Stone Barrington: The Short Forever Part 42

"Have we got anything else to do?"

"Nope."

"Then let's do it."

They were on the M4 motorway, driving fast.

"Why aren't we looking for Lance instead?" Dino asked.

"Two reasons: First, Lance is a lot smarter than Morgan, I think, and he's going to be a lot harder to find; second, Morgan has my money."

"And that's the important one, huh?"

"You bet your a.s.s; I don't give a d.a.m.n about the device, whatever it is, but Carpenter and her people don't give a d.a.m.n about my money, either."

Following a small map in the magazine ad, they found the house.

"Jesus Christ," Dino said, as they drove up the drive and came to the place. "I didn't expect it to be so big."

"Neither did I," Stone said, getting out of the car. He took the photograph of Morgan from his pocket and showed it to Dino. "This is our guy." Morgan was late fifties, heavyset, balding, with graying hair and a military mustache.

"I'll bet he shaved before he left the house," Dino said.

They walked into the building, into an enormous living room, ornately decorated.

"Wow," Dino said under his breath. "This Astor guy knew how to live, didn't he?"

They approached the reception desk. "Show them your badge," Stone whispered.

"May I help you, gentlemen?" the young woman behind the desk asked.

Dino flashed his badge. "We're looking for a man," he said.

Stone handed her the photograph. "His name is Morgan, although he may be using an alias. It's possible he's shaved his mustache, too."

"Oh, yes," she said. "Sir William Mallory, and no mustache; he booked in a week or so ago, sent a cash deposit, checked in half an hour ago."

"Where can we find him?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," the young woman said.

"What's his room number?"

"He didn't check all the way in," she replied.

"Pardon?"

"He came to the desk; a porter brought his luggage; he registered, then he left. He seemed very nervous; he was sweating, I remember."

"Did he show you any kind of identification?"

"Yes; he didn't want to use a credit card, insisted on paying cash in advance, so I asked him for identification. He showed me a British pa.s.sport."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said he'd forgotten something at his London house; he'd have to go back for it."

"How was he dressed?"

"A raincoat and a trilby hat, which I thought was odd, since the weather is so nice at the moment."

"How much luggage did he have?"

"Two large cases and a sort of canvas bag."

"Describe the canvas bag, please."

"A kind of satchel, roomy, like a Gladstone. The porter told me after he'd gone that he'd insisted on carrying it himself."

"Where would I find the porter?"

The young woman raised a finger and beckoned a man in a uniform. "These gentlemen have some questions about Sir William Mallory," she said.

"Yes, sir?" the porter said.

"How did he arrive?"

"By car, sir."

"What kind of car?"

"A Jaguar from the sixties-dark blue-quite beautifully restored, inside and out. His luggage was fitted to the boot, except for the valise."

"Did you, by any chance, take note of the number plate?"

"It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Back to London; he said he'd forgotten something important."

"Thank you very much," Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.

"Good call, Stone," Dino said, "but now we're going to have to get Carpenter's people on the case; he could be anywhere."

Stone dialed Carpenter's cellphone.

"Yes?" She sounded harried.

"It's Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?"

"Yes, it's famous, but how did you know he went there?"

"He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel."

"Is he still there?"

"No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he'd forgotten something in London and had to go back for it."

"Anything else?"

"Yes; he's traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British pa.s.sport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He's driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot."

"Stone, that's very good. Would you like a job?"

"I'd like my money back," Stone replied. "And if I were you, I'd double your effort at Heathrow; it's very near here, and that's where I'm going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?"

"Which terminal? There are four."

"International departures?"

"Terminal four; I'll find a man for you."

"Tell airport security he's shaved his mustache, and he'll be carrying a canvas valise; he won't check it."

"Right."

Stone hung up. "Heathrow, my man."

"This is a long shot," Dino said.

"It's the only shot we've got."

56.

LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.

The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a b.i.t.c.h was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.

Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman's signal for "park here." The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.

Lance unstrapped a salesman's catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the pa.s.senger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.

"Beautiful bike," the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. "Where to, old sport?"

"That way," Lance said, pointing south. "I'll direct you."

"Any particular alt.i.tude?"

"Ten."

"Ten thousand?"

"Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous."

"We'll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I'd suggest a thousand feet."

Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. "Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum alt.i.tude, and fly a heading of one eight zero."

"Below the radar? I could get into trouble."

Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. "You like the BMW?"

The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. "How far we going?" he asked. "Will I need to refuel?"

"Less than two hundred miles," Lance replied. "If you topped off as requested, you'll have fuel for there and back."

The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. "Lighthouse," he said, and started a descent.

"Careful you don't b.u.mp into any shipping," Lance said.

"A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2," the pilot said. "What line of work are you in?"

"I'm a salesman," Lance replied.

"What do you sell?"

"Whatever's in demand."

They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the sh.o.r.e lights of Normandy came into view.

"Come right to one niner five degrees," Lance said. He reached forward and turned a k.n.o.b on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected "create user waypoint," and entered some coordinates. "Climb back to a thousand feet," he said.

The pilot leveled off at a thousand feet, and Lance reached forward, switched on the autopilot, and pushed the NAV b.u.t.ton. The airplane swung a few degrees onto a new heading. "Let it fly the airplane for now," he said. He checked the distance to waypoint; one hundred eight miles.

"What are we landing on?" the pilot asked.

"A farmer's field," Lance replied. "You've got about three thousand feet of length and all the width you need."

"Any lights?"

Lance pointed to the rising full moon. "That," he said, "and some car headlights." He tuned the number one communications radio to 123.4 MHz and held the microphone in his lap.