by Stuart Woods
“This I hadn’t expected,” Miller said. “I haven’t issued any international bulletins.”
“Keyes may have arrived in England in Reeves’s Citation Mustang. They were flying the same route we were, but a little ahead of us. I’m afraid I don’t remember the tail number.”
“I’ll get on it right away. Thanks, Stone.” He hung up.
“That’s all we can do,” Stone said to Pat.
“At least he doesn’t know we’re in London,” she said.
“Maybe it’s time to get out of London,” Stone replied.
28
QUENTIN PHILLIPS ARRIVED at the San Francisco FBI office and was immediately admitted to the office of the agent in charge, who awaited him with two young agents.
“Welcome to San Francisco,” the AOC said. “These are special agents Peter Egan and Annie Rogers, who will be helping you. You’re booked into the Fairmont Hotel, a couple of blocks from here, and I’ve put a car at your disposal. Why don’t you go get checked in and have some lunch, then you can drive out to Berkeley.”
“Yes, sir,” Quentin replied.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?”
“Yes, sir. You could have someone from the office telephone the head of the economics department over there and make an appointment for me to see him this afternoon.”
“Certainly. I’ll take care of that.”
—
QUENTIN SHOWERED and had a club sandwich from room service, then went downstairs and got into the backseat of his loaned Crown Victoria. Peter Egan was driving, and Annie Rogers was riding shotgun.
“Okay,” Quentin said, “anybody got any idea where the University of California at Berkeley is?”
“I got my law degree there,” Annie said. “We’ll be there in forty-five minutes or so, depending on traffic.”
Forty minutes later they parked in a campus lot and walked to Evans Hall and the Department of Economics. After a trip up in the elevator and a short wait, they were ushered into the office of the head of the department, Dr. David Schmidt.
Quentin introduced his group, and they all displayed their credentials.
“Please have a seat over here,” Schmidt said, waving them to a seating area, then joining them. “It’s been a long time since this department has had a visit from the FBI,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re seeking information on and the whereabouts of a Jacob Riis—no relation to the journalist—who we believe taught in this department some years back.”
“Ah, yes,” Schmidt said. “That was the last time we had a visit from the FBI.”
“Can you recall the circumstances?” Quentin asked.
“Only as a spectator,” Schmidt replied. “I was too junior to be directly involved. I was an assistant professor at the time, and I came back from my summer break and was introduced to Dr. Riis—or so he called himself. He had been hired as an adjunct professor to teach a class on the economics of Mideast crude oil production, I believe. No one had ever heard of him, but he looked good, especially on paper, and I assume his credentials had been checked, and he made friends easily. He was handsome, charming, well dressed, and seemed to know his subject. Our department head at the time, who is now deceased, was particularly taken with him, and it seemed that he had a future in this department, perhaps even in the university at large.”
“How long was he here?” Quentin asked.
“Until the middle of the spring semester,” Schmidt said. “Then one day he didn’t show up for his class.”
“Was he ill?”
“I don’t know, he just wasn’t here. Dr. Fineman, the department head, had his secretary make inquiries, and someone was sent to his home to see if he was all right. His apartment, in a seedy neighborhood, was uninhabited, and there was no sign that anyone had lived there recently. Dr. Fineman—I got all this from his secretary later—called the police, concerned that he might have come to harm. After a few days they reported back that Dr. Jacob Riis did not exist, at least under that name. The information on his employment application, his academic record and degrees, and his references were either fiction or just lies. Everyone was baffled.”
“Had some incident that might have disturbed Riis occurred? Had anyone come looking for him?”
“No, nothing. In fact, he had had dinner with Dr. Fineman at the faculty club the evening before, and they had parted on cordial terms.”
“To your knowledge, had anyone contacted Dr. Fineman concerning Riis, or had any information emerged about his background?”
“I don’t know,” Schmidt said. “His secretary still works here, though, as head of departmental personnel. She hires and supervises non-academic employees. Would you like to speak to her?”
“Very much so,” Quentin said.
“Give me a moment.” Schmidt went to his desk and made a phone call, then returned. “Her name is Margaret Shames. She’s just down the hall—she’ll be here momentarily.”
A middle-aged woman in a business suit entered the office carrying a file folder, was introduced, and took a chair.
“I’ve been wondering for years if and when someone from your office would turn up.”
“Didn’t the FBI visit the department after Dr. Riis disappeared?” Schmidt asked.
“For about five minutes. They said to file a missing persons report with the local police, and we did that, but nothing came of it.” She placed the file folder on the coffee table. “This is Dr. Riis’s personnel file,” she said. “I made a copy for you.”
Quentin opened the file and glanced through it.
“I know,” Shames said, “it seems perfectly straightforward, even mundane, but then, Dr. Riis didn’t have long to establish a record of working here.”
“Ms. Shames,” Quentin said, “who was in charge of vetting Dr. Riis after he applied for employment here?”
“I was,” she said. “I sent out requests for his academic records and letters to his references, and they all came back seeming authentic.” She paused for a moment, seeming to remember something. “There was something odd, though,” she said.
“What was that?”
“It is my recollection—I had completely forgotten this—that his records and his references came back to us in a single packet that was delivered about a week after my letters went out.”
“Do you remember where the packet came from?”
“No, it was delivered by messenger, I think, in a plain file folder.”
“Didn’t you think that odd at the time?”
“I did, but I was overwhelmed with work at the time, and I never thought to tell anyone or investigate further. His academic record was excellent and his references glowing.”
Quentin looked through the references. “Are these fictitious?”
“Not the names—they were all established educators at various institutions. With hindsight, though, their recommendations were fictitious.”
“May I have the original of this file and leave the copy with you?” Quentin asked.
“I suppose so, if it’s all right with Dr. Schmidt.”
“Perfectly all right,” he responded.
“Dr. Schmidt, did you have any sort of personal relationship with Dr. Riis?”
“Not really. I had lunch with him two or three times in our cafeteria, but that’s it.”
“Did he ever reveal anything of himself during those lunches?”
Dr. Schmidt closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate. “He liked cars,” he said finally. “Fast cars. He always had an auto magazine with him, and he talked about Ferraris and Aston Martins. He also seemed to like wristwatches. He never seemed to wear the same one two days in a row, and they were all expensive—Cartiers, Rolexes, that sort of thing. That’s about it.”
“You said he wore expensive clothes. Did you ever chance to
see a label in a jacket, or anything like that?”
“No, but with hindsight, I would say that they were tailor-made, not off the rack, as they say. They fit him perfectly, and the fabrics didn’t look like those that anyone I knew wore. I didn’t think much of it—lots of people have family money or independent means. Still, he had awfully good taste.”
“You said he liked cars: Did you ever see what he drove?”
Schmidt thought about it. “No, I don’t think I ever saw him drive or get into or out of a car.”
“Any references to his background? Family?”
“I believe he said he was from Los Angeles. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask.”
Margaret Shames left the room, came back with the original file, and exchanged it for the copy she had given Quentin.
On the way back in the car, Quentin looked through the file again, then handed it to Annie. “Send this to the lab and have it checked out—paper types, ink, watermarks—anything they can come up with.”
“Sure thing,” Annie said.
29
OVER BREAKFAST the following morning, Stone tried to make sense of Kevin Keyes’s actions. “There are too many coincidences,” Stone said.
“I’ll grant you, there are coincidences, but they seem to be easily explained,” Pat said.
“Then how come every time we land, Paul Reeves’s airplane is just ahead of us?”
“That’s because we flew the same route. Lots of owner-pilots want to do a transatlantic, and his Mustang wouldn’t be equipped to do it any way but the Blue Spruce route.”
“And why would Reeves choose Keyes to fly with him?”
“Paul knew Kevin through me. I think Kevin did a delivery of his previous airplane—a King Air 190. So Kevin would be a logical choice as a backup pilot. Would you have done the flight alone without me or someone like me along?”
“Good point. Then they end up in the same restaurant with us.”
“It seemed to be a very popular restaurant,” she said. “And I don’t think Reeves or Kevin saw us. We wouldn’t have seen them if Reeves hadn’t been so drunk.”
“Would you mind if we left London early?” Stone asked.
“It’s not my first trip to London. When would you like to leave?”
“After breakfast?”
“Hang on, Dino’s coming this morning and you promised him a room. Let’s give it a couple of days. We can make a point of going to places Kevin wouldn’t know about.”
“You’re right.”
“Where are we going when we go?”
“To the country. Let me have a chat with the concierge about some reservations.”
“Okay, I’m in your hands. I’d like to do some shopping today, if you don’t need the car.”
“That’s all right, I thought I’d visit my tailor and shirtmaker, but I can take cabs for that.”
—
PAT LEFT with Tony and the car, and Stone shaved, showered, and dressed, just in time for Dino and Viv to walk in.
“Hey, buddy,” Dino said, slapping him on the shoulder.
“How was the flight?”
“Not bad. I actually got some sleep, but I think I need some more.” He looked around. “This is some place,” he said.
“A client of Pat’s arranged for Jaguar to put us up. They own the hotel.”
Viv gave him a hug. “You don’t look jet-lagged. How do you do that?”
“I guess our overnight in Iceland helped.” Stone showed them to their room and directed the bellman there when he arrived.
They disappeared into their room, and Stone didn’t want to disturb them, so he left a note. He took a taxi to Mount Street, in Mayfair, to Hayward, his old tailor. Doug Hayward had passed on some years ago, and the shop had been bought by another, larger tailor. When he walked in, he didn’t recognize the place. Doug’s cozy shop had been gutted and replaced with a shopfitter’s dream—lots of chrome and white walls. Les, Doug’s old cutter, was still there, and Audie, who had run the front desk. She didn’t seem to have a desk anymore.
He met the new head cutter and looked at some fabrics. He chose a couple of lightweight cashmeres for jackets and was measured, explaining that he’d have his next fitting when they made their regular visit to New York in the spring.
He went to his shirtmaker, Turnbull & Asser, in Jermyn Street and had a look around. They had a shop in New York now, but he liked to visit the old place. He was looking at ties when Paul Reeves, the Mustang owner, walked in, looking hungover.
Stone picked out some ties and pocket squares, and when he had finished, Reeves was gone, to his relief. He went next door to the bespoke department to order some shirts. As he walked in he heard an American accent.
“Barrington? Isn’t your name Barrington?”
He turned to find Paul Reeves sitting at a table, poring over shirtings. “Yes. Have we met?”
“Not exactly. I was at Flight Safety at the same time as you, but I was in the Mustang class, and you were in the MC2 group.” He offered his hand, and Stone shook it. “I’m Paul Reeves.”
“I’m Stone. What brings you to London?”
“Business, ostensibly,” Reeves replied. “But I really just wanted to fly my airplane over here.”
“Same with me,” Stone said. He thought it better not to mention Pat.
“You’re in the MC2?”
“Right.”
A salesman walked up to the table. “Good morning, Mr. Barrington. May I help you?”
“Yes, thanks.” He turned to Reeves. “Have a good flight home.” He joined the salesman on the other side of the room, and Reeves left after a few minutes, giving him a wave.
“You know Mr. Reeves?” the salesman asked.
“Not until just now.”
“He was asking about you earlier.”
“Really? What did he want to know?”
“He said he thought he saw you in the shop next door, and that the two of you had been in flight school at the same time.”
“Yes, he mentioned that. We were in different classes, and I didn’t meet him at the time.”
“Ah.”
Stone picked some fabrics and ordered his shirts, for delivery at their New York shop. He went back to the shop next door to retrieve his purchases, and as he arrived there it began to rain, so he added an umbrella to his purchases. He managed to get a taxi in Jermyn Street and went back to the hotel.
Dino and Viv were up and looking refreshed and were ordering lunch. Stone picked something from the room-service menu. “How are you spending your afternoon?”
“I was going shopping,” Viv said, “but it’s pouring out there.”
“It certainly is. It’s a shame you missed Pat—she’s got our car and driver.”
As if on cue, Pat bustled in and greeted everyone. Their butler arrived with her packages.
“I saw Paul Reeves this morning,” Stone said.
“Where on earth did you see him?”
“At my shirtmaker’s. Turns out we were at Flight Safety at the same time, he for his Mustang, so he knew me.”
“Did you meet him there?”
“No, I have no memory of him.”
“Very odd,” she said.
“Just another coincidence,” Stone replied. “They’re piling up, aren’t they?”
30
MILLIE HAD JUST arrived home from work when Quentin called.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself. What happened today?”
Quentin related the details of his interview with Dr. Schmidt.
“So our Riis likes fast cars, good clothes, and expensive watches? I guess that’s a start.”
“Our lab is going through his file from Berkeley. We’ll see what they can come up with.”
“You think we have a
ny hope of finding this guy?”
“There’s always hope. The Bureau is pretty good at finding people who don’t want to be found.”
“Yeah, even if it takes years—I read about that.”
“We’re more nimble than we used to be,” Quentin said defensively.
“Don’t tell me, show me.”
“I miss you,” he said.
“I know what you miss,” she replied with a laugh.
“I miss that, too. In fact, I miss the whole package. I’m still stunned with how great a Chinese cook you are.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Not until I’ve wrung California dry for Dr. Riis. His made-up background says he did his undergraduate work at UCLA. It made me think he might have spent some time there, though there’s no trace of a Jacob Riis there, of course.”
Millie’s cell phone rang, and caller ID said NSC. “I’ve got a call coming in from Holly. Talk to you later.”
“You sure will.” He hung up.
“Hello?”
“It’s Holly.”
“Hi.”
“Pack for a week. You’re going to London tomorrow morning.”
“No kidding?”
“I kid you not. The president is making a European tour to rub noses with the various leaders. She starts in London, and she wants me with her. A car will pick you up at six AM and take you to the airplane.”
“Am I going to need anything special in the way of clothes?”
“Sure, bring a riding habit for the foxhunting and a ball gown and a tiara, just in case.”
Millie laughed. “No kidding, what?”
“A business suit or two, a nice dress or two, and one knockout dress, in case we get asked out.”
“I just heard from the FBI.” She brought Holly up to date.
“Well, you’ve done such a good job of motivating the Bureau, we’ll see how you can do with MI6. See you on Air Force One.” Holly hung up.
Millie hung up; she jumped up and down for half a minute, making teenaged-girl noises, then she went to pack.