Hot Pursuit

32

Millie waited with Holly in a closed road behind the American embassy for the president to come down.

Holly looked around her. “The last time I was here someone had driven a delivery truck into this alley and unloaded a large crate outside that door down there.” She pointed. “When the bomb it contained went off, it blew a chunk out of the building and injured people in every direction. There were a couple of dozen dead, too.”

Millie didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t respond.

Her phone rang, and she answered it. “Yes?”

“It’s Quentin,” he said.

“Pretty early in the morning in California, isn’t it?”

“I’m back in D.C. I took the red-eye, and I haven’t been to bed yet.”

“Anything new?”

“We met with the head of the business school at UCLA yesterday afternoon.”

“Did you get anywhere?”

“We didn’t have a name or a photograph, but when I described Riis and his taste in fashion and cars, the president’s executive assistant, who had been a student at the time, remembered him, and they even had a record of him. He was registered under the name of Harold Charles St. John Malvern, and his record showed him as having studied at Eton and Oxford. He was at UCLA for a little more than a semester, right before he turned up at Berkeley as Jacob Riis. He was British and something of a ladies’ man, it seems. Our office out there is trying to run down some of his female acquaintances, and, overnight, his record at UCLA was scrutinized. He was highly recommended by the head of his college at Oxford, the headmaster at Eton, and two members of the House of Lords — all forged, of course, but beautiful forgeries that impressed our lab. The letterheads were real, and the signatures appeared to be genuine, until the gentlemen denied any knowledge of Harry, as he was called.”

“Good work!”

“It’s ongoing. I’m going to get some sleep now, and I’ll call you when I have more. Bye.”

A gate at the other end of the alley opened and, led by two Metropolitan Police vehicles and followed by as many black SUVs, the president’s limousine pulled up by the door where the bomb had been placed. Holly and Millie waited by the car until the president emerged a minute later, talking on her cell phone, and they followed her into the car.

Millie sat back in her jump seat and was impressed by the foot-thick car doors and the two-inch-thick glass in the windows. She had never felt safer. The president continued her phone conversation until they had driven through an alley behind the anonymous building that housed MI6 and had been greeted at the door by Dame Felicity Devonshire. Only then did she hang up her phone and introduce Holly.

“Holly and I have met, of course,” Dame Felicity said. “How are you, my dear?”

“Very well, Dame Felicity,” Holly said. “May I introduce my colleague Millicent Martindale?”

Millie was greeted warmly and followed the group into an elevator that opened into an elegant foyer that opened into Dame Felicity’s large office, which Millie thought looked more like an Oxford library than a workspace. A gleaming burled walnut table in the center of the room had been set for lunch with handsome silver and beautiful china, but they were first shown to sofas and chairs across the room.

Chitchat was kept to a minimum. “We’re anxious to hear about any progress on your investigation of the Eton twins,” the president said, “and, of course, we’ll bring you up to date on our investigation.”

“Madam President, immediately after I received your telephone call and your request, I assigned various groups to the task,” Dame Felicity said. She opened a file folder and consulted her notes. “The twins led a sequestered existence at Eton,” she said. “They showed no interest in athletics at the school and devoted themselves to language studies and reading. They were cared for by a well-tailored gentleman, not British, but a reasonable facsimile, who took rooms at a local inn, where he received the boys on a weekly basis. They always returned with fresh haircuts and, we suspect, their blond hair retouched at the roots.

“On the pretense of an audit of the Devin Bank by the Bank of England, records were unearthed of the money that flowed through the bank to pay the boys’ expenses, which were considerable. The funds were transferred from the Bank of Dahai, in the small sultanate of the same name, which is sandwiched between Yemen and Oman, on the southern border of Saudi Arabia. The funds originated from the account of one Sheik Hari Mahmoud, a shadowy figure who hovered around the edges of the sultan’s court, and who was said to own more camels and goats than any man in the kingdom save the sultan himself. The source of this display of wealth was, of course, not livestock but oil, with which the kingdom is richly endowed.

“On the day the boys left Eton, we believe them to have been taken directly to Heathrow Airport, from whence a large private aircraft belonging to the sultan departed for Dahai. There is no record with customs and immigration of the boys having been seen at Heathrow, but they have not been seen anywhere since. An inquiry at the London embassy of Dahai met with blank stares and a denial of any knowledge of the twins. That is where we are at the moment, but we have assets in Dahai, and the investigation is being pursued there.”

“Thank you, Dame Felicity,” the president said. “Holly, what have you to report?”

Holly recounted the investigation to the point where the head of the economics department at Berkeley was interviewed. “I believe my colleague Millicent has later information to report.” She turned to Millie and waited.

“Madam President, Dame Felicity,” Millie began, “I have had the most recent report from our FBI agents in California only a few minutes ago. The agent in charge of the investigation, Special Agent Quentin Phillips, informs us that a man using the alias of Jacob Riis was hired by the economics department of the University of California at Berkeley to teach a class on the economics of oil production in the Mideast. He subsequently left without giving notice, and an investigation into his background and references conducted by the university yielded only that his name and credentials were false.

“Armed with only a physical description of the man, Special Agent Phillips called on the head of the business school at the University of California at Los Angeles, a member of whose staff recognized the description of the man in question and identified him as one Harold Charles St. John Malvern, a British subject and a student at UCLA fifteen years ago, who arrived with references from Eton, Oxford, and two members of the House of Lords, and who spent less than a full academic year at the university before disappearing. The FBI has since confirmed that all of these references were forgeries, albeit very good ones. And that is where we stand at the moment. I regret that this information is so fresh that we have not yet compiled a written report, but you will have one before the day is out.”

“Thank you, Miss Martindale,” Dame Felicity said. “It appears that we all have an intriguing mystery to solve. Now, may we have lunch?” She moved to the table, and her guests followed.

The conversation at lunch was fairly inconsequential, but Millie found it fascinating. She did not speak unless spoken to.