“It’s fine, Kelli,” Harry said. “We could be in a motel somewhere, you know.”
“What about interiors?” Kelli asked.
“ Architectural Digest is already here, photographing some suites, the restaurants, and the rest of the grounds,” Clair said.
“How many other journalists are here?”
“A dozen or so. A fellow from a London paper is next door to you. Most of them are nearby.”
“Why do I feel we’re being quarantined?” Kelli asked.
Clair laughed. “Kelli, you have free run of the grounds and the public buildings. What more do you want?”
“A suite,” Kelli muttered. “Where is Stone Barrington staying?”
“He has his own house,” Clair replied. “And all the rooms are full.”
“Where is it?”
“Through the reception building, out the back door, and around the pool. But don’t go up there unless you call first-it’s next door to the presidential cottage, and the Secret Service will be all over you.” She handed Kelli a thick envelope. “Here are your hotel press passes. You and your people must wear them at all times.”
Kelli opened the envelope and found hers, with the word MEDIA emblazoned across it below her photograph. “You’re belling the cat, are you?”
“Our guests have the right to know when they’re talking to a reporter,” Clair said. “Remember, you’re to wear that, prominently displayed, at all times, otherwise we’ll have a problem.”
“Got it,” Kelli said. “Thanks for all your help, Clair.”
“Your bar is fully stocked,” Clair said, “compliments of the house.” She got into a cart and drove away. As she did, another cart came down the path, stopped, and a man got out. He was immaculately dressed and quite handsome, even if bald.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “If you’re bunking here, I take it you’re press.” He offered his hand. “I’m Hamish McCallister. I’m just next door.” He pointed at the door next to Harry’s. “Hello, Harry, how are you?”
“Good grief, Hamish, you came all this way?” They shook hands and embraced.
“Good God, I’m surrounded by Scots!” Kelli said.
“Lucky girl,” Hamish replied. “Can I buy anybody a beer?”
“Sold,” Kelli said, following the two men into Hamish’s quarters. She looked around. “It’s a fucking suite,” she said. “How’d you do that?”
“Charm,” Hamish replied.
“You didn’t think of that, did you, Kelli?” Harry asked.
Kelli peeked into the bedroom. “My word!” she said. “You travel with a steamer trunk?”
Hamish closed the bedroom door and handed her a drink. “Wardrobe is so important, don’t you think?”
Kelli took the beer. “I’d be a happy woman if I could travel with a steamer trunk,” she said.
41
Late in the afternoon, Stone and Mike were having a drink in Stone’s study, when Special Agent Steve Rifkin appeared.
“The search is still under way,” he said. “I’ve got seventy men combing every nook and cranny of this property.” He set his briefcase on the coffee table and took out a stack of paper. “One good thing: the bell captain keeps a log of every piece of luggage that his men have delivered to any suite or room. It’s meant to resolve lost luggage issues, but it’s a stroke of luck for us.”
Stone and Mike each took a sheet from the stack. “And this is accurate?”
“It is, and here’s the good news. There’s not a single piece of luggage bigger than a large suitcase, and we’ve checked every one of those so far. There are no large boxes and no trunks, and from this point on, every piece of luggage arriving here will be opened and hand-searched, and if there are any trunks, they’ll be subject to radiation checks before they’re opened. We have a very well-equipped bomb squad on site, and they’ll stay through the entire weekend.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Stone said.
Rifkin’s cell phone rang, playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” “Special Agent Rifkin.” His face drained of expression, and he hung up. “They’ve found a bomb,” he said.
Stone and Mike stood up.
“Not you, me,” Rifkin said.
“I’m in charge of hotel security,” Mike reminded him, “and Stone is a member of the board. Let’s go.”
Rifkin shrugged and led the two outside to a cart, and they were driven away.
“Where is the bomb?” Mike asked.
“In a wine and liquor storage area behind the restaurant,” he said. After another minute’s drive the cart stopped, and Rifkin led the way past a dozen agents into the building, then into a large room with wine racks on three sides and shelving on the other. Thousands of bottles of wine and spirits were in the racks and shelves, and there was a large pile of cardboard boxes in the middle of the floor, all opened. A man in a heavy, helmeted suit was examining a small suitcase on top of a stack of boxes. He did something to it, and the lid fell open, exposing a metal panel.
“Oh, shit,” Rifkin said under his breath.
The suited man reached into the case and came out with an object, then he noticed the crowd behind him. “Get the fuck out of here, all of you!” he yelled. His voice was muffled by the helmet. “We’ve got a couple of pounds of plastique here, and I want every human being at least a hundred yards from this building!”
“Turn on your radio, Jim!” Rifkin yelled, then he started hustling everybody out of the room. He, Stone, and Mike got into the cart and headed back up the hill, where they parked behind the reception building. Rifkin picked up his radio. “Jim? Do you read?”
“Yeah, I read,” Jim replied. “I’m going to need a few minutes to go over this thing and try and figure out how to deal with it.”
“Is there a timer?”
“Yeah, but it’s not running,” he replied. “If it starts running, I’m running, too. I’ll get back to you.”
The three men sat in the cart silently for a couple of minutes. Finally, Mike spoke. “This one isn’t nuclear,” he said. “Too small.”
“I agree,” Rifkin replied.
“I hope you both know what you’re talking about,” Stone said.
Rifkin spoke up. “I did a week’s intensive course on bomb making and disposal,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you exactly how this one is put together.”
“Okay, shoot,” Stone said.
“It’s pretty simple: there’s a timer attached to a detonator, like a blasting cap, which is shoved into the plastique. Somebody starts the timer, and when it hits zero, the detonator goes off, exploding the plastique. If there’s a couple of pounds of the stuff, like Jim says, it will take down that entire building and damage others nearby, and it will kill nearly everybody in the building.”
“Nearly everybody?” Stone asked.
“Somebody always gets lucky.”
The radio crackled. “Steve?”
“I’m here, Jim.”
“Okay, I’ve isolated the plastique, and the device doesn’t seem to be booby-trapped. There’s a T-shaped key with a hexagonal tip, like a drill bit, and there are three positions: up, right, and left. I can’t tell which position fires it, so I’m going to try them all.”
“Jim…”
“Don’t worry, it’s just a blasting cap-the plastique is across the room. Stand by.”
A moment later there was a noise like a large firecracker.
Jim came back on the radio. “I found the firing position,” he said. “You can come back in now.”
