“It’s a pilot’s term, it means a cloudless sky, ceiling and visibility unlimited.”
“Severe clear,” Ben said. “I like it.”
When they arrived back at the hotel the Cayenne was shunted into a parking area again.
“I thought we wouldn’t have to go through this another time,” Peter said, “coming and going in one of the hotel’s cars.”
“Something must have happened,” Ben said.
After the search of the car had been completed, Hans drove them back to their cottage. They arrived simultaneously with Mike Freeman, who was carrying a briefcase.
Inside, Stone was sitting with another man they hadn’t met.
“Hi there, kids,” Stone called out. “I don’t think you’ve met Special Agent Rifkin, of the Secret Service.” Everybody shook hands.
“Dad,” Peter said, “they put us through the big search again at the front gate. Has something happened?”
“No, no,” Stone replied. “The security folks are just a little nervous, what with two presidents here and a lot of celebrities to arrive tomorrow. Will you excuse us, please? We have some things to discuss.”
“Sure,” Peter said. “What about a swim, everybody?”
The others nodded, and they all went to change.
“Let’s go into the study,” Stone said when they had gone. The three men got up and walked into the next room, and Stone closed the door behind them. “All right, Mike, what’s up?” he asked.
Mike sat down. “First of all, Agent Rifkin, I want to apologize to you and the Secret Service.”
“For what?” Rifkin asked.
“Late yesterday I got word from the NSA that they had located the geographical point from which the e-mails were sent by our friend Algernon. It was an apartment house in Palo Alto.”
“Why didn’t you call me at once?” Rifkin asked.
“That’s why I’m apologizing,” Mike said, “for that and my reason for not calling you.”
“Which is?”
“Frankly, I don’t think your people are sufficiently trained and experienced to work a scene as well as . . . well, some other agencies. Nor as well as our people at Strategic Services.”
Rifkin thought about that, but didn’t contradict him. “Go on, what did you find?”
“Not much,” Mike said. “The place had been cleaned and wiped down—very professionally, I might add. Except for one thing.”
“Come on, Mike,” Stone said, “spit it out.”
Mike set his briefcase on the coffee table and unlatched the locks. “We found these under a table.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a zipped plastic bag containing a pair of heavy gloves.
“I’m sorry,” Stone said, “I don’t get it. Gloves?”
Mike set the bag on the coffee table. “They’re lab gloves,” he said. “There’s good news and bad news about them.”
“Go on, tell us,” Stone said.
“The good news is, they’re not sufficiently protective for handling plutonium.”
“And the bad news?”
“They’re sufficient for handling enriched uranium.”