Hot Pursuit

42

Millie got excited. “That’s great news. Can you e-mail it to me?”

“Already done,” Quentin said. “Mind you, the photo is fifteen years old, and it’s not perfect, but our lab can do some work on it to help bring it up to date.”

“And when will we see that?”

“Later today, maybe tomorrow. I’ve put a rush on it.”

“That’s terrific. I’ll pass it on to MI6. Talk to you later.” She hung up and turned back to Ian. “That was my FBI guy. He’s turned up a fifteen-year-old photograph of Moe.” She went into her phone and found the e-mailed photo. “There,” she said, holding it up for inspection. The photo showed a young couple sitting on a stone wall with some mountainous scenery in the background.

Ian examined it closely. “Not bad,” he said. “Pity we can’t judge his height, since he’s sitting down.”

“I’ll e-mail it to you,” she said, and did so, copying Holly.

“I’ll send it on to our wizards and see what they can tell us from it.”

“The FBI is doing the same.”

Ian asked for the check, and Millie excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. Once there, she called Holly.

“What’s up?”

“Quentin just called. He’s found a photo of Moe, and I’ve e-mailed it to you.”

“Just a minute,” Holly said. “Okay, got it.”

“Both the FBI and MI6 are working on it. I’ll copy you on any results.”

“You do that.”

“Something else: I’ve just had lunch with Ian Rattle, from MI6, and he’s concerned about Stone Barrington.”

“Why on earth would Stone concern him?”

“Stone is on some sort of watch list that alerts MI6 when he enters the country.”

“That sounds like Felicity wanting to know when he’s here, for her own purposes. Is he in the country?”

“They got word that he was reported at a country inn in Devon, but he’s not shown as having entered at any port or airport of entry.”

“Let me call you back,” Holly said.

Millie used the toilet and was freshening her makeup when Holly called back. “I talked to Stone’s secretary. Here’s what happened: Stone flew his own airplane across the Atlantic and landed at Coventry Airport. They have customs there, but apparently didn’t check him in. That sort of thing happens with general aviation.”

“Okay, I’ll pass that on.”

“Anything new on the Stooges from Ian?”

“Not yet.”

“Where did Rattle take you for lunch?”

“A pub called the Grenadier, in Belgravia.”

“I know it well. Word has it, Rattle is something of a rake, so watch yourself.”

“I’ll watch him,” Millie said. They said goodbye and hung up, and she returned to the table. “I have some news on Stone Barrington,” she said.

“Fire away.”

“He flew his own airplane across the Atlantic and landed at Coventry. Apparently, the officials there didn’t bother checking him in.”

“Ah, makes perfect sense. I’ll pass that on.”

“To Dame Felicity?”

“To a list of people who will want to know.”

He walked her back to her car, which was waiting nearby. “I see you’ve got Denny for a driver,” he said.

“You approve?”

“He’s good. He’ll get between you and any passing bullet, and he’s a damned good shot.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Can I drop you anywhere?”

“Where are you headed?”

“To Harrods.”

“I’m going the other way. I’ll find a taxi.”

She shook his hand, got into the car, and Denny drove her away.

“Interesting companion, your lunch mate,” Denny said.

“He speaks highly of you, too.”

“I saved his arse once. Don’t be misled by the good suits and haircut. Ian is very good at what he does, and that includes killing, when he needs to. He’s almost as good a shot as I am.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“He’s honey for the honeybees, too, if you catch my drift.”

Millie laughed. “I believe I do.”

She spent two hours in Harrods, then Denny drove her back to the Connaught, where a fax from Quentin awaited her.

“The lab ran Moe through our facial recognition software and came up with zilch,” he said. “Attached are two versions of how he might look today.”

She looked at the photos: one with a receding hairline and a little more weight; one with a short beard. She studied them carefully, committing them to memory.

Holly arrived around six, and they ordered drinks.

“I just got this fax from Quentin,” she said, handing her the report.

She read it carefully. “Let me see the photographs,” she said.

Millie handed them to her. She studied both carefully. “Holy shit,” she said.

“What?”

She handed Millie the photo with the beard. “This one. I saw him at a party in D.C. the night of the Inaugural Ball. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Someone told me he was some sort of official at the Saudi embassy.”

“Could it have been the Dahai embassy?”

“Maybe.” She got out her secure cell phone and called a number.

Millie waited to see who she was calling.

“Lance? It’s Holly.” She gave him a description of the man, while Millie photographed the image and e-mailed it to Lance Cabot.

“Do you know him?”

“No,” Lance replied.

“I saw him at a big party in D.C. on inaugural night. I remember he had a good-sized diamond in one ear, I’m not sure which.”

“I’ll get somebody on it.”

“We need a name and a location,” Holly said. “This one is very important.”

“We’ll do our best,” Lance said.

Holly hung up. “Progress at last,” she said.