“Who the hell is Hamish?”
“He’s an asset of the Agency who reports only to Kate and me.”
“How did that come about?”
“Your cousin, Dick Stone, was running him when he was still station chief in London, and when he left London he handed Hamish off to Kate, who kept him. I think she found it entertaining that she had her own asset that nobody else knew about.”
“I hope that relationship doesn’t come back to bite her on the ass,” Stone said.
“Funny, that’s what she said.”
A waiter brought them each a huge lobster salad.
“I hope you don’t mind my ordering for you,” Stone said.
“Not a bit if it’s lobster salad.”
“I understand the lobsters here are flown in from Ireland.”
“Ireland? Whatever happened to Maine?”
“The Irish lobsters have a very high reputation, but nearly all of them are sold to the French. It’s just one of those little touches that makes The Arrington The Arrington.”
Holly dug into her salad. “God, this is good. Maybe they have a point about the Irish lobsters.”
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I’d love that, but I have to remain stone-cold sober for the rest of the day. Iced tea will do nicely.”
Stone ordered her an iced tea. “Do you have any time off coming?” he asked.
“I’ve got about two years of vacation I haven’t used,” she replied.
“Tell you what, why don’t you fly back to New York with us and spend a few days there with me?”
“That’s very tempting,” Holly replied. “Let me talk to Kate-maybe we’ll have a bit of a lull when this business here is all over.”
“You do that.”
They finished lunch and chatted for a while. Holly checked her phone to be sure she hadn’t missed a call. “I’ve got to get back,” she said, “there’s too much going on.”
Stone signed the check and stood up with her. “Call me when you know if you can fly back with us.”
“I’ll do that.”
They headed off in different directions, Holly toward where she had parked her cart.
“Holly? Is that you?” a voice from a table behind her said. A familiar voice.
She turned and looked over her shoulder. He sat there, sipping an espresso, beautifully turned out in a white linen suit. “Hamish?!”
“Good afternoon,” Hamish said, rising to greet her.
“But I spoke to you in London yesterday. What are you doing here?”
“I caught a ride on a friend’s corporate jet. We landed this morning. I wanted to stay here, but of course that was impossible, so I’m at the Beverly Hills.”
Holly’s cell phone buzzed at her belt. She grabbed it. “Excuse me a moment,” she said to Hamish, then walked a few paces away for privacy. “Hello?”
“It’s Tom Riley: scramble.”
She scrambled. “Okay, what?”
“We went into the house this morning, but it was empty, except for staff.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, since Hamish is sitting at a table in The Arrington’s garden restaurant, sipping espresso, just a few yards away from me.”
“It begins to make sense,” Tom said. “We checked out the car phone on the Bentley and found an agency GPS card in it. We checked with the doorman at Annabel’s-the car was parked out front all evening, but Hamish and Mo were not in the club. We’ve been chasing our own tails.”
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” Holly said defensively. “Now I’ve got to go and wrap this up. Bye.” She hung up and turned back to where Hamish sat. He was gone.
Hamish walked quickly through the back of the garden and got into the white Cayenne at the curb with Hans at the wheel. “Did you pick up my two bags?”
“Yes, in the back.”
“How about your device?”
“In the spare tire well, under the trunk.”
“Drive normally and get us out of here.”
Stuart Woods
Severe Clear
54
Holly darted around the restaurant, looking for Hamish. She opened the men’s room door and shouted his name. A man elbowed past her. “Sorry, wrong guy.”
“Is there anyone else in there?” she shouted at him.
“Not a soul, lady.” He hurried away.
Holly got on her phone. She had to look up Steve Rifkin’s number, which took a minute. Finally, she had it ringing.
“Rifkin,” he said.
“It’s Holly Barker.”
“I’m going to have to call you back,” Rifkin said.
“No, no!” But he had already hung up. She looked up Mike Freeman’s number and tried that.
“Freeman,” he said.
“Mike, it’s Holly Barker.”
“How are you, Holly?”
“Listen, Hamish McCallister is on the hotel grounds.”
“Who?”
“Algernon!”
“How do you know that?”
“I just had a conversation with him in the garden restaurant, but I lost him. Can you alert your security people? It’s vital that we interrogate him.”
“Is he registered at The Arrington?”
“No, at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“Description?”
“Five-nine, bald with a dark fringe of hair, one-sixty, tanned.”
“Any particular place we should look?”
“Everywhere!”
“Did you call Steve Rifkin?”
“I did, but he couldn’t talk and hung up on me.”
“We’re on it.”
“Call me when you find him.” But Mike had already hung up.
The white Cayenne approached the main gate and slowed; the uniformed guard, recognizing the car and driver, waved them through.
“Turn left,” Hamish said. “LAX, British Airways.”
“You’re leaving the country?” Hans asked.
“No, but I want certain people to think so.”
Traffic was moderately light at that time of day, and half an hour later, the car stopped at the curb.
“Stay in the car,” Hamish said. “I’ll deal with the luggage. Here are your instructions: drive to Santa Monica Airport and go to the hangar where the Cessna Caravan is stored. The pilot will be waiting there. Drive the car inside the hangar. I’m going to check my bags through to London, then I’ll take a cab to Santa Monica, and we’ll fly north from there.”
“What about the device?”
“Leave it alone. I’ll deal with it when I arrive.”
“Got it.”
Hamish got out of the car, and Hans pressed the button to open the hatch. Hamish allowed a porter to take the two bags. “London,” he said, “first class.” Then he opened the spare tire well, opened the device case, inserted his key into the lock, turned it clockwise ninety degrees, then set the timer for forty-five minutes. He closed the case, closed the lid, and pressed the button to close the hatch. He slapped the car twice on the fender, and Hans drove away.
Hamish followed the porter to the first-class ticket counter, checked his bags, cleared security, and went to the first-class lounge. He was sitting at a table by the window with a drink, looking north, when the device detonated at Santa Monica Airport. A crowd gathered at the window, staring at the towering smoke and flames five miles to the north.
Hamish had seen all he needed to. He got out his throwaway cell phone and sent a text to Wynken. At 8:20 P.M. sharp set device for thirty minutes and leave the area. Wynken would get quite a surprise when he turned the key in the device.
Then Hamish relaxed, finished his drink, and ordered another.
Holly went to Stone’s cottage and hammered on the door. Stone opened it and took one look at her. “What’s going on?”
Holly went into the house, dialing Mike Freeman’s number.
“Freeman.”
“It’s Holly. Have you found him?”
“He’s in none of the obvious places,” Mike replied. “We’re searching the grounds, and Steve Rifkin’s people are helping, and Steve has sent a team to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
“When you find him, bring him to Stone’s house in handcuffs.” She hung up.
“Bring who here?” Stone said. “And why in handcuffs?”