“Yes?” She sounded harried.

“It’s Stone. Morgan drove to Cliveden, a country house hotel; do you know it?”

“Yes, it’s famous, but how did you know he went there?”

“He left a travel magazine at his house with a page marked with an ad for the hotel.”

“Is he still there?”

“No, he came over all nervous while checking in, and left, telling the desk clerk that he’d forgotten something in London and had to go back for it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes; he’s traveling under the name of Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name. Cabot got it for him, I expect. He’s driving a sixties-vintage Jaguar, dark blue, restored, with the number plate B-R-A-I-N. Should be easy to spot.”

“Stone, that’s very good. Would you like a job?”

“I’d like my money back,” Stone replied. “And if I were you, I’d double your effort at Heathrow; it’s very near here, and that’s where I’m going. Can you have somebody from airport security meet me at the departures entrance?”

“Which terminal? There are four.”

“International departures?”

“Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”

“Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”

“Right.”

Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”

“This is a long shot,” Dino said.

“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”

56

LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.

The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.