Hot Pursuit (22 page)

THE MI6 CAR
picked up Quentin and Millie at the Connaught at seven
AM
and drove them to headquarters, where they were escorted to the ground floor and a large conference room, with an office to one side for Quentin. His team was already there, unpacking equipment and dealing with the locals about the voltage differences.

Ian Rattle turned up. “Good morning. When can your people start installing your gear in Regent’s Park?”

“Not in broad daylight,” Quentin said. “It’s a black bag job, and they don’t know the territory yet.”

“Have a look at our monitors—we’ve got some aerial shots of the area, and a couple of cameras on the ground.”

“Please take away your ground cameras now,” Quentin said. “We’ll cover all the angles we need, and half our job is not getting spotted. I do want to see the aerial shots, though. For God’s sake don’t have any more overflights, especially with choppers.”

Ian led him over to a large monitor. “Put up the shot from yesterday afternoon,” he said to a tech. An aerial view of a large house surrounded by parkland came into view. “Zoom in to the delivery entrance.”

Quentin peered at the closer shot. “I see a delivery truck unloading some large crates,” he said.

“Three or four of them.”

“Anything longer than, say, four feet?”

“No, there are no air-to-ground missiles in those boxes, if that’s what you’re thinking, unless they’re building them from scratch in the house.”

“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.

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.”

Ian seemed speechless. “And what’s your best guess as to what they’re going to do with it?”

“There are too many things they could do with it,” Quentin replied. “The mind boggles.”

Millie came into the room. “What’s up?”

Quentin told her. “Where is the president?”

“In Rome.”

“When does she get back to Washington?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“I don’t suppose she could add another couple of cities to her tour, could she?”

“It takes weeks, maybe months, to plan that sort of thing.”

“I was afraid of that.”

Ian was taking all this in. He picked up a phone. “Get me Ten Downing Street,” he said, “the PM’s private secretary.” He waited for a while. “Sir Robert? This is Major Ian Rattle at MI6. Can you tell me, please, what is the PM’s schedule for the next few days?” He listened for a minute or so. “He looks to me as though he needs a rest. Do you think you could get him to go down to Chequers for a few days? I see. No, I’ll get back to you later today, after I speak to Dame Felicity.” He hung up and dialed an extension. “I’d like to come and see her now,” he said. “Right.” He hung up and turned to Quentin and Millie. “We’re seeing her in ten minutes.”

—

TEN MINUTES LATER,
Dame Felicity was sitting in an armchair, waiting for them. “Please sit down,” she said, “and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Quentin?” Ian said.

“No, you,” Quentin replied.

“Ma’am,” Ian said, “we’ve come to believe that the Kimbrough twins in London and Ali Mahmoud are assembling drones on the rooftops of their respective buildings.”

Dame Felicity thought about that for a moment. “Do you know what kind of drones?”

Ian looked uncomfortable. “Not yet. They’re doing the work under the shelter of marquees erected for the purpose.”

“Both of them? Simultaneously?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That is alarming.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Special Agent Phillips, has your surveillance picked up any phone calls or electronic messages that refer to this activity?”

“No, ma’am. I checked with my team in Washington. Mahmoud has gone all quiet, and we don’t have our taps here in yet.”

Dame Felicity picked up a phone from a table beside her. “Please video-conference me with Director Lance Cabot at the CIA and Assistant Director Lev Epstein at the FBI.” She put down the phone. “This is going to take a few minutes,” she said. “Special Agent Phillips, while we’re waiting, can you give me some idea of what we’re dealing with?”

“I’ll try, ma’am,” Quentin said. He took a deep breath and began.

STONE SAT
and stared out the airplane window at the North Atlantic far below.

“You’re not getting depressed, are you?” Dino asked.

“Not exactly. I’m just thinking about what not having an airplane means, and that’s pretty depressing.”

“So why don’t you get a new one? The process ought to cheer you up. You just told me about the CJ something or other.”

“CJ3 Plus,” Stone said.

“The one that has exactly the same avionics that your, ah, former plane had?”

“Yes.” Stone brightened, and slapped Dino on the knee. “You’re a genius,” he said.

“All I did was repeat what you told me.”

“Exactly.” Stone took out his iPhone and looked up the name of the Cessna salesman who had handled the sale of the M2. He put away the iPhone, picked up the satphone, and dialed the number.

“David Hayes.”

“Hi, David, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Hello, Stone. What can I do for you?”

“Is the new CJ3 Plus certified yet?”

“Almost.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re waiting for final approval.”

“If I ordered one today, when would it be delivered?”

“Hang on, let me check the printouts.”

“See?” Dino said. “You’re looking happier already.”

David came back on the line. “I’ll have to double-check this with the factory, but it looks like about seven weeks. The airplane is already off the line, waiting for an interior and avionics installation. It already has a pretty high spec.”

“Read me the list of equipment.”

“Well, it’s got the Garmin 3000 panel.”

“Read me the options installed.”

“Okay, it’s got an Automatic Direction Finder, which you won’t use in the States but is good to have if you want to sell it overseas, Synthetic Vision, provision for high-frequency radios, Garmin datalink, Terrain Awareness Warning System—TAWS A, XM weather and radio, locking fuel caps, and Angle of Attack Indexer. On the interior it’s got the refreshment center with optional side-facing seat, sheepskin cockpit seats, dual satphones, Aircell high-speed Internet service—U.S. only, and the Hawthorne interior. You might still be able to change the interior fabrics at this point, and we’ll paint the airplane to your specs.”

“How much retraining would I need?”

“None. The cockpit is identical to your M2, but you’ve got seven hundred more miles of range, four hundred and twenty knots of speed, and you can go up to flight level 450.”

“Add the HD radio to the list, call the factory and get me a confirmed delivery date and a price. Same paint scheme as the M2.”

“I’ll do that.” Hayes hung up.

“You look downright cheerful now,” Dino said. “See what a satphone call can do?”

“And I wouldn’t have to retrain,” Stone said happily. He went forward to the cockpit and tapped Pat on the shoulder. “How far out are we?”

“It says here an hour and eight minutes to Presque Isle.” Stone thanked her and went back to his seat. “An hour and eight minutes,” Stone said.

Dino picked up the satphone, checked the number, and dialed. “Bob? It’s the commissioner. Where are you? Good, we’ll be in about forty minutes behind you. Listen, I think you’d better get somebody from the Maine State Police out there. We don’t want to step on any toes.” He listened. “Great, you’re thinking ahead.” He hung up. “They’re going to beat us there,” he said. “Looks like all’s right with the world.”

“Reeves and Keyes are armed, you know,” Stone pointed out.

Dino frowned. “You think they’re going to want to shoot it out with us?”

“Whataya mean, ‘us’? I’m not armed.”

“I should have asked Viv for her gun.”

“Maybe so. Listen, I think the way to do this is to let U.S. Customs go in first.”

“And let them do our dirty work?”

“It’s not that, it’s that they’re expecting customs, so they won’t be on their guard. We’re probably going to be there before Reeves lands. You can talk with them about it then.”

“Okay.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Stone asked.

“You’re supposed to stay out of the way,” Dino said. “I’ve got two detectives and the Maine State Police for backup. I think we can handle it without your help.”

“And you are welcome to do so,” Stone said, sitting back in his seat and relaxing.

The satphone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

“It’s David Hayes. The airplane is yours, if you want it. I added the HD radio in.” He quoted a price.

Stone haggled a little, and they came to an agreement. “I’ll wire you the deposit tomorrow morning.” Stone hung up happy. “I’ll have a new CJ3 Plus in seven weeks. You want to come out to Wichita and make the first flight with me?”

“I’d rather make the second flight with you,” Dino said. “Or the fifth. Maybe you’ll know what you’re doing by then.”

Shortly, the airplane began to descend. Stone could see a low line of land appearing out of the mist ahead of the wing.