Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

“That sounds wonderful!”

“Yeah, but I don’t have any experience with that kind of space planning.”

“Why don’t you talk to James Rutledge? He was trained as an architect, then he was with Architectural Digest, and now he does just the sort of thing you need. You were at the High Cotton Ideas party—did you like that place?”

“Oh, wow, did I!”

“Well, Jim was the designer on that. Get Leo to send you the plans, then send them to Jim for a look.”

“He’s sending them over today, so I’ll call Jim as soon as we’re back.”

“Can’t hurt to start early.”

Hattie wandered onto the patio, looking sleepy, and sat down.

“Good morning,” Stone said.

“Is it?” Hattie asked, looking at the sky and squinting. “I can’t tell.”

Stone laughed. “Trust me, it is. Are you all ready for your performance tonight?”

Hattie looked alarmed. “I forgot about that. Don’t remind me.”

“Relax, you’ll do fine.”

A waiter a

ppeared and took everybody’s breakfast order.

—

Steve Rifkin had not slept well. He had doubled his crew for the overnight search of The Arrington’s theater, where the two presidents would hold their joint signing and press conference at ten A.M., and now he was up early and walking around The Arrington’s theater, having a final look for himself.

His search detail leader approached. “Don’t worry, boss,” he said, “this place is clean.”

“We’re missing two bombs,” Rifkin said.

“I understand that, but I don’t think the other two even made it onto the property.”

Rifkin looked around. “All right, seal this place—nobody in here that isn’t essential to the press conference. There’s a list—stick to it.”

“Right, boss.” The man went away to do his work.

—

Hamish McCallister arrived at the theater, along with at least a hundred other reporters, each with his credentials hung around his neck. He found a seat in the fourth row of the theater, which was a structure half-embedded in the landscape on the north side of the hotel’s grounds. He stood in front of his seat and looked around the big room as his colleagues, many of them recognizable from television, filed into the theater. This, he reflected, would have made a wonderful target for one of his three small bombs, killing the two presidents and most of the media representatives present.

But that was not a worry for Hamish. He didn’t need the other two bombs now, and the Secret Service had the other one. The device in the Vuitton steamer trunk would do the work of a thousand of the smaller bombs.

Secret Service agents, a dozen of them with sniffer dogs, wandered the room, making a final check. The dogs hadn’t helped find the missing bombs because one was concealed in a place no one would ever look, and the other was in a vehicle that had already been searched several times.

Half the reporters in the room were on their cell phones; the other half were scribbling in their notebooks. Hamish watched them, feeling relaxed and content. His plans were made, and they would be carried out. He took out his throwaway cell phone and sent messages to Wynken and Blynken. He had already made his travel arrangements. He would not need the Cessna Caravan; it was now his backup escape plan. He sent a text to the pilot, instructing him to be ready for takeoff at three P.M.

Then a hush fell over the room as the president of the United States, accompanied by the president of Mexico, entered the theater from stage right and took their seats at a table at the center of the stage.

51

Stone and Dino were sitting with Mike Freeman, watching the presidents’ statements, when Steve Rifkin came in, mopping his brow.