Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

“Description?”

“Five-nine, bald with a dark fringe of hair, one-sixty, tanned.”

“Any particular place we should look?”

“Everywhere!”

“Did you call Steve Rifkin?”

“I did, but he couldn’t talk and hung up on me.”

“We’re on it.”

“Call me when you find him.” But Mike had already hung up.

—

The white Cayenne approached the main gate and slowed; the uniformed guard, recognizing the car and driver, waved them through.

“Turn left,” Hamish said. “LAX, British Airways.”

“You’re leaving the country?” Hans asked.

“No, but I want certain people to think so.”

Traffic was moderately light at that time of day, and half an hour later, the car stopped at the curb.

“Stay in the car,” Hamish said. “I’ll deal with the luggage. Here are your instructions: drive to Santa Monica Airport and go to the hangar where the Cessna Caravan is stored. The pilot will be waiting there. Drive the car inside the hangar. I’m going to check my bags through to London, then I’ll take a cab to Santa Monica, and we’ll fly north from there.”

“What about the device?”

“Leave it alone. I’ll deal with it when I arrive.”

“Got it.”

Hamish got out of the car, and Hans pressed the button to open the hatch. Hamish allowed a porter to take the two bags. “London,” he said, “first class.” Then he opened the spare tire well, opened the device case, inserted his key into the lock, turned it clockwise ninety degrees, then set the timer for forty-five minutes. He closed the case, closed the lid, and pressed the button to close the hatch. He slapped the car twice on the fender, and Hans drove away.

Hamish followed the porter to the first-class ticket counter, checked his bags, cleared security, and went to the first-class lounge. He was sitting at a table by the window with a drink, looking north, when the device detonated at Santa Monica Airport. A crowd gathered at the window, staring at the towering smoke and flames five miles to the north.

Hamish had seen all he needed to. He got out his throwaway cell phone and sent a text to Wynken. At 8:20 P.M. sharp set device for thirty minutes and leave the area. Wynken would get quite a surprise when he turned the key in the device.

Then Hamish relaxed, finished his drink, and ordered another.

—

Holly went to Stone’s cottage and hammered on the door. Stone opened it and took one look at her. “What’s going on?”

Holly went into the house, dialing Mike Freeman’s number.

“Freeman.”

“It’s Holly. Have you found him?”

“He’s in none of the obvious places,” Mike replied. “We’re searching the grounds, and Steve Rifkin’s people are helping, and Steve has sent a te

am to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“When you find him, bring him to Stone’s house in handcuffs.” She hung up.