Hot Pursuit

55

The MI6 car picked up Quentin and Millie at the Connaught at seven AM and drove them to headquarters, where they were escorted to the ground floor and a large conference room, with an office to one side for Quentin. His team was already there, unpacking equipment and dealing with the locals about the voltage differences.

Ian Rattle turned up. “Good morning. When can your people start installing your gear in Regent’s Park?”

“Not in broad daylight,” Quentin said. “It’s a black bag job, and they don’t know the territory yet.”

“Have a look at our monitors — we’ve got some aerial shots of the area, and a couple of cameras on the ground.”

“Please take away your ground cameras now,” Quentin said. “We’ll cover all the angles we need, and half our job is not getting spotted. I do want to see the aerial shots, though. For God’s sake don’t have any more overflights, especially with choppers.”

Ian led him over to a large monitor. “Put up the shot from yesterday afternoon,” he said to a tech. An aerial view of a large house surrounded by parkland came into view. “Zoom in to the delivery entrance.”

Quentin peered at the closer shot. “I see a delivery truck unloading some large crates,” he said.

“Three or four of them.”

“Anything longer than, say, four feet?”

“No, there are no air-to-ground missiles in those boxes, if that’s what you’re thinking, unless they’re building them from scratch in the house.”

“Doesn’t seem likely. Do you have or have access to any drones?”

“Possibly,” Ian replied.

“I’d like to know what could be available, by type, range, load, et cetera, and especially hang time.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ian said, then excused himself.

“What do you have in mind?” Millie asked him.

“We’re going to try for the same level of surveillance we have on the Washington site, but that will depend on how difficult it is to get inside. It would be a great help if you could ask Ian or somebody around here if it’s possible to get the plans for this house — maybe from whatever authority issues building permits over here. It’s an old house, so it must have been occasionally updated along the way, especially after the sultan bought it. I’d bet that they did a major renovation at that time.”

“I’ll go find somebody,” Millie said.

The CJ4 took off from Shannon and climbed to flight level 400 (forty thousand feet). Stone watched Pat fly for a while from a forward seat and came back to Dino to report. “We’ve got a twenty-five-knot tailwind,” he said.

“Is that unusual?”

“Yes, the prevailing winds are from the west and southwest. I’ll call Mike Freeman and ask him to send his Mustang for us.”

“Not yet,” Dino said. “I want to make some calls first. Have they got a satphone on this crate?”

Stone pointed at it. “Dial zero-one-one, then the area code and number.”

Stone tried to relax, but he kept thinking about his ruined airplane. It was as though he’d lost a leg. He was accustomed to flying himself wherever he went and on a moment’s notice, and now he was grounded.

Dino hung up the phone. “We got a break,” he said.

“What?”

“I had the NYPD flight department run a check on Reeves’s airplane. He’s filed a report with U.S. Customs saying he’ll land in Presque Isle, Maine, at seven this evening.”

“That sounds impossible for a Mustang,” Stone said, getting out a chart of the North Atlantic. “But maybe he’s taking advantage of the tailwinds, too.” He did some rough calculations. “From Cork, he could have gone to Santa Maria, in the Azores, then to St. John’s, Newfoundland, then Presque Isle. That’s stretching his range a lot, but he does have the tailwinds to help.”

“Maybe he’ll crash into the sea and save us all a lot of trouble,” Dino said.

“Hang on a minute,” Stone said. He got up, went forward, and tapped Pat on the shoulder. “What’s our ETA for Presque Isle?”

She pointed at the top of the multi-function display. “With the time change, six PM Eastern. We’re forecast to get even better winds from the southwest as we get closer to the other side.”

“Given the winds, could Reeves fly to the Azores, then to St. John’s and then to Presque Isle in the Mustang?”

She thought for a minute. “He could very well do that. He departed from Cork — that’s, let’s see, about thirteen hundred miles to Santa Maria, then fourteen hundred to St. John’s. Then only about six hundred and fifty to Presque Isle. His range is thirteen hundred, but that’s at full cruise. If he pulled power, he’d increase his range, and the winds are even better for that route than they are for ours.”

Stone thanked her and returned to his seat. “Reeves can make that schedule,” he said.

Dino picked up the satphone and made a call. “Detective Robert Miller,” he said, “the commissioner calling. Hello, Bob? It’s Dino Bacchetti. Just fine, thanks. I want you to call the flight department and put a hold on our King Air in my name, then get a warrant for Kevin Keyes on the double murder charge and another warrant for a man named Paul Reeves for accessory after the fact. I don’t care if the mayor wants the airplane, you get it. Then I want you to fly to Presque Isle, Maine” — he spelled the name — “and I want you there at six PM sharp. After you land, park the airplane so that it’s not conspicuous to arriving aircraft. Got it? Stone Barrington and I will be arriving about that time in a Cessna CJ4. Got it?” He listened for a moment. “You got it. See you then.” Dino hung up. “Okay, we’ve got a ride back to Teterboro,” he said.