Severe Clear

by Stuart Woods

  “Just because I’m a paranoiac doesn’t mean that somebody doesn’t want to harm the president. I’m paid to be a paranoiac.”

  “My very point,” Mike said.

  Rifkin went back to his warren, looking troubled.

  27

  Hamish McCallister, aka Ari Shazaz, got off an airplane at San Jose International and presented himself at an immigration window, handing the female agent his British passport, which contained a permanent visa. He was dressed in a Savile Row suit and a necktie, very probably a rare sight for the agent.

  She looked him up and down, smiled slightly, compared his face to the photograph, then swiped the document and gazed at her computer screen. “Welcome to the United States, Mr. McCallister,” she said, handing back his passport.

  “Thank you,” Hamish replied. “It’s good to be back.” He strolled through customs with his finely made Italian luggage on a cart, and caught a taxi at the curb, giving the man an address in Palo Alto. He dozed as the taxi made its way south and came fully awake only when the driver announced his arrival.

  He paid the fare, added a tip, and the driver set his bags on the curb and drove away. Hamish disliked carrying his own luggage, but he picked up the two bags and walked into the building.

  He emerged from the elevator into an office suite that featured his younger half sister, Jasmine, as the receptionist.

  She ran around the desk and kissed him. “Welcome to the USA!” she nearly shouted. “Mo? He’s here!”

  Mohammad Shazaz came out of an office and embraced his older half brother. “We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival,” he said.

  “Is Dr. Kharl here yet?”

  “Arrived day before yesterday.”

  “And your computer genius?”

  “I’m afraid there have been problems there, but nothing that can’t be fixed. He bolted after three days of work, but he got an amazing amount done. I’ve hired a student at Stanford, a Saudi, to complete his work.”

  “That’s what you should have done in the first place,” Hamish said. “Now, there are two things to be done: first, find me a home.”

  “Already done. I’ve rented a large, furnished flat in a building near here. Dr. Kharl is there, already working.”

  “Have you given anyone the address?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The second thing we have to do is to move out of these offices at once. Your bringing Chang from New York has compromised this address.”

  “Already done,” Mo replied. “I’m just waiting for our computer man to finish his work. He says he’ll have us up and running by the end of the day.”

  “All right. Where’s the flat?”

  “Jasmine will drive you there and get you settled. There’s nothing for her to do here anyway.”

  Hamish shoved one of his bags toward her. “Let’s go. Jet lag is already creeping up on me. I need to have a drink and some dinner and go to bed.”

  Jasmine picked up the heavy bag. She was well muscled from working out, and he suspected she might be stronger than he.

  —

  The flat was large, comfortably furnished, and commanded views east across the southern end of San Francisco Bay. Hamish immediately poured himself a scotch and found some sandwiches in the fridge, then Jasmine led him to the master bedroom, which featured a mirror over the bed. “My God,” he said, “the mind boggles.”

  “Last time I was in Abu Dhabi, my room had one,” she replied.

  “Where’s Kharl?”

  “Dr. Kharl is sleeping. He’s had a hard time with the jet lag, coming all the way from Dubai.”

  “Let him sleep. The way I feel, I wouldn’t be able to understand anything he says.” She left him alone. He unpacked, put on his pajamas, and crawled gratefully into bed. He was asleep almost immediately.

  —

  He awoke the following morning with sunlight streaming into the room, but he wasn’t fully awake until he had showered. He dressed and went looking for the kitchen. He found Dr. Kharl eating cereal.

  “Good morning, Dr. Kharl,” Hamish said.

  “Ah, Ari,” the diminutive man said, rising.

  They shook hands and embraced. “Please remember, I’m Hamish. No one must ever hear the other name.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “What is that you’re eating?” Hamish asked, nodding toward the cereal bowl.

  “Sugar Puffs. Wonderful! Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you, I’ll forage.” He found some English muffins and a toaster, then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “So, my good doctor, how does it go?”

  “Very well,” the doctor replied. “I have everything I need, except the rare thing.”

  “That will arrive in due course.”

  “Mohammad found a very nice Louis Vuitton steamer trunk and two matching cases in a pawnshop, of all places.”

  “Even the affluent have been pressed hard during the recession,” Hamish said. “Is it presentable?”

  “They have the look of age and use. You may see for yourself,” Dr. Kharl said, then had a second bowl of the cereal.

  —

  Half an hour later, Hamish regarded the trunk with approval. “That will pass muster, I believe,” he said. He loved old trunks, but he had never traveled with one.

  Mo came into the room bearing a laptop computer. “Our man finished his work and tested it around midnight last night,” he said. “We are now up and running.” He set the computer on a desk and plugged it in, then he showed Hamish how to find his way into the secret website.

  “Good,” Hamish said. He entered the three e-mail addresses of his operatives and typed a short message. “Arrived last evening,” he typed. “Request a status report from each of you today. This address is your entry point.” He signed it “Algernon,” sent the message, then he walked across the room to Dr. Kharl’s worktable and inspected the parts arrayed there.

  Dr. Kharl entered the room. He had been near the top of the Pakistani team that had created that country’s arsenal and he had sold his talents to the highest bidders, which had turned out to be Iran and the People’s Republic of North Korea. Now he lived in Dubai, mostly retired, but he was available to credible and discreet clients. He had been provided with a passport that allowed him into the United States. He took a roll of plans, weighted one end, and spread it out on the table.

  “Did you bring this into the country?” Hamish asked, incredulous.

  “On film secreted on my person,” the doctor replied. “I had it printed at a photo shop. The operator hardly glanced at it. He thought it was a piece of refrigeration equipment.”

  Hamish breathed easier. “Will it actually fit into the trunk?”

  “I am tailoring the dimensions to the trunk.”

  “I see, and it’s a good idea,” Hamish replied. “A very good idea.” He thought he already knew how to get it into its final resting place. “Mo, where are the three smaller units?”

  “They are being assembled from parts we imported by an agent in place,” he said. “They will be delivered tomorrow, and you will be walked through their operation by Dr. Kharl, who will complete their assembly.”

  Hamish nodded. “I must set up a meeting in L.A.,” Hamish said. “Do we have a suitable place?”

  “I have rented a small hangar at Santa Monica Airport. Sorry, but I had to take it for three months. It wasn’t cheap.”

  “At least it’s convenient,” Hamish replied.

  “What transportation is available? I don’t want my name to appear on any passenger lists.”

  “There is a Cessna Caravan available with a reliable pilot. It will carry anything we can stuff into it.”

  “Good.” He sat down at the computer and sent a message to Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, summoning them to a rendezvous three days hence.

  28

  The following day Hamish was driven by Jasmine to a large storage facility outside Palo Alto, where a double garage had been rented. Sh
e opened the door with a remote control, drove inside, switched off the engine, and closed the door. The only objects in the garage were a large steel locker, a ratty-looking, chest-style freezer, and a folding table.

  A young man awaited them. He had set three small suitcases on the table. “Good day,” he said. No introductions were made.

  “Let’s see what you have for me,” Hamish said.

  The young man opened the three cases and exposed their contents. “I have followed the plans given me,” he said. “What we have is simple, really: the necessary wiring, a space to contain a cube of plastic explosive, six inches on a side—about a kilo—and a kitchen timer, which can only be started or stopped with a key.”

  “Show me,” Hamish said.

  The young man took three identical objects from his pocket: each was a T-shaped piece of stainless steel with a hexagonal tip. He inserted one of them into a device and turned it to the right. The kitchen timer came on, set to thirty minutes, and began counting down. “At zero, the blasting cap will fire and set off the plastique.” He turned the key back to vertical, then to the left. “If you turn it to the left, the cap will fire instantly.”

  “And the option requested?” Hamish asked.

  The young man put a fingernail under a small flap and raised it, exposing a row of four tiny switches. “As you see, all the dip switches are in the up position.” He flipped the left-hand switch down. “That’s all you do, and the two firing positions—timer and instant—are reversed.” He flipped the switch up again.

  “And how will the plastique be connected?”

  “In this space here,” he said, unlatching a larger flap and lowering it. He took out a short length of wire dangling into the space. “You simply plug this into the blasting cap, then push the cap into the plastique, and you’re good to go.”

  “Excellent,” Hamish said. “I prefer things simple. Jasmine, pay the gentleman.” He turned and walked toward the car.

  Jasmine opened her purse, took out a small pistol with a silencer, and shot the young man in the head. He collapsed into a heap, and she shot him in the head once more. “Give me a hand,” she said.

  The two of them dragged the limp corpse to one side of the garage where the beat-up freezer chest hummed. She opened it, and they lifted the body into the chest, then closed and padlocked it.

  Hamish closed the three small cases and put them into a steel locker next to the freezer, along with the keys.

  “When you arrive at Santa Monica airport tomorrow,” Jasmine said, “the explosive packs will be waiting for you.” She locked the cabinet and handed Hamish the key.

  “No, you keep it,” he said. “I’ll want you to pick up the three cases and the keys tomorrow and deliver them to the Cessna Caravan at the airport. I will be transporting my luggage.”

  They got back into the car, and she drove him to the flat.

  —

  Everything go okay?” Mo asked as they came in.

  “Perfectly,” Hamish said. “Jasmine performed brilliantly.”

  29

  Stone heard the front door slam upstairs. They had arrived. There were bumping sounds as Peter put his luggage into the elevator, then footsteps on the stairs, and then Peter came into Stone’s office, followed by his girlfriend, Hattie Patrick, and Dino’s son, Ben Bacchetti.

  Stone embraced Peter and kissed him on the cheek, then Hattie, then had a manly handshake with Ben. “How are you all?”

  “Everybody’s fine,” Peter said. “I’ve got to run Hattie and Ben home, then I’ll be back for lunch, all right?”

  “All right. Helene’s in there cooking Greek food right now. You sure you won’t all stay for lunch?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Okay, I’ll put my car in the garage,” Peter said.

  —

  They sat at the kitchen table and chattered as Helene served them moussaka.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Marla Rocker tomorrow to see some of her casting choices,” Peter said. “Is Marla coming to L.A. with us?”

  “No, she’s staying here to work on your play,” Stone replied. “She’s going to be very busy for a while, so I won’t be seeing much of her.”

  “So, she dumped you, huh?” Peter asked.

  Stone twitched. The kid was getting too smart. “We agreed to let it go.”

  “So you’re going alone?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have friends at the hotel. You’re meeting one of them in a couple of days.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Her name is Felicity Devonshire. She’s British.”

  “Who is she? What does she do?”

  “She’s a civil servant in London.”

  “A civil servant?” Ben asked. “Does that mean she’s in intelligence?”

  “Don’t ask,” Stone said. “And when you meet her, don’t start asking probing questions.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said, “we’d only get lied to. You said a couple of friends. Who else?”

  “Holly Barker will be there.”

  “The one at the CIA? Great! I finally get to meet her!”

  “Holly has recently been promoted. She’s now assistant director. In fact, she’ll be traveling with the president and Mrs. Lee, who, you will remember, is her boss.”

  “Who will Felicity be traveling with?” Peter asked.

  “With us, aboard the Strategic Services airplane.”

  “What kind of plane?” Ben asked.

  “A Gulfstream 550.”

  “Wow! I guess there’ll be room for us all—Dad, too.”

  “And Viv. Plenty of room for all.”

  “And where is Felicity sleeping?” Peter asked.

  Stone looked at him sharply.

  “Well, Dad, if Marla’s dumped you . . . you need female companionship.”

  “It runs in the family,” Hattie said.

  “Felicity will have her own quarters. She’ll be there to meet with the president and Mrs. Lee.”

  “So, she’s a pretty high-up civil servant?” Peter asked.

  “Pretty high up.”

  “This is going to be interesting,” Peter said. “The three of us have made some L.A. arrangements of our own.”

  “Oh?” Stone asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Leo Goldman is going to give us all a tour of Centurion Studios.”

  “That sounds like a great idea.”

  “And I’m going to get to play with the studio orchestra, when they record a film score,” Hattie said. Hattie was a brilliant young pianist, who was studying musical composition at Yale, while Peter and Ben were at the School of Drama.

  “Good, then you can watch the movie on television for years to come.”

  “And we’re going to get to meet some movie stars,” Ben said.

  “You’ll meet lots of them at the hotel’s opening festivities. Centurion has taken twenty-five suites for their people.”

  “Then there’s the Immi Gotham concert,” Peter said. Immi Gotham was Centurion’s greatest star and a wonderful singer; critics had called her a combination of Meryl Streep and Barbra Streisand.

  “Along with the Beverly Hills Philharmonic,” Hattie said. “It’s really going to be something!”

  “The whole event is going to be something,” Stone said. “Every suite and room is booked.”

  “If there are two hundred suites and rooms,” Peter asked, “how are they going to fill up the fifteen hundred seats in the Arrington Bowl?”

  “There’s an invited audience,” Stone said. “The Bowl has its own entrance and parking, separate from the hotel’s. People have been fighting over the tickets for months. The Times says scalpers have been offering ten thousand dollars a ticket and getting no takers.”

  “There’s never been anything like this, has there, Dad?”

  “Not in my memory. Centurion is making a documentary film about it, and it’ll be shown on TV at Christmas.”

  “Dad, can we rent a car while we’re there?”


  “You have to be twenty-five to rent a car these days. I’ll arrange for you to go to Centurion in a hotel car, and Leo can send you back in one of his.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You’re going to have to get used to a lot of security at the hotel,” Stone said, “what with two presidents and a lot of other VIPs. You’ll be issued ID cards, and you can’t get in or out of the hotel grounds without them.”

  “All the time, or just for this event?” Peter asked.

  “Just for this event,” Stone replied. “After the opening, it’ll be just like any other hotel.”

  “Has there ever been another hotel like this one?” Ben asked.

  “Well, there are some very fine hotels scattered around the world,” Stone said. “But The Arrington will be unique, I think.”

  “You know, I think Mom would have liked all this,” Peter said. “I mean, she had already given her permission to build the hotel on the property, but I really think she would have loved the way it’s turning out.”

  “I think she would have, too,” Stone said.

  Then they all ate quietly for a while.

  Finally, Peter asked, “When is Felicity arriving from London?”

  “She arrived yesterday,” Stone said, “but she’s been resting.”

  “Is she staying with us?”

  “No, she’s staying at the residence of the British ambassador to the U.N. He has quite a nice house.”

  “Dad,” Peter said gravely, “I want you to know that it’s all right for you to have sleepovers when I’m here.”

  Stone didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Thank you, Peter, that’s very kind of you.” And he meant it.

  30

  Stone hired a driver and picked up Felicity Devonshire at the ambassador’s residence. “You look radiant, as always,” he said, holding both her hands and looking her up and down.

  “And you are a great flatterer, as always,” she replied. “Where are we having dinner?”