Stone Barrington 06-11

number plate?”
    “It was a vanity plate, sir; B-R-A-I-N.”
    “Did he say where he was going?”
    “Back to London; he said he’d forgotten something important.”
    “Thank you very much,” Stone said. He and Dino went back to their car.
    “Good call, Stone,” Dino said, “but now we’re going to have to get Carpenter’s people on the case; he could be anywhere.”
    Stone dialed Carpenter’s cellphone.
    “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.
    Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.
    Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.
    “Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”
    “That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”
    “Any particular altitude?”
    “Ten.”
    “Ten thousand?”
    “Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”
    “We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”
    Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”
    “Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”
    Lance held up the keys of the