Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

“Just because I’m a paranoiac doesn’t mean that somebody doesn’t want to harm the president. I’m paid to be a paranoiac.”

“My very point,” Mike said.

Rifkin went back to his warren, looking troubled.

27

Hamish McCallister, aka Ari Shazaz, got off an airplane at San Jose International and presented himself at an immigration window, handing the female agent his British passport, which contained a permanent visa. He was dressed in a Savile Row suit and a necktie, very probably a rare sight for the agent.

She looked him up and down, smiled slightly, compared his face to the photograph, then swiped the document and gazed at her computer screen. “Welcome to the United States, Mr. McCallister,” she said, handing back his passport.

“Thank you,” Hamish replied. “It’s good to be back.” He strolled through customs with his finely made Italian luggage on a cart, and caught a taxi at the curb, giving the man an address in Palo Alto. He dozed as the taxi made its way south and came fully awake only when the driver announced his arrival.

He paid the fare, added a tip, and the driver set his bags on the curb and drove away. Hamish disliked carrying his own luggage, but he picked up the two bags and walked into the building.

He emerged from the elevator into an office suite that featured his younger half sister, Jasmine, as the receptionist.

She ran around the desk and kissed him. “Welcome to the USA!” she nearly shouted. “Mo? He’s here!”

Mohammad Shazaz came out of an office and embraced his older half brother. “We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival,” he said.

“Is Dr. Kharl here yet?”

“Arrived day before yesterday.”

“And your computer genius?”

“I’m afraid there have been problems there, but nothing that can’t be fixed. He bolted after three days of work, but he got an amazing amount done. I’ve hired a student at Stanford, a Saudi, to complete his work.”

“That’s what you should have done in the first place,” Hamish said. “Now, there are two things to be done: first, find me a home.”

“Already done. I’ve rented a large, furnished flat in a building near here. Dr. Kharl is there, already working.”

“Have you given anyone the address?”

“Of course not.”

“The second thing we have to do is to move out of these offices at once. Your bringing Chang from New York has compromised this address.”

“Already done,” Mo replied. “I’m just waiting for our computer man to finish his work. He says he’ll have us up and running by the end of the day.”

“All right. Where’s the flat?”

“Jasmine will drive you there and get you settled. There’s nothing for her to do here anyway.”

Hamish shoved one of his bags toward her. “Let’s go. Jet lag is already creeping up on me. I need to have a drink and some dinner and go to bed.”

Jasmine picked up the heavy bag. She was well muscled from working out, and he suspected she might be stronger than he.

—

The flat was large, comfortably furnished, and commanded views east across the southern end of San Francisco Bay. Hamish immediately poured himself a scotch and found some sandwiches in the fridge, then Jasmine led him to the master bedroom, which featured a mirror over the bed. “My God,” he said, “the mind boggles.”

“Last time I was in Abu Dhabi, my room had one,” she replied.

“Where’s Kharl?”

“Dr. Kharl is sleeping. He’s had a hard time with the jet lag, coming all the way from Dubai.”