Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

“That’s good advice.”

“She still has a New York apartment from when she did that thing for Lance here a few years back.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Nice place, on Park.”

“No relocation costs!” Mike laughed.

“Where are you?” Stone asked.

“In L.A. I had dinner last night with Rifkin, the Secret Service detail honcho.”

“Any news from him?”

“If he had any news, he wouldn’t share it. They’re like that.”

Mike told him about the cell call from L.A. to the watch-listed website. “That’s why I’m not telling him about that, or anything else. They’ve already doubled their efforts at The Arrington, and that’s all I want from them. At the moment.”

“Does this cell call from California worry you?”

“Not at the moment. Time will tell.”

“Thanks for the news about Holly. I’ll drop her a note—she’ll be impressed that I know.”

“You do that, and congratulate her for me.”

Stone hung up, called Dino, and told him the news.

15

Holly Barker spent the morning unpacking her things, hanging a couple of pictures, and registering the Agency desktop to her identity. Her new office was more than three times the size of her previous one and contained a small conference table, a sofa, and a pair of comfortable chairs and more bookcases. She had indeed been given a prime parking spot, one that would cause envy among the Agency’s hierarchy, and she liked it.

“Getting settled in?” Kate Lee said from behind her.

Holly turned to find her boss standing in her doorway. “Yes, ma’am,” Holly said. “I’m ready to go to work.”

“That’s good, because you’re headed to London tonight.”

“I am?” Lance rarely sent her anywhere.

Kate made herself comfortable on Holly’s sofa, and Holly joined her, bringing along a pad.

“We have an operative in Europe that you and Lance don’t know about. He has always communicated with me through what is now your office. I’ve sent him a message to expect you tomorrow, and he’ll call you on your cell phone after you’ve landed.”

“All right. Who is he?”

“His birth name was Ari Shazaz,” Kate said, “but his passport is British, in the name of Hamish McCallister. He was born in Syria to an Algerian father and a Scottish mother. He’s in his early forties,

and you will find him to be impeccably British—Eton, Oxford, White’s, the Garrick Club, etcetera. At school and university he was known as McCallister, his mother’s maiden name. His father died when he was eight or nine, and she took him to London to bring up. She’s from landed gentry—they own an island off the west coast of Scotland, appropriately called Murk.

“Hamish is fluent in Arabic and Urdu along with French and Italian. After university, he worked in a family-owned bank, doing business in the Middle East and on the continent. He has earned his living for the past ten years as a weekly columnist for the Guardsman, a leftish London paper, and he writes the occasional penetrating article for some magazine or other on things like Arab-Israeli relations.”

Grace appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me, Mrs. Lee, but I have Ms. Barker’s new credentials.”

“Come in, Grace,” Kate said.

Grace opened a large envelope and shook out the contents onto the coffee table. “First, may I have your old credentials, please? Your Agency ID, your passport, your gate and building pass, and your iPhone and BlackBerry.”