Everyone’s luggage was loaded into Stone’s and Dino’s cars, and they departed for Teterboro. The big Gulfstream 550 was parked outside the Jet Aviation terminal, and the crew supervised the loading of the luggage. Shortly, everyone was seated, and the big cabin gave everyone room for comfort.
The stewardess checked their seat belts and gave them the lecture about the oxygen masks and the life jackets, then the engines were started and shortly, the airplane began to roll. Runway One was active and their taxi was short. Stone watched as the pilot shoved the throttles forward, and they roared down the runway. For a while they were vectored at low altitude by ATC, until they were clear of the approaches to Newark Airport, then the aircraft climbed to its cruising altitude, and the stewardess brought everyone mimosas, straight orange juice for the kids.
Stone went forward to the cockpit. “Mind if I ride jump seat for a while?” he asked the pilot.
“Sure, make yourself at home. Do you fly?”
Stone sat down and buckled his seat belt. “Yes, I fly a Citation Mustang. I just wanted to see what you have in the way of avionics that I don’t have.”
The pilot gave him a tour of the G-550’s avionics suite. “What do we have that you don’t have?”
“Not much, I’m glad to say.”
Stone went back to the cabin and sat next to Felicity, who was very quiet. “Are you troubled about something?” he asked.
She shook her head but said nothing.
“Come on, Felicity, you’re not yourself. What’s bothering you?”
She sighed. “All right, it’s Algernon.”
“What have you learned?”
“I wanted to wait until we got to the hotel and speak directly with the Secret Service, but I don’t suppose it matters if I tell you.”
“Then tell me.”
“The name Algernon appeared in signals intercepted by our GCHQ facility, which is analogous to your NSA.”
“When?”
“A while back,” she said, “in July 2005, shortly before the suicide bomber attacks on the London underground.”
“Oh, shit,” Stone said.
“Well, yes.”
“Any more details?”
“The messages were similar to those more recently intercepted,” she said.
Stone waved at the stewardess and made telephone motions. She brought him a cordless satphone handset, and Stone dialed the number.
“Mike Freeman.”
“Mike, it’s Stone.”
“Good morning, Stone.”
“I have some news you need to get to the Secret Service detail.”
“Shoot.”
“The Brits at GCHQ intercepted previous messages with the code name ‘Algernon.’”
“Yes?”
“They were right before the suicide bombing attacks on the London underground. As I recall, fifty died and hundreds were injured. The messages were much like the ones the NSA intercepted more recently.”
“I’ll call Agent Rifkin immediately,” Mike said.
“I wonder if the president’s visit should be canceled?” Stone said.
“Air Force One arrived at LAX at eight this morning after an overnight flight from Rio to Washington, thence here. The president and his party are probably all asleep by now. The president of Mexico is due in momentarily.”
“I see.”
“I’ll call Rifkin now, and I’ll see you later today.” Mike hung up.
“Did I hear you say the president’s visit should be canceled?” Felicity asked.
“That’s what I would do, if I were the Secret Service detail commander, but of course, I’m not. The president arrived early this morning and is in bed asleep. The president of Mexico is due shortly.”
“What sort of quarters does the president have?”
“Both presidents are in large cottages that have bulletproof windows and walls, and each has a basement bomb shelter. I’m told there’s no place in Los Angeles that is more secure.”
Mike Freeman watched as Agent Rifkin talked on a telephone at the other end of the living room. There was a conversation of ten minutes, then Rifkin came back and sat down beside Mike.
“We appreciate the information, Mike, but our director, after consulting the White House, believes we don’t have sufficient information to scrub the visit. A huge amount of staff work has gone into the preparations for the talks between President Lee and President Vargas, and the powers that be are unwilling to disrupt their conferences. A major treaty is to be signed at the conclusion of their talks, and there would be a huge flap in the media if we scrubbed it, and that wouldn’t be to the benefit of your hotel.”
“I understand,” Mike said. “Did you rerun the background checks on the list of hotel employees I gave you?”
“Every one of them, and we didn’t turn up a single piece of information on anybody that we didn’t learn in the first investigation.”
“I guess I’m glad to hear that,” Mike said. “My people had the same result in their rerun.”
“My director has told me that he’s putting another fifty agents outside the hotel grounds, patrolling the surrounding neighborhood, so if there’s somebody out there with a rocket-launched grenade or two, we’ll have a shot at finding him.”
“I think that’s a smart move,” Mike said.
The Gulfstream landed at Burbank, and was met by three Bentleys from the hotel, along with a Porsche Cayenne for the overflow luggage. Half an hour later they drove through the main gate of The Arrington and were immediately shunted into a parking area where they were asked by Secret Service agents to get out of the vehicles.
Stone looked around and saw landscapers unrolling swaths of sod and trimming shrubs. The grounds were very beautiful.
Peter came over. “Vance planted hundreds of specimen trees here,” he said, “and they seem to have saved them all.”
“I remember the landscape architect mentioning that,” Stone said. “The sod looks like the last of their work.”
Passports and other ID were examined and checked against the guest list, the luggage was unloaded and the cars thoroughly searched by a swarm of security personnel. Finally, they were all cleared, the cars were reloaded, and they were driven to their cottages up the hill.
They dropped Felicity at her cottage first, then Stone and his party were delivered to the main building, which was formerly the Vance Calder mansion, and across a road from the two presidential cottages. The cars drove around the building to deliver the luggage, but Stone wanted to see the finished reception building.
He took a few steps inside and froze in his tracks. Dead ahead of him stood Arrington.
Peter came and stood beside him. “I remember this well,” he said. “It embarrassed Mother, and she took it down.”
Stone stared at the portrait, which was life-sized. Arrington was dressed in riding clothes and stood next to a beautiful horse, which seemed to be nibbling at her shoulder. He didn’t know who the artist was, but he had caught Arrington perfectly. Her hair was a little windblown, and there was mud on her boots, all of which added a natural quality to the work.
The hotel manager walked up and greeted Stone and his party. “I expect you’ve seen this before,” he said.
“No, I never have,” Stone replied, “but it’s beautiful.”
“We found it stored in a back room of the house, and we decided to hang it here. I hope you approve.”
“Yes, I do, and it’s the perfect spot,” Stone said. “Who was the artist?”
“Jamie Wyeth.”
“I know his work, and this is the best thing of his I’ve ever seen.”
“Did you know the car could have delivered you to your cottage?” the man asked.
“Yes, but I wanted to walk through this building.”
“I’ll give you the tour, then. This way.”
After the tour they walked to the new cottage; Stone made the room assignments. He unpacked his clothes in the master suite, then walked around the ground floor, checking out the house. It was impeccable. There were bouquets of fresh flowers everywhere, the bar was fully stocked, and there was a kitchen staff awaiting food orders.
The doorbell rang, and a staffer admitted Mike Freeman. Stone mixed them a drink and they sat down on the rear patio.
“What was the reaction of the Secret Service?” Stone asked.
Mike told him of the steps that had been taken. “Everything that can be done has been done,” he said.
“Good.”
Perhaps two hundred yards away, Hamish McCallister, who was accredited to the grand opening and the presidential conferences as a correspondent for a London newspaper and a travel magazine, watched a movie on the large-screen television set in the living room of his suite. There was a knock on his door and he answered it. Hans stood there with the Vuitton trunk on a hand cart.
“This way,” Hamish said. “Just set it next to the window in the bedroom.”
Hans did as he was told.
“Any problems getting through security?” Hamish asked.
“None at all.”
“Hide your small case somewhere in your workplace,” Hamish said.
“We had all assumed that would be the case.”
“Wait for my e-mail message,” Hamish told him. That was still a couple of days away. “Soon our work will be done.”