what they recover from him. That could be useful in establishing your business.”
“That’s a thought,” she said, “but not unless you’re sure about what he’s doing.”
“Maybe I’ll do some looking into Mr. Reeves,” Stone said.
40
Millie got into her car, an anonymous-looking British Ford, and introduced herself to the driver.
“I’m Denny,” the man said.
“Are you armed, Denny?”
“I have a Glock on my belt and an Uzi in the center console and five magazines for each.” He had, maybe, a Cockney accent.
“Then I am reassured.”
“And there’s a turbocharged V8 under the bonnet and a racing suspension.”
“Just what we need to get to Harrods.”
Denny drove away in a sedate manner.
Her cell rang, and she looked at her watch. Quentin, maybe. She got a little tingle thinking about him. “Hello?”
“My name is Ian Rattle,” a very British voice said. “Do you recall it being mentioned to you?”
“I do,” Millie replied. “How do you do?”
“I do better after a good lunch. Will you join me?”
“Where and when?”
“Where are you now?”
“We’ve just left the embassy.”
“Then meet me at the Grenadier, a pub in Wilton Row, behind Wilton Crescent. Your driver will probably know it. Fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds good.”
“Right.” He hung up.
“Denny, do you know a pub called the Grenadier?”
“In Wilton Row? Of course.”
“There, then. Harrods later.”
“Righto.”
Ten minutes later they came to a barrier with a guardhouse. Denny had a word with the uniformed security guard there, and the barrier rose. They drove into a charming mews and stopped at the end, before the Grenadier.
“I’ll be nearby,” Denny said, handing her a card. “Ring me when you’re ready.”
She climbed the steps to the pub and entered a bar, where a dozen or so well-dressed people and a few men in working clothes were having a pint. She looked up to see a tall, slender man beckoning to her from the adjacent dining room, and she joined him.
He was well-tailored, well-barbered, and looked well-heeled. His suit fit, and his shirt and tie were a little offbeat. “I’m Ian,” he said, “and you’re Millie. Take a pew.” He sat her down at a table with her back to the door, and he took the gunfighter’s seat in the corner.
“Now,” he said, “drink?”
“I’ll have a glass with lunch.” She picked up a menu. “The gammon steak, please, and chips.”
A waitress appeared, and he ordered for both of them, including a bottle of wine. When she was gone he handed Millie a card. “Whenever you need anything from our shop, call me at this number. I can get through faster to anybody than you can going through the switchboard. Half the people who ring that number are crackpots with conspiracy theories.” He had a very upper-class drawl, probably an Oxbridge man, she reckoned.
“I know little about you,” he said. “Mind a few pointed questions?”
“Not at all. I expect I’ll have a few for you, too.”
“Fair enough. Give me a sixty-second bio, please.”
“Born Washington, Connecticut, small village. Educated in the Montessori school there, followed by Harvard, undergrad and law, followed by White House staff.”
“Pretty short.”
“I’m pretty young. You?”
“I’m forty. Born Cowes, village on the Isle of Wight, off the south coast from Southampton. Educated Eton, Cambridge. Royal Marines intelligence, then MI6. How long have you been at the White House?”
“Not too long.”
“Have you had any intelligence experience?”
“Not until recently.”
“Do you know anybody in intelligence?”
“My boss was CIA station chief in New York before becoming national security adviser to the president. Her boss was the director of Central Intelligence.”
“Do you know Lance Cabot?”
“Slightly.”
“Have you ever heard of someone called Stone Barrington?”
That stopped her. “Yes, I have.”
“Ever met him?”
“Not yet. How did that name pop into your head?”
“It popped into my computer this morning,” Ian said. “He’s on a kind of watch list — not the pejorative sort, it’s a bit of a compliment, really. His name just pops up when he enters the country, and when it happens, I let my chief know.”
“Mr. Barrington and your chief are acquainted, I believe, and he’s close to my boss and our president, as well.”
“I reckoned something like that.”
“So he’s in the country?”
“Apparently so, though he did not clear immigration at any port or airport. A friend of ours, retired officer, reported him at quite an elegant country hotel in Devon called Gidleigh Park. Heard of it?”
“No, I’ve not been to Devon.”
“Quite posh, I believe. Can you fill me in on Mr. Barrington?”
“He’s a New York attorney with a very prestigious firm, Woodman & Weld. A widower — wife murdered by a former lover a few years back. One son, now a Hollywood producer and director. The dead wife was previously married to the film star Vance Calder, and she left a good deal of Calder’s money to Mr. Barrington when she died. That’s about it. Oh, when Katharine Lee was preparing to run for president, a group of twenty-one people contributed a million dollars each to get her started. Mr. Barrington was one of them.”