“Lights!” Lance yelled, and the car lit up.
“Gate dead ahead,” the driver said.
“If that jerk in the booth doesn’t open it, knock the fucking thing down!”
The driver increased his speed, and the gate rolled open just in time for him to miss it. He screeched to a halt. “Which way?”
“Van Wyck! They’ve gotta be headed for the city.”
The driver made the turn and accelerated. “Do we want the NYPD?” he asked.
“No,” Lance replied, sounding calm but determined. “This guy is ours.” He pointed ahead. “Half a mile up there,” he said. “Flashing yellow light. Turn off our lights.”
The driver did so.
“Try not to kill any innocent bystanders,” Lance said, “but I don’t give a shit what you do to the guys in the van.”
“Look, they’re pulling over,” his driver said.
“Car switch. Block it!”
“Got it!” the driver shouted back. The white van had pulled into a rest area behind a black Mercedes. He drove around both vehicles and slid to a halt in front of the Merc. The inside lights were on, revealing two men.
Lance yanked open his door. “Fire at will!” he shouted, and he hit the pavement with his. 45 semiautomatic pistol up and firing at the Mercedes. His two colleagues opened up with their submachine guns, and the black car’s windscreen evaporated. The two men inside were jumping like puppets on a wire.
“Cease fire!” Lance yelled. It took a moment, but his two men stopped firing. Lance walked forward, his gun held out, ready for any twitch. His two men yanked open both front doors and inspected the two bloody forms.
“No pulse or respiration here,” one man said. “Pupils blown.”
“Same here,” the other man replied.
Lance raised his radio to his lips. “This is number one. Cleanup crew to the first rest stop on the Van Wyck, flatbed to the same location to take away a black Mercedes. Move it!” Then he leaned against the car and took deep breaths.
Finally, he got control of himself and produced his cell phone, pressing a speed dial number.
“Yes?”
“Number one. Status there?”
“Pending, estimate six minutes.”
“Report back.” He ended the connection.
In Dubai, a gala was under way at the Burj Al Arab, the huge, sail-shaped hotel on a bridge-accessed island off the city.
A Rolls-Royce glided up to the main doors, and a uniformed doorman opened the rear door.
Dr. Kharl, dressed in a tuxedo and blinking in the camera lights, put a foot onto the red carpet. As he did so, he was momentarily blinded by an intense red flash, and in the following second his head exploded.
Lance watched as the bodies were put into a van, and the Mercedes loaded onto a flatbed recovery vehicle.
“I want the bodies and the car minutely examined for any relevant evidence,” he said. “Get it done.” As he spoke, his cell phone rang. “Number one,” he said.
“Status report, Dubai,” a voice said.
“Go ahead.”
“Subject is down and permanently out. Our executive has left the scene, headed for his departure point.”
“Let me know when he’s in the air,” Lance said, then hung up. He pressed another speed dial button.
“Holly Barker.”
“Scramble,” he said.
“Scrambled.”
“The situation is finalized,” Lance said. “Two down and out in New York, bodies being taken to our morgue for postmortems. One down and out in Dubai, our man on his way out of the country.”
“That sounds like a clean sweep,” Holly said.
“It doesn’t get any cleaner than this,” Lance replied.
“Will you call Tom Riley in London and let him know the search for Hamish and Mo is canceled, though I’d still like to have any information about them that he can turn up.”
“Will do.”
“The director will be very pleased, Lance. I think you just got a leg up on replacing her.”
“That would be nice,” Lance said. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Holly hung up, walked across the room, and whispered in Kate Lee’s ear. “It’s done,” she said. “A clean sweep in both New York and Dubai.”
“And the aftermath?”
“The bodies in New York are en route to our morgue for postmortem, our man in Dubai is clear.”
“You know,” Kate said, “I think that this is the most exciting night of my life that I’ll never be able to talk about. I’ll tell the president. You go thank everybody for me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holly said, and left the cottage.
60
Stone Barrington sat in the study of his cottage at The Arrington, a brandy snifter in his hand. Kelli Keane sat in the chair opposite him; there was a snifter in her hand, too.
“How are you feeling?” Stone asked.
“Much better, thanks. You’re going to ask me not to write about this, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to ask you not to breathe it to a living soul, magazine, news service, publisher, or TV news station for as long as you live. If you can’t accept that, then others will ask you, and less politely.”
Kelli held up a hand. “I know, I know. Can I ask some questions?”
“I don’t have all the answers,” Stone replied, “but I’ll do the best I can.”
“When did you-and those other people, the Secret Service and all-know about the nuclear thing?”
“Not until the moment you mentioned the trunk,” Stone said. “There had been some very slight indications that something was afoot, but not enough to alter what was happening here for the past couple of days. A thorough search for something as big as a trunk had been conducted, but it seems that the trunk was brought from an airport to The Arrington in a hotel vehicle and deposited in McCallister’s suite without the knowledge of the bell captain, who keeps a log of every piece of luggage brought into the hotel.”
“Did the explosion at Santa Monica Airport have anything to do with this?”
“Yes. There were indications of three bombs: one was found by Rifkin’s people in a liquor storage room yesterday. The chief bartender has been arrested in connection with that. A second was found by Mike Freeman in the Strategic Services security monitoring room, and one of his people arrested. The police found a car door at Santa Monica Airport, a hundred yards from the scene of the explosion, that had an Arrington logo painted on it. A hotel employee had checked out the car, and it’s thought that he detonated the third bomb, perhaps accidentally.”
“What happened to Hamish McCallister?”
“His flight was directed to land at Kennedy, ostensibly for refueling because of headwinds, but Hamish must have become suspicious, because he ran from the airplane to a waiting car driven by his brother. It’s my understanding that they escaped the airport but were caught nearby and didn’t survive the encounter. Something
