Severe Clear (Stone Barrington 24)

A bellman cruised past them, and Steve Rifkin signaled for him to stop. He flashed his ID. “Secret Service,” he said. “Give me your pass card.”

“Yes, sir.” The bellman retrieved the card from his shirt pocket.

Rifkin slid the card into the door lock; a green light came on, and he pushed the door open.

Kelli spoke up. “The trunk was in a bedroom closet, to your left.” Stone, Dino, Rifkin, and the two bomb men filed into the suite, and she followed them.

Stone found the closet first. “Here we are,” he said. He turned the knob. “Locked.”

The bomb chief took the pass card from Steve Rifkin, inserted it into the door lock, and opened the door.

The trunk stood there: elegant, with the patina of age and travel.

“Locked,” the chief said. “Bob, I need a jimmy, please.”

The other bomb man set down the case he was carrying, opened it, and handed his chief a small crowbar. The chief made short work of the lock.

“Do you think it might be booby-trapped?” Bob asked.

“I don’t think we have time to worry about that,” the chief replied, swinging open the trunk door. He stepped back, so that everyone could see the titanium panel with a slot and a digital clock at the top. The clock was counting down: forty-one, forty, thirty-nine . . .

58

Hamish McCallister lounged comfortably in his first-class berth, sipping his second mimosa, reading a magazine, and listening to Haydn over his headset. The music popped off and the pilot’s English-accented voice replaced it.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard our flight. As you know, we are nonstop to London, but we are encountering strong headwinds, and that is going to make it necessary for us to make a fuel stop at Kennedy Airport in New York. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it will add only less than an hour flight time, and with the extra fuel, we may be able to cut that down by flying at a higher power setting. We will be landing at Kennedy at eleven P.M., New York time, and in order to be back in the air as quickly as possible, we ask that you remain in your seats during our brief stop. Thank you so much for your patience.”

Hamish sighed, but the music resumed and he returned to his magazine. Then he stopped reading. His flight, he recalled, had pushed back at five minutes past five P.M., L.A. time. That would have been eight P.M., New York time, and the New York landing time of eleven P.M. would make their flight across the USA a four-hour one. Since a normal flight from LAX to JFK would take at least five hours, they were experiencing a strong tailwind, not a headwind. Something was wrong. He buzzed for the flight attendant.

“Yes, may I help you?” the young woman asked.

“Yes. Since we’re stopping in New York, I’d like to have a prescription medication delivered to me there, something I need but forgot to bring. Can you find out our gate number for me?”

“Of course,” she replied. She went forward, spoke over the intercom to the cockpit, then returned. “We will be refueling at gate ten,” she said, “and I’ve asked our gate agent to be on the lookout for your delivery.”

“Thank you so much,” Hamish said. When she had left he picked up his seat’s remote control, which was also a satphone, and called a New York number.

“Yes?” His brother Mo’s voice.

“It is I,” he said. “Listen carefully. Do we have a friend at Kennedy Airport?”

A brief silence. “Yes, a—”

“No further information, please.”

“I’m sorry. What do you need?”

“My aircraft is making an unscheduled stop at Kennedy. Ask our friend to arrange for an airport vehicle, appropriately lighted, to meet me at the foot of gate ten, flight BA 106. There may not be stairs. Our ETA is eleven P.M. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“We will be leaving the airport area immediately. Please make arrangements for our departure from the airport and for secure accommodations.”

“It will be done.”

“See you soon. Good-bye.” Hamish broke the connection. They would arrive before the device in L.A. detonated, so there was time for a clean getaway.

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