“Doesn’t seem likely. Do you have or have access to any drones?”
“Possibly,” Ian replied.
“I’d like to know what could be available, by type, range, load, et cetera, and especially hang time.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ian said, then excused himself.
“What do you have in mind?” Millie asked him.
“We’re going to try for the same level of surveillance we have on the Washington site, but that will depend on how difficult it is to get inside. It would be a great help if you could ask Ian or somebody around here if it’s possible to get the plans for this house — maybe from whatever authority issues building permits over here. It’s an old house, so it must have been occasionally updated along the way, especially after the sultan bought it. I’d bet that they did a major renovation at that time.”
“I’ll go find somebody,” Millie said.
The CJ4 took off from Shannon and climbed to flight level 400 (forty thousand feet). Stone watched Pat fly for a while from a forward seat and came back to Dino to report. “We’ve got a twenty-five-knot tailwind,” he said.
“Is that unusual?”
“Yes, the prevailing winds are from the west and southwest. I’ll call Mike Freeman and ask him to send his Mustang for us.”
“Not yet,” Dino said. “I want to make some calls first. Have they got a satphone on this crate?”
Stone pointed at it. “Dial zero-one-one, then the area code and number.”
Stone tried to relax, but he kept thinking about his ruined airplane. It was as though he’d lost a leg. He was accustomed to flying himself wherever he went and on a moment’s notice, and now he was grounded.
Dino hung up the phone. “We got a break,” he said.
“What?”
“I had the NYPD flight department run a check on Reeves’s airplane. He’s filed a report with U.S. Customs saying he’ll land in Presque Isle, Maine, at seven this evening.”
“That sounds impossible for a Mustang,” Stone said, getting out a chart of the North Atlantic. “But maybe he’s taking advantage of the tailwinds, too.” He did some rough calculations. “From Cork, he could have gone to Santa Maria, in the Azores, then to St. John’s, Newfoundland, then Presque Isle. That’s stretching his range a lot, but he does have the tailwinds to help.”
“Maybe he’ll crash into the sea and save us all a lot of trouble,” Dino said.
“Hang on a minute,” Stone said. He got up, went forward, and tapped Pat on the shoulder. “What’s our ETA for Presque Isle?”
She pointed at the top of the multi-function display. “With the time change, six PM Eastern. We’re forecast to get even better winds from the southwest as we get closer to the other side.”
“Given the winds, could Reeves fly to the Azores, then to St. John’s and then to Presque Isle in the Mustang?”
She thought for a minute. “He could very well do that. He departed from Cork — that’s, let’s see, about thirteen hundred miles to Santa Maria, then fourteen hundred to St. John’s. Then only about six hundred and fifty to Presque Isle. His range is thirteen hundred, but that’s at full cruise. If he pulled power, he’d increase his range, and the winds are even better for that route than they are for ours.”
Stone thanked her and returned to his seat. “Reeves can make that schedule,” he said.
Dino picked up the satphone and made a call. “Detective Robert Miller,” he said, “the commissioner calling. Hello, Bob? It’s Dino Bacchetti. Just fine, thanks. I want you to call the flight department and put a hold on our King Air in my name, then get a warrant for Kevin Keyes on the double murder charge and another warrant for a man named Paul Reeves for accessory after the fact. I don’t care if the mayor wants the airplane, you get it. Then I want you to fly to Presque Isle, Maine” — he spelled the name — “and I want you there at six PM sharp. After you land, park the airplane so that it’s not conspicuous to arriving aircraft. Got it? Stone Barrington and I will be arriving about that time in a Cessna CJ4. Got it?” He listened for a moment. “You got it. See you then.” Dino hung up. “Okay, we’ve got a ride back to Teterboro,” he said.
56
Quentin was at his desk at MI6 when he got a call. “It’s Turner at Hoover,” a voice said. “Something’s up at Mahmoud’s residence.”
“Tell me, and don’t leave anything out.”
“There have been two delivery trucks early this morning,” Turner said. “One was from an awning company—”
“What the hell is an awning company?”
“They rent tents and the like for outdoor parties, in case of rain.”
“Any rain in the local forecast?”
“Not for a week — I checked. We’ve got a video from the downstairs garage showing them unloading canvas and putting it in the elevator.”
“Not outside? Are they expecting rain indoors?”
“Beats me. The second truck delivered air freight — some large crates. I checked with customs, and they were shipped in under diplomatic seal from Dahai. Hey, hang on, have you got a monitor there?”
“Yeah, the one in the office.”
A transmission came up on the monitor. “This is from the Agency drone,” Turner said. “It’s the rooftop of the building.”
Quentin watched and saw some men unrolling large pieces of yellow-striped canvas. “They’re setting up a tent on the roof?”
“Looks like it. Wait a minute and you’ll get a three-sixty view. The drone is orbiting.”
Quentin saw the canvas from every angle. “Looks like what you’d see at a funeral, over the grave.” They watched as the men set up a metal frame, then hoisted the canvas in place. “Turner, has Mahmoud played with his drone again?”
“Yes, once. The Agency drone wasn’t up in time to photograph or follow it.”
“Wait, look to the left of the awning,” Quentin said. “They’re bringing the crates up to the roof.” The crates were wheeled under the awning. “Shit. You think they’re onto our drone?”
“They couldn’t be, we only got it up this morning. They’ve got reason to think about drones, though, so I think they’re just being careful.”
“Can we get the Agency drone low enough to see under the awning?”
“No, then the parapet gets in the way.”
Quentin went back into the conference room and found the group all staring at the largest monitor.
Ian Rattle was among them. “Hello,” he said. “We’ve got our hands on a drone — don’t ask who from.” He pointed at the screen. “That’s the roof of Regency House,” he said.
“Show me the delivery entrance,” Quentin said.
“We had a look at it a minute ago,” Ian said. “They got a lorry delivery from a marquee company.”
“Marquis, like a French aristocrat?”
“No, marquee...” He spelled it. “Like a tent. They must be having a garden party.”
“It’s not a garden party,” Quentin said. “They’re going to set up the marquee on the roof.”
“A roof party?” Ian asked. “It doesn’t look like that kind of roof — too industrial.”
“Then they’re going to bring those crates that we saw earlier up to the roof and unpack them under the marquee.”
“We didn’t furnish your office with a crystal ball,” Ian said. “Where are you getting this?”
“They’re doing exactly the same thing in Washington, at the Dahai apartment building.”
Ian stared at him. “I don’t like it,” he said.
“I don’t like it, either.”
“Can we get one of your black bag boys on the roof tonight?”
“We’re better off with the drone,” Quentin said. “Tonight, I think there’ll be people on the roof.”
“What do you think they’re doing?”
“My best guess? They’re assembling a drone of their own.”