“We would very much like to see Special Agent Quentin Phillips and his team here tonight,” she said. “I’ll call your director and pretend that you and I have not spoken. Then I expect he will call you.”
“I’m grateful for the advance warning,” Epstein said. “Do you have the director’s home number? He won’t be up and about just yet.”
“I do, thank you. We’ll be in touch.” She hung up the phone, looked up another number, and dialed it. “Good morning, Ambassador,” she said. “This is Felicity Devonshire.”
“Good God, Felicity! What time is it?”
“Quite early on your side, I believe. I would not have called were it not urgent.”
“All right, what’s going on?”
“I believe the Prince and Princess of Wales arrived at Andrews Air Force Base yesterday, in an aircraft of the Queen’s Flight, for a three-day visit.”
“Yes, that’s right. They’re upstairs — asleep, I should think.”
“Please don’t disturb them. On a matter of the utmost importance to our national security, I require their aircraft for the purpose of an immediate flight to London, with a quick turnaround.”
“I’m not at all sure that I have the authority to grant that request,” the ambassador replied.
“I assure you that by the time the crew arrive at Andrews, all permissions will be in place.”
“All right, I’ll get in touch with the crew. Oh, and I’d very much appreciate a cable on this subject.”
“Of course, Arthur. I’ll see that your arse is fully covered.” She hung up and buzzed her secretary. “Please get the prime minister on the phone,” she said, “and if he’s in a meeting, interrupt him. Highest priority.” She hung up and waited quietly until she was buzzed back.
“The prime minister’s secretary is on the line, Dame Felicity,” she said. “She won’t put the PM on until she speaks to you.”
“Right,” Dame Felicity said. She pressed a button. “Margaret, put the PM on right now, if you please.”
“Yes, Dame Felicity.”
“Yes, Felicity,” the PM said, “make it quick — half the Cabinet is waiting.”
“Prime Minister, we have located Larry and Curly.”
“Ah, yes — half the Three Stooges. Excellent.”
“We require the assistance of the FBI to install some brilliant new surveillance equipment, and that necessitates our borrowing the Queen’s Flight aircraft, now at Andrews Air Force Base, to fly the technicians here, with an immediate return to Andrews.”
“Well, that’s highly irregular,” he replied.
“It’s the only way we can have the FBI team at work tomorrow. The Waleses are in Washington for a three-day stay. They’ll never know it’s gone.”
The PM sighed deeply.
“This requires an immediate cable from you to the ambassador, in language that shelters his posterior. This, I assure you, is in the national interest, and of the highest priority.”
“Oh, all right, I’ll have to get the air minister involved, though. He’s waiting for me with the others.”
“Please don’t let your cable take more than half an hour to arrive in Washington.”
“You mean you want it done instantly?”
“Thank you so much, Prime Minister.” Dame Felicity hung up. “Now,” she said to Ian, “go to that tailor’s shop, and in the gentlest and most discreet manner possible, find out what they know. Call me when you’ve spoken to them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ian said, then fled the room.
Dame Felicity consulted her computer address book again and dialed a number.
“What?” a sleepy American voice demanded.
“Good morning, Director, this is Felicity Devonshire, in London. My apologies for the early hour.”
“What time is it?”
“Oh, it’s lunchtime over here. I’m sorry to have disturbed your breakfast.” That got a laugh. She explained her request in the shortest and most urgent terms.
“Oh, all right,” the director said. “I’ll call Lev Epstein, who runs that group. How long will you need them?”
“I should think a week,” she replied. “Perhaps a day or two longer. We will provide transport, shelter, and all expenses.”
“Damn right you will.” He hung up.
Five minutes later her secretary buzzed. “A Special Agent Lev Epstein, from Washington. He says you’re expecting his call.”
“Of course.” She pressed the button. “Assistant Director Epstein,” she said.
“You apparently lit a fire under the boss,” Lev said.
“Not just your boss,” she replied. “A jet aircraft of the Queen’s Flight awaits your team at Andrews Air Force Base,” she said. “They will be met on this side and comfortably housed. Please ask them to be prepared to go to work tomorrow morning. Their liaison will be Major Ian Rattle. Will Special Agent Phillips be leading them?”
“Yes, he will, Dame Felicity. I would come myself, but there are pressing matters here.”
“How sad,” she said. “Perhaps next time.” She hung up, satisfied that she had earned her salary that day.
52
Ian Rattle arrived in Mount Street after an interminable twenty-two-minute trip in heavy traffic. He leaped out of the car, leaving his driver, then, as he approached the door of Hayward, stopped, smoothed down his suit and hair, took a deep breath, and entered the shop.
A woman was hanging a handful of neckties on a rack just inside the door. “May I help you?”
“May I speak with your fitter?” Ian asked.
“He’s working in the rear,” she said, pointing.
Ian entered the rear room to find a man, a tape measure around his neck, applying a very large pair of scissors to a bolt of cloth. “May I help you, sir?” the man asked.
“You may,” Ian said, taking his ID from a pocket as he approached the cutting table and laying it on the tabletop for the man’s perusal.
“Ah,” the man said. “Whatever I can do.”
“It is my understanding that you have clients in the nation of Dahai,” Ian said.
“That is so.”
“I also understand that two of them, brothers, I believe, were in for a fitting this morning.”
“That is so, as well.”
“What address in London do you have for them?”
“Regency House, Regent’s Park.”
“And the names of the two?”
“David and Derek Kimbrough,” he said. “I believe they are the sons of Lord Kimbrough, whose house they stay in when in London.”
“Have they been your clients for long?”
“They were clients of Douglas Hayward when he was alive and they were at Eton. My employers bought the shop after Mr. Hayward’s death, and we have continued to serve them.”
“I see. How often do they come to London?”
“Around twice a year,” he replied. “We always see them when they’re here, and we’re in Dahai twice a year to service our clients there.”
“Do you have a shop there?”
“No, we work out of a hotel. For the Kimbroughs we call at their home, which is in the grounds of the sultan’s palace.”
“Does Lord Kimbrough spend time in Dahai?”
“I believe not. He and the boys’ mother have lived apart for many years. She apparently has connections to the sultan’s court.”
“Tell me, do you also have a client called Mahmoud?”
“Yes, two of them — the Sheik Hari Mahmoud and his son, Ali. They maintain a home here.”
“May I have that address, please?”
The tailor went to a large leather-bound book and leafed through it. “Here we are,” he said. “Malvern House, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.”