Hot Pursuit

46

Millie had just given up on the cricket match when Ian Rattle called again. “Are you up for a last-minute invitation?” he asked.

“If it’s a good enough invitation,” she replied.

“Dinner at Dame Felicity’s.”

“Dame Felicity’s what?”

“House.”

“Sounds nice.”

“I hope you brought a good dress. It’s black-tie.”

“I did, and I’ve bought two more since I’ve been here.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“I’ll do the choosing, thank you.”

“I’ll pick you up at six-forty-five. May we meet downstairs at that hour? Dame Felicity is a stickler for punctuality.”

“I will be on time. See you then.” She hung up, emptied two shopping bags, and hung up the three competing dresses for comparison. She awarded the prize to a simple black one that would show off just enough of her ample breasts, and with a slight flare just above the knee. It had not required alterations. She checked her watch, called downstairs and asked the concierge to send up a manicurist in an hour, then headed for a shower and shampoo.

Millie was standing under the outer canopy at the front door, all shiny and new, when a steel-gray Jaguar pulled up front. The doorman helped her into the rear seat next to Ian.

“You look perfectly marvelous,” he said, as the car moved away and into Mount Street.

“Where does Dame Felicity live?” she asked.

“I’m afraid you may not know that,” Ian replied, “and if you figure it out, you are sworn to secrecy. Or I can blindfold you.”

“I swear,” she said. They were there in twelve minutes, and she knew it immediately. It was a house in Wilton Crescent, one that backed up onto Wilton Mews, where the Grenadier was situated.

“You know it, don’t you? I can tell by your look.”

“Well, of course I know it, we had lunch right behind it.”

They got out of the car and rang the bell. “I believe this was formerly the home of Edward Heath, a prime minister of his day,” Ian said. There was no more time for history, because a uniformed butler admitted them, and as they entered the drawing room, announced them. “Mr. Ian Rattle and Ms. Millicent Martindale,” he intoned just loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to bring all conversation to a halt.

Dame Felicity separated herself from a knot of guests and came toward Millie with her hand out. “Good evening, Millie. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. One of my guests died, figuratively speaking, and you are such a lovely replacement. What a perfect dress!”

“Thank you, Dame Felicity. I’m very pleased to be here.”

Shortly she was conversing with the foreign secretary and his wife. The man leaned in and whispered, “I’ve been briefed on your, ah, project, and I am delighted with the results so far.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied.

“You are awfully pretty for a spy,” his wife said, giving her husband a sharp look.

“Thank you, ma’am, but I am only a White House staffer, with no cover story.” Over the next few minutes she was introduced to the home secretary and a Sir Edward Antrim, who, Ian whispered, was the director of MI5, Dame Felicity’s counterpart on the domestic side. At seven-fifteen, the prime minister and his wife arrived and took a glass of champagne, then Millie was introduced to them, she being the only guest with whom they were not acquainted. She thought of curtsying, but then thought better of it.

At precisely seven-thirty a silver bell tinkled, and the butler announced dinner. As they were filing into the dining room the doorbell rang, and another guest was admitted, and more introductions were made around the table.

“Millie, this is Stone Barrington, whom you may already know.”

“Only on the phone,” Millie replied, shaking his hand. His place card was on Dame Felicity’s left, and Millie’s was next to his. The prime minister was seated on her hostess’s right.

A first course of sautéed foie gras was brought immediately, and champagne was poured. Millie tasted it and rolled her eyes.

“Do you like it?” Barrington asked her.

“It is the best champagne I have ever tasted,” she replied.

He laughed. “That’s because it is the best champagne ever made: a Krug 1978 — I caught a glimpse of the label.”

“I shall never drink anything else,” she said, taking another sip.

“The best of luck with that,” he replied, then turned to chat with his hostess.

Millie thought that the back of his head looked better than the face of most men.

“Now may I have your attention?” Ian asked in a low voice. “You’re not going to just sit there and wait for him to speak to you again, are you?”

“Of course not,” she replied with a smile, trying not to blush. “I will dance with who brung me.” As it happened, Stone did not speak to her again during dinner — he was too occupied with Dame Felicity and the prime minister.

The foie gras melted in her mouth, and a second course of fried goujons of Dover sole did, too. The main course came: a perfectly cooked fat duckling, and with it a Chateau something-or-other; she couldn’t see the label — but it was wonderful. A mille-feuille was served for dessert, and when everyone had finished, all the women at the table got up and left the room. Millie suddenly remembered the British custom of the men being left to their cigars and port, and she started to rise, but Dame Felicity stopped her.

“Millie, please remain,” she said. “Stone, would you be kind enough to attend to the ladies? We have business.”

“Of course,” Barrington said. He got up and was let out of the dining room by a man with a bulge under his black jacket and a military haircut, whom Millie had not noticed before.

“Now, if everyone has enough port, two of my guests have information to impart. I thought it better to do this at my home rather than attract attention by a more noticeable meeting of you all. First, Millicent Martindale, who is assistant national security adviser to the president of the United States. Millie?”

Millie noted the inflation of her importance by the omission of “to” from her title.

“From the beginning, please.”

“Dame Felicity, Prime Minister, gentlemen,” she began, keeping her voice low and steady, “after reports from two intelligence sources that a major terrorist plot against the West was being put together, the president assigned my superior, National Security Adviser Holly Barker, and the directors of Central Intelligence and the FBI to locate and identify three deeply buried persons who may be crucial to the effort, who we now call Moe, Larry, and Curly, the Three Stooges.” That got a short laugh. “After an extraordinarily cooperative effort among our services and MI6, we have managed to identify all three. One is located at the embassy of Dahai, in Washington. The other two, while associated with that country, are so far unaccounted for, though a spirited search is under way. In Washington, as of this hour, some three dozen FBI agents and as many technical supporters have undertaken a round-the-clock surveillance of Moe, whose name is Ali Mahmoud and who is the chargé d’affaires at the Dahai embassy. Ian Rattle will bring you up to date on Larry and Curly.”

Ian took a sip of his port. “Dame Felicity, Prime Minister, gentlemen. Larry and Curly are believed to be the natural sons of the sultan of Dahai, mothered by an Egyptian member of his harem thirty years ago. They were sent to Britain to study at Eton, where they led an unusually sequestered existence, chaperoned by a member of the sultan’s household and supported by funds sent through the Devin Bank from the account of Sheik Hari Mahmoud, who is very likely the father of Moe, Ali Mahmoud.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Rattle,” the prime minister said suddenly, “are we to understand that the whereabouts of these two men, now grown, are unknown to your service?”

“They are being actively sought, Prime Minister. This should be thought of as a preliminary report.”

“Dame Felicity?” the prime minister said.

“Prime Minister,” she replied, “there is a beginning, a middle, and an end to every operation. We are now in the middle of this one.”

“I see,” the prime minister said, though he obviously did not.

“Now,” Dame Felicity said, “I think we’ve kept the ladies waiting long enough.” They rose and went back to the drawing room.

Later, as the guests were leaving, Stone Barrington took Millie’s hand. “I’m delighted to have met you face-to-face,” he said. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

“Thank you,” she replied, “I’ll look forward to that.” She watched Barrington kiss his hostess on the cheek, then get into a waiting car.

Back in the car, Ian said, “You did very well.”

“You did better than could have been wished, in the circumstances,” Millie replied, “and Dame Felicity backed you.”

“Thank God for that,” Ian said.