Severe Clear

56

Kelli Keane dressed for the Immi Gotham concert. She had been saving her best dress for the event, and she thought she looked sensational, while remaining entirely professional. The image in the mirror was very reassuring.

What was not reassuring, however, was Hamish’s advice to her on the phone earlier. He wanted her to leave the hotel because of a likely disturbance to come; he had already left the hotel-left the country, in fact, and without checking out. This didn’t make any sense.

He had not actually used the word “terrorist,” but “disturbance” sounded to her like British understatement. She needed to tell somebody about this, she reckoned, but she didn’t fancy walking up to some security guard and trying to explain to him, or his boss, that a slight acquaintance had warned her to leave the hotel because of a possible “disturbance.”

She checked her makeup one last time. Stone Barrington: he was plugged into everything at the hotel; he’d know what to do with this information.

She grabbed her clutch bag, left her room, and got into her electric cart, then drove to the reception building and walked to the building behind it that she understood to be Stone’s cottage. She rang the doorbell and waited, then rang it again.

A man in a white-jacketed uniform finally answered the door. “Yes, may I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Kelli Keane, from Vanity Fair magazine, and I’d like to speak to Stone Barrington.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Barrington isn’t in right now,” the man said.

“When do you expect him?”

“Probably not until later tonight, certainly not until after the concert. He’s having drinks at the presidential cottage right now, and they’re all going to the concert together.”

“That’s just across the street, behind this house?”

“Yes, ma’am, but you’re not going to get in there without an invitation. The Secret Service will see to that.”

“Thanks very much,” Kelli said, and left the cottage. She walked around to the street behind and looked at the presidential cottage. Two men in dark suits stood at the door.

She went back to the cart. She wasn’t about to get into it with the Secret Service; maybe she’d see Stone at the concert. Perhaps she should just go straight there now; it was getting dark, and her press pass didn’t give her reserved seating.

She drove down to the Arrington Bowl and found a parking spot, then wandered in with the crowd, which was streaming in in great numbers, all in formal dress. The place was beautiful, spread out in a fan shape with a lovely band shell as if from some gigantic scallop.

The orchestra was beginning to take their seats, now, and a concert grand piano stood at center stage. Tune-up sounds wafted from the pit. Kelli looked at her watch: seven P.M. They would be starting any minute.

She looked over her shoulder and up to a private box near the top of the seating area. The president and first lady were entering and finding seats, while a file of others followed them. She saw Stone among them.

She ran up the stairs to the top of the Bowl and around the seats toward the presidential box. She could already see a man and a woman with pins in their lapels moving to head her off.

Kelli stopped. “My name is Kelli Keane, I’m from Vanity Fair magazine.”

“Yes?” the man said.

“It’s extremely important that I speak to Mr. Stone Barrington, who is sitting in the presidential box.”

The man and the woman exchanged a glance. “Will you come this way, please?” the woman said, slipping her hand under Kelli’s arm. They led her to one side of the box and out of its view. “Now,” the man said, “please let me see your press pass.”

Kelli dug the pass from her bag and handed it over.

“And who was it you wanted to see?”

“Mr. Stone Barrington.”

“What is the nature of your business?”

Another man joined them from the direction of the box, then just stood and listened.

“It’s a personal matter,” Kelli said. “If you could please just ask Mr. Barrington to step over here for a moment.”

Then the other man spoke. “You’re from the press, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Kelli Keane, from Vanity Fair. ”

“Thank you,” the man said to the Secret Service duo. “It’s all right, I’ll deal with this.” The two nodded and stepped away.

“Thank you,” Kelli said. “I was beginning to have visions of being taken away in handcuffs.”

“I’m Michael Freeman,” the man said, “from Strategic Services. We’re in charge of security here. You seem very concerned. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I wanted to tell Stone, because he could tell the right people, but I guess you’ll do.”

Mike smiled. “I’ll do. What is it?”

“Well, there was a man from London at the hotel named Hamish McCallister. He called me from the airport this afternoon and said I should leave the hotel before the concert, that there would be some sort of disturbance.”

The audience burst into applause as the conductor strode to the podium and bowed, then a disembodied voice rumbled through the crowd. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, our special guest, Miss Hattie Patrick, of the Yale School of Music, who will perform our opening number with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.”

A pretty young girl walked onto the stage, bowed once to the audience, and sat down at the piano.

“Wait right here,” Mike said to Kelli. “Don’t move.”

A clarinetist began the opening trill to “Rhapsody in Blue” and the orchestra joined in, followed by the guest pianist.

For a moment, Kelli forgot her anxiety and just let the music wash over her.

A moment later, Mike Freeman was back with Stone and two other men. Mike led them up a flight of stairs to an exit, and they stopped on the lawn.

“Kelli, what is this about Hamish McCallister?” Stone asked.

“I had dinner with him the other night, and we got along very well. Then, this afternoon, he called me from the airport and asked me to fly to London with him. I said I couldn’t, I had to cover the concert, and he told me, in a very serious manner, that I should avoid the concert and leave the hotel and go back to New York.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said there would be a serious disturbance at the hotel tonight.”

“At the concert?”

“No, he said at the hotel. Or, at least, that’s what I inferred.”

“Kelli, this is my friend Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti from the NYPD, and this is Special Agent Steve Rifkin, who is in command of the Secret Service presidential detail.”

“How do you do?” Kelli said to the two men.

“Thank you for letting us know about this,” Stone said. “We’re aware of Mr. McCallister and that he’s on a plane to London.”

“How did you know that?” Kelli asked, ever the reporter.

“We got word,” Stone replied. “The airplane will make an unscheduled stop in New York, and Mr. McCallister will be removed from the flight.”

Steve Rifkin spoke up. “It would be helpful if you could make yourself available for further interviewing after we have Mr. McCallister in custody.”

“What do you suspect him of?” Kelli asked.

“There’s nothing specific at the moment,” Rifkin replied. A radio on his belt crackled, and Rifkin answered it. “Tell the chief of the bomb squad to meet me at the top of the Bowl right now.” He replaced the radio on his belt.

“Bomb squad?” Kelli asked. “Is there a bomb somewhere around here?”

“The grounds have been thoroughly searched,” Rifkin replied, “and security has been very strict with anyone entering the grounds. It’s very unlikely that anyone could have smuggled a bomb in. Anything large enough to hold a significant bomb would have been searched immediately.”

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” Kelli said. “Tell me, would a steamer trunk be large enough?”

Everyone turned and stared at her.