“Exactly. The Strategic Services car arrived just before six and pulled into the garage, as planned. It left ten minutes later and both the van and the sedan made U-turns and followed. I think they must have followed them all the way to Teterboro, and if they did, they probably got a look at the airplane’s registration number, and if they got that, they could use tracking software to follow it to a landing.”

“That’s okay, Ed. The crew filed for Brussels, then, when they were in British airspace, they would have requested a new destination to my property.”

“Stone, that software works as well over land as over sea, unless the pilot was clever enough to turn off his transponder before making the turn for England.”

“No, he wouldn’t have done that. ATC would have been all over him—that’s how they track flights.”

“Then we’re faced with the distinct possibility that St. Clair’s people know about where it landed.”

“There’s no airport there on the aeronautical charts.”

“But they would see the airplane stop moving, then start again.”

“Well, shit.”

“I know how you feel, but you’d better tighten security over there.”

“I’ll get on it, Ed.” The two men hung up.

—

ALF BRAND WENT online and found a satellite photograph of Windward Hall, which showed the main house and all the outbuildings. This was bad; these people could be in the main house or any one of the half-dozen cottages he could see. Clearly, this was going to be an on-the-belly-in-the-grass operation. He rousted four of his men out of their beds and put them on the alert, setting a meeting at a country pub south of Beaulieu at noon, then he packed some clothes and a weapons bag and got into his car, a dark green Range Rover.

Two hours later, he was climbing over a stone wall and onto the Windward Hall estate. He had chosen a wooded area to breach the wall and he sparingly used a pinpoint flashlight to make his way through the trees toward the main house. He wanted to get a close-up view of every cottage on the place before believing they were in the big house.

The woods ended thirty yards from the largest, southernmost cottage, and a single light burned in what was probably the living room. Brand sat down and leaned against a tree just inside the tree line and dug a sandwich out of his kit. He sat, munching and drinking coffee from a thermos jug while the moon came up.