by Stuart Woods
“Mason, report,” Carpenter said into the cellphone. “Mason? Where are you?”
Stone stared at the screen. He didn’t like this at all.
“Mason!” Carpenter shouted. “What? What’s happening?” She listened. “It’s still there?”
“The car,” Dino said. “I’ll bet it’s in the garage.”
Stone held up a hand for silence; he was listening to Carpenter.
She closed the phone. “Morgan’s gone,” she said. “His luggage is gone, and most of his clothes. The Morris Minor is in the garage, empty.”
“Is it a two-car garage?” Stone asked.
“Yes.”
“Then he had another car. The device was in the back of the Morris Minor; while Morgan painted, Lance took it and left the money in the car. Morgan drove home, garaged his car, then got into the other car, which was packed and ready to go, and just drove away.”
Carpenter turned to Plumber. “Full-scale alert—every airport, every seaport, every police patrol car. Photographs of Cabot and Morgan faxed everywhere, the continent, too. Call Interpol and explain the situation. I want them both back, and the device, too. Especially the device. What’s the longest Cabot and Morgan could have been gone?”
Plumber looked at his watch. “Forty minutes for Cabot; Morgan would have needed another, say, fifteen minutes to return to the house and leave again.”
“Establish a perimeter at eighty miles,” Carpenter said. “Right now, Cabot could be, say, forty miles away, driving fast, and Morgan less. Every road blocked; turn out the local police, but don’t tell them why we want these two.”
Stone picked up a photograph. “Is this Morgan?”
“Yes,” Plumber replied.
“I want to see his house.”
“Me, too,” Dino said.
Carpenter handed Stone the keys to the Jaguar. “Give them a map,” she said. “I can’t spare anybody to go with you, Stone.”
Stone took the keys and ran for the car.
“I want to drive,” Dino said.
55
DINO GOT THE CAR STARTED AS STONE got in. “Don’t waste any time,” Stone said.
Dino hung a right out of the carpark and found himself staring at a moving van coming straight at him in his lane. “Shit!” he yelled, whipping to the other side of the road and nearly running into the ditch.
“Sorry, I forgot to warn you about that first right turn.”
“Maybe I don’t want to do this after all,” Dino said.
“Shut up and drive,” Stone said. “Just remember which side of the road you’re supposed to be on.”
“Very weird, driving on the left,” Dino said. “But I’ll get the hang of it.”
“Soon, please.”
They followed the map into the small village and to Morgan’s street. All the houses seemed identical.
“It’s gotta be the one with no front door,” Dino said, whipping into the driveway.
They walked into the house to find Mason and his people pulling the place apart. A man appeared from the kitchen. “I found a safe in the garage,” he said.
Everybody trooped through the kitchen to the garage. There was, indeed, a safe, the door open, empty.
“He put that in for the device,” Mason said. The group started to pull the garage apart.
Stone motioned Dino back into the house.
“What are we looking for?” Dino asked.
“Anything that might give us a hint where Morgan has gone—travel brochures, reservation forms, anything. You take the desk.”
Dino began going through the desk drawers, while Stone walked around the living room slowly, looking at everything. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it. There was a large television set, and an easy chair and ottoman parked in front of it. On the ottoman was a stack of magazines; Stone began to go through them.
A television guide, a well-marked racing form, a couple of girlie magazines, and a travel magazine. Stone flipped through the travel magazine twice before he found something. A corner of one page had been dog-eared, then flattened again. The page was a continuation of an article on country inns that began earlier in the magazine; there was only one ad. “Take a look at this,” he said to Dino.
“Nothing in the desk,” Dino said. “No secret compartments, no travel receipts, nothing.”
Stone held out the magazine. “This page has been marked,” he said.
Dino looked at the ad in the lower right-hand corner. A photograph of a large country house dominated it. “What’s Cliveden?” he asked, pronouncing it with a long i.
“Cliveden, with a short i, was the country house of Lord Astor, before the war. His wife, an American woman named Nancy, who was a member of parliament, ran a very big salon there. Everybody who was anybody showed up at one time or another—George Bernard Shaw, Charlie Chaplin—and every literary or political figure of the time.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“I read a book about it.”
“So why is this important?”
“It’s a hotel now, and it’s near Heathrow. Suppose Morgan wanted to lie low for a few days, until the heat was off at the airports, then beat it out of the country? He’s got to know everybody will be looking for him.”
“Could be,” Dino said. “You want to check it out?”
“Have we got anything else to do?”
“Nope.”
“Then let’s do it.”
They were on the M4 motorway, driving fast.
“Why aren’t we looking for Lance instead?” Dino asked.
“Two reasons: First, Lance is a lot smarter than Morgan, I think, and he’s going to be a lot harder to find; second, Morgan has my money.”
“And that’s the important one, huh?”
“You bet your ass; I don’t give a damn about the device, whatever it is, but Carpenter and her people don’t give a damn about my money, either.”
Following a small map in the magazine ad, they found the house.
“Jesus Christ,” Dino said, as they drove up the drive and came to the place. “I didn’t expect it to be so big.”
“Neither did I,” Stone said, getting out of the car. He took the photograph of Morgan from his pocket and showed it to Dino. “This is our guy.” Morgan was late fifties, heavyset, balding, with graying hair and a military mustache.
“I’ll bet he shaved before he left the house,” Dino said.
They walked into the building, into an enormous living room, ornately decorated.
“Wow,” Dino said under his breath. “This Astor guy knew how to live, didn’t he?”
They approached the reception desk. “Show them your badge,” Stone whispered.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” the young woman behind the desk asked.
Dino flashed his badge. “We’re looking for a man,” he said.
Stone handed her the photograph. “His name is Morgan, although he may be using an alias. It’s possible he’s shaved his mustache, too.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Sir William Mallory, and no mustache; he booked in a week or so ago, sent a cash deposit, checked in half an hour ago.”
“Where can we find him?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” the young woman said.
“What’s his room number?”
“He didn’t check all the way in,” she replied.
“Pardon?”
“He came to the desk; a porter brought his luggage; he registered, then he left. He seemed very nervous; he was sweating, I remember.”
“Did he show you any kind of identification?”
“Yes; he didn’t want to use a credit card, insisted on paying cash in advance, so I asked him for identification. He showed me a British passport.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said he’d forgotten something at his London house; he’d have to go back for it.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A raincoat
and a trilby hat, which I thought was odd, since the weather is so nice at the moment.”
“How much luggage did he have?”
“Two large cases and a sort of canvas bag.”
“Describe the canvas bag, please.”
“A kind of satchel, roomy, like a Gladstone. The porter told me after he’d gone that he’d insisted on carrying it himself.”
“Where would I find the porter?”
The young woman raised a finger and beckoned a man in a uniform. “These gentlemen have some questions about Sir William Mallory,” she said.
“Yes, sir?” the porter said.
“How did he arrive?”
“By car, sir.”
“What kind of car?”
“A Jaguar from the sixties—dark blue—quite beautifully restored, inside and out. His luggage was fitted to the boot, except for the valise.”
“Did you, by any chance, take note of the number plate?”
“It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Back to London; he said he’d forgotten something important.”
“Thank you very much,” Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.
“Good call, Stone,” Dino said, “but now we’re going to have to get Carpenter’s people on the case; he could be anywhere.”
Stone dialed Carpenter’s cellphone.
“Yes?” She sounded harried.
“It’s Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?”
“Yes, it’s famous, but how did you know he went there?”
“He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel.”
“Is he still there?”
“No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he’d forgotten something in London and had to go back for it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes; he’s traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He’s driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot.”
“Stone, that’s very good. Would you like a job?”
“I’d like my money back,” Stone replied. “And if I were you, I’d double your effort at Heathrow; it’s very near here, and that’s where I’m going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?”
“Which terminal? There are four.”
“International departures?”
“Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”
“Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”
“Right.”
Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”
“This is a long shot,” Dino said.
“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”
56
LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.
The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.
Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.
Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.
“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”
“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”
“Any particular altitude?”
“Ten.”
“Ten thousand?”
“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”
“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”
Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”
“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”
Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”
The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”
“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”
The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.
“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.
“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.
“What do you sell?”
“Whatever’s in demand.”
They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.
“Come right to one niner five degrees,” Lance said. He reached forward and turned a knob on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected “create user waypoint,” and entered some coordinates. “Climb back to a thousand feet,” he said.
The pilot leveled off at a thousand feet, and Lance reached forward, switched on the autopilot, and pushed the NAV button. The airplane swung a few degrees onto a new heading. “Let it fly the airplane for now,” he said. He checked the distance to waypoint; one hundred eight miles.
“What are we landing on?” the pilot asked.
“A farmer’s field,” Lance replied. “You’ve got about three thousand feet of length and all the width you need.”
“Any lights?”
Lance pointed to the rising full moon. “That,” he said, “and some car headlights.” He tuned the number one communications radio to 123.4 MHz and held the microphone in his lap.
Forty-five minutes later, Lance spoke again. “Descend to five hundred feet.” He spoke into the microphone. “It’s me; you there?”
“I’m here,” Ali’s voice said.
“Wind?”
“One eight zero, light. I’m already parked.”
“Switch on your headlights, and put them on bright; turn them on and off, once a second.” Lance scanned the horizon.
“Five hundred feet,” the pilot reported.
“We’re five miles out,” Lance said. “Look for headlights, flashing on and off, and land
into them, on a heading of one eight zero.”
The pilot leaned forward and searched the ground ahead of him.
“Four miles,” Lance called out.
“I don’t see anything.”
“They’re there. Three miles.”
“Nothing.”
“Dead ahead, see them?”
“Got them!”
“A mile and a half; get lined up; can you see the tree line?”
“Yes, the moonlight is good.”
“Just miss the trees and aim for the car. You should have a soft touchdown.”
The pilot punched off the autopilot, swung right, then back left, lining up on the headlights. He put in full flaps and reduced power.
“Minimum speed, and for God’s sake, don’t hit the trees,” Lance said.
The pilot switched on both the landing and taxi lights, faintly illuminating the grass beyond the trees. He floated over the treeline, chopped the throttle, and put the airplane firmly down on the field, standing on the brakes. He swung around in front of the car and stopped.
“Keep the engine running,” Lance said, reaching behind him for the catalogue case. He got out, opened the door to the luggage compartment, and started handing bags to Ali. “Tell Sheila to turn off the headlights,” he said.
Ali went to the car, and a moment later, the lights went off.
Lance leaned into the airplane. “Wind’s light,” he said to the pilot; “you should be able to take off due north. Keep it low all the way.”
The pilot nodded. “Good luck,” he said.
“Enjoy the bike,” Lance replied. “The registration’s in the saddlebags.” He closed the door and watched as the pilot ran the engine up to full power, then released the brakes. Lance winced, thinking he might not make the trees, but then the little airplane was off the ground and climbing steeply. He ran back to the car and got into the passenger seat, while Ali got into the rear.
Sheila put the car in gear and drove slowly off the field. When she was into the trees, she switched on the headlights and found the track through the woods.