Hot Pursuit

27

Three thousand miles and a big time change away, Stone and Pat were using their time well, at least until room service interrupted them by turning up with breakfast. They managed to climax everything just in time for the knock on the door.

“The front desk has booked you a cab in ninety minutes,” the waiter said, putting the tray and a paper bag with their sandwiches on the bed, then retreating.

They breakfasted greedily, showered, packed, and were downstairs with the bill already paid when the cab turned up. Half an hour later Stone sat in the cockpit, running through the checklist while the fuel truck did its work and Pat filed their flight plan. By the time she got in and closed and locked the cabin door, Stone had his clearance from the tower and had one engine running. Now he started the other. He listened to the latest recorded weather, then asked for a taxi clearance. Five minutes later they were climbing to flight level 410 and headed toward an invisible intersection halfway to Scotland.

At noon, local time, they ate their sandwiches and settled down for the last hour of the flight. Scotland was under its permanent national cloud cover, but Stone sighted land on the synthetic vision display. “Land, ho!” he said.

“I knew you were going to say that,” Pat replied.

“It’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?”

“Only if you’re on a boat.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

They passed over the northern coast of Scotland a few miles from the closest airport, Stornoway, and they were handed over to Scottish ATC. The controller, for reasons Stone could not fathom, seemed to have an Italian accent. With ten minutes left on their three-hour flight plan they passed Birmingham and were given vectors to the Instrument Landing System at Coventry, but they popped out of a cloud with the airport in sight and made a visual approach.

Stone set down on the six-thousand-foot runway and came to a stop, but he couldn’t see a taxiway.

“There’s no taxiway,” Pat said.

He spoke to the tower and was told to reverse-taxi to the first exit, and when he did so, he found a small group of people waiting on the ramp, among them a large man leaning against a Jaguar XJ sedan. The Mustang they had been seeing along the way was parked on the ramp with nobody aboard.

“That’s my client Johnny MacDee,” Pat said, nodding toward the man with the car. “You’ll like him.”

Stone liked him immediately; he was warm, bluff, and welcoming. Pat made the introductions. “Where’s your airplane?” Pat asked.

“My CJ4 arrived this morning at the Citation Service Center at Doncaster, north of here, for the pre-buy inspection,” he said. “It’s going to be there for a week or so. I’m sorry for the delay,” Johnny said, “so by way of apology, I’ve arranged for you to stay in the Jaguar suite at the Taj Hotel, in Buckingham Gate, London. You’ve already cleared customs.” The driver of the car got out. “This is Tony Ridgeway, who will be your driver while you’re here. If you want to get out of town, you can ditch him and take the car. I’ll keep you posted on the progress of the inspection, and, Stone, the folks here will hangar your airplane while you’re here, if you like.”

“I certainly like,” Stone said. He unloaded their luggage, Tony put it into the Jaguar, and after turning off the airplane’s battery and installing the engine covers, they were on their way to London, with Tony driving swiftly and smoothly through the English countryside.

In London they drove past Buckingham Palace and down a street into a central courtyard, surrounded by the hotel. Stone didn’t know the Taj; he usually stayed at the Connaught, but when they were shown into the Jaguar suite, he didn’t mind the change. They had two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen, and study, all of it filled with Jaguar mementos. Their butler, Sergio, explained that Jaguar owned the hotel, and that the company’s design department had decorated the suite.

Stone’s cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“It’s Dino. You alive?”

“Don’t I sound alive?”

“How was the transatlantic?”

“A piece of cake. I had a good copilot.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll be at the Connaught.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Stone said. “Cancel the Connaught, and when you arrive, tell your driver to take you to the Taj Hotel, in Buckingham Gate. We’ve got a large suite. Trust me, you’ll love it.”

“Whatever you say, pal. I always unquestioningly accept your recommendations of hotels and restaurants.”

“Is Viv going to fly back with us?”

“No, she’s staying in London for ten days, doing some work for Strategic Services.” Dino’s wife, Viv, was a retired police detective, now an executive of the second-largest security company in the world. “I’m going to be here for the better part of a week, too, meeting with various security people in the government. If you have to be back soon, you’ll have to fly home alone.”

“I don’t need that. I’m good for a week here, anyway.”

“See you the day after tomorrow, then,” Dino said, and hung up.

That evening, Tony drove Stone and Pat to Langan’s Brasserie, an old favorite of his. The place was as crowded as ever, and Stone insisted that Pat order the spinach soufflé as a first course, which came with hollandaise sauce flavored with anchovy.

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like it,” Pat said. “Good choice.” They both had the Dover sole and a good bottle of white burgundy. The only distraction was from a drunk at the other end of the restaurant who was singing, dancing, trying to disrobe, and, in general, making an ass of himself. Finally, the management came to his table and, apparently, requested his immediate absence; he was shepherded out of the restaurant by two men from his table, followed by the rest of his party.

“That’s a relief,” Stone said. “I feel sorry for the people at the adjacent tables.”

“I know the guy,” Pat said. “His name is Paul Reeves, and he’s the owner of the Mustang we’ve been seeing in our travels. I’m just glad he didn’t see me.”

“I’m glad, too.”

“I have another reason for being glad,” Pat said. “One of the two men who got him out of the restaurant was Kevin Keyes.”

“Oh, shit,” Stone said.

“Who do we call about that?”

“Hang on a minute.” Stone got up and walked quickly from the restaurant. As he came out the front door a large, old Daimler limousine drove away from the curb, down the block, and turned a corner.

Stone went back inside and called Robert Miller.

“Miller.”

“It’s Stone Barrington, Bob. I’ve just seen Kevin Keyes.”

“Great! Where?”

“In Stratton Street, London.”

“London, Ontario?”

“London, England. He just drove away with a man named Paul Reeves, an American, who was roaring drunk and got thrown out of a restaurant.”

“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.