“I take it you spoke to Holly Barker,” Quentin said.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And she’ll get back to us.”
“We’re losing time,” Quentin said. “We’ve got to do this tonight, if we’re going to stop them. We can’t be put in a position where our only alternative is to shoot down the drone after it takes off.”
“I’ve explained that to Holly, and I expect she’s explaining it to the president right now. If you want to be sure of being ready, I suggest you start planning for both alternatives now.”
Quentin stood up. “Okay, everybody, we’re going to split into two teams: Ian, how’s this? We’re sixteen in all — you pick four Brits, and I’ll pick four Americans. One of us will plan a black ops rooftop incursion, the other will plan to destroy the drone after it flies off the roof. Which operation do you want?”
“I think I’d better take the one that requires live rounds to be fired over London,” Ian said. “We can’t have Yanks doing that.”
“That’s good reasoning,” Quentin said. “You and your people take the conference room, and my group will meet in my office.”
Everybody started to move, but the ringing of Millie’s cell phone stopped them.
“Hello?”
“Are you with Quentin?” Holly asked.
“Yes, we’re in the conference room with the whole team.”
“Put this on speaker, then.”
Millie pressed the button. “We’re on speaker, Holly.”
“We’re now at the Rome embassy, and the president has just teleconferenced with Lance Cabot, Lev Epstein, and Dame Felicity. They have confirmed your account of the earlier teleconference as correct in every respect, so congratulations.”
“Thank you. What are our instructions?”
“You are to divide yourselves into two teams, each half Brit, half American. Team one, under the command of Quentin Phillips, is to gain surreptitious access to the rooftop of Regency House, there to capture or destroy whatever weapon it finds there, hopefully without being discovered or having to shoot anybody. In the event of the failure of that mission and the launching of a drone or other means of attack, team two, under the command of Ian Rattle, will destroy it the moment it leaves the roof, by any means deemed necessary, up to and including RAF aircraft. These operations are to commence at six AM, London time. The Washington operation will commence at one AM, local time. You are to capture and detain Larry and Curly, the twins known as David and Derek Kimbrough, unharmed if at all possible, and transport them, under guard, to RAF Northolt airfield, from where, later in the day, they will be picked up by an aircraft and flown directly to Dahai. Is that all perfectly clear?”
“Yes, Holly,” Millie replied.
“I assume you’ve recorded this conversation?”
Millie looked at Quentin, who nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then play it back so that no one can doubt the instructions, then destroy the recording. Any questions?”
“Holly, it’s Quentin Phillips. How will the Washington operation be conducted?”
“They will be commanded by Lev Epstein, whose instructions are identical to yours. The Dahai embassy has a sultanate aircraft on the ground at Dulles, and Ali Mahmoud will be placed on that aircraft under armed guard. It will be flown to Northolt, where it will be refueled and take on the twins and be escorted by teams of British and American fighters to the border of Dahai on the Gulf of Aden. The Dahai pilots will be told that if they deviate from that flight plan in any way, their aircraft will be destroyed. Any other questions?”
Quentin shook his head. “No, Holly,” Millie replied, and they both hung up. “Well,” she said to Quentin, “you read their minds, didn’t you?”
“It would seem so,” Quentin replied, then he opened the conference room door and called to Ian, “Do you have — either in service or under development — a helicopter that can fly very, very quietly?”
“I thought you might ask,” Ian replied. “I have already requisitioned it.”
“Thank you,” Quentin said, “and please ask them to have two invalid litters aboard.”
“Already done.”
Quentin smiled and closed the door.
“Do we have such an aircraft in or around Washington?” Millie asked.
“You bet your sweet ass we do, and you can also bet that Lev has already commandeered it.”
61
Dino burst into the FBO, huffing and puffing. “What did you tell me on the phone?”
“That Kevin Keyes somehow circled back to the airport, entered Paul Reeves’s Mustang, reinstalled the emergency door, and took off in the airplane, headed south.”
“Holy shit!” Dino screamed.
“He’s not going to get very far,” Stone said.
“Why not?”
“Because they flew that airplane from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to here, and they have not refueled.”
“How far can he get?”
“My guess is he has about a third of the full fuel load. He’s unlikely to get any great distance with only that.” Stone went to the wall where there was a chart of the state of Maine. “Going south, he could refuel at Bangor, Augusta, or Portland, but I think he’d prefer a smaller airport — say, Bar Harbor, here.” He pointed at the field. “Once refueled, then the world is his oyster, or at least the country is. Funny, I had thought he’d head for Canada, which is only a few miles, but I suppose he had other plans.”
Dino turned to a Maine policeman. “Will you get on the horn and get that airplane met at Bar Harbor — also at Bangor, Augusta, and Portland, just in case?”
“Yes, sir, Commissioner,” the cop said, and dug out his phone.
Stone dug out his own phone. “We may be able to track him,” he said, opening an app. He entered the tail number of Reeves’s airplane and waited for a moment. “There he is,” he said. “This is called FlightAware, and it shows him headed dead straight for Bar Harbor and nearly halfway there. I’d say you’ve got about twenty minutes before he lands, and it will take him half an hour to refuel and take off again.”
The Maine cop put away his phone. “My people from the Ellsworth station will be there in ten or twelve minutes. I told them no sirens, no lights.”
Stone turned to him. “It might be a good idea to call the FBO at Bar Harbor — Columbia Air Services — and tell them to have trouble with the fuel truck. It might be a good time to drive it to the fuel farm and refill the tank, slowly.”
“Is there radar at Bar Harbor Airport?” Dino asked.
“No, not unless they’ve installed it since the last time I was there, last summer.”
“Bob, call our pilots and tell them to get the engines started. We’re going after Keyes.”
“I’m going to hand you off to the captain at that end,” the Maine cop said, handing him a slip of paper. “Here’s his cell number. If you’ve got a satphone, you can call him on the way.”
Dino pumped his hand and thanked him. “Let’s go!” he yelled, and he, his two detectives, and Stone ran for the King Air, the engines of which were already running.
In the air, Dino made contact with the police on the other end, then hung up. “They’re already at the airport,” he said. “You know, I should thank Keyes — this is going to be a lot easier than chasing him around the Maine woods with bloodhounds.”
“I hope you’re right,” Stone said. “We’re getting lower — we must be about to land.” He looked out the window. It was dark, now, but the ramp was well lit. “There’s the airport, and there’s a Mustang on the ramp. No fuel truck present.” They turned onto final approach, and he lost sight of the ramp.