Then the other man spoke. “You’re from the press, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m Kelli Keane, from Vanity Fair.”
“Thank you,” the man said to the Secret Service duo. “It’s all right, I’ll deal with this.” The two nodded and stepped away.
“Thank you,” Kelli said. “I was beginning to have visions of being taken away in handcuffs.”
“I’m Michael Freeman,” the man said, “from Strategic Services. We’re in charge of security here. You seem very concerned. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I wanted to tell Stone, because he could tell the right people, but I guess you’ll do.”
Mike smiled. “I’ll do. What is it?”
“Well, there was a man from London at the hotel named Hamish McCallister. He called me from the airport this afternoon and said I should leave the hotel before the concert, that there would be some sort of disturbance.”
The audience burst into applause as the conductor strode to the podium and bowed, then a disembodied voice rumbled through the crowd. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, our special guest, Miss Hattie Patrick, of the Yale School of Music, who will perform our opening number with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.”
A pretty young girl walked onto the stage, bowed once to the audience, and sat down at the piano.
“Wait right here,” Mike said to Kelli. “Don’t move.”
A clarinetist began the opening trill to “Rhapsody in Blue” and the orchestra joined in, followed by the guest pianist.
For a moment, Kelli forgot her anxiety and just let the music wash over her.
A moment later, Mike Freeman was back with Stone and two other men. Mike led them up a flight of stairs to an exit, and they stopped on the lawn.
“Kelli, what is this about Hamish McCallister?” Stone asked.
“I had dinner with him the other night, and we got along very well. Then, this afternoon, he called me from the airport and asked me to fly to London with him. I said I couldn’t, I had to cover the concert, and he told me, in a very serious manner, that I should avoid the concert and leave the hotel and go back to New York.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said there would be a serious disturbance at the hotel tonight.”
“At the concert?”
“No, he said at the hotel. Or, at least, that’s what I inferred.”
“Kelli, this is my friend Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti from the NYPD, and this is Special Agent Steve Rifkin, who is in command of the Secret Service presidential detail.”
“How do you do?” Kelli said to the two men.
“Thank you for letting us know about this,” Stone said. “We’re aware of Mr. McCallister and that he’s on a plane to London.”
“How did you know that?” Kelli asked, ever the reporter.
“We got word,” Stone replied. “The airplane will make an unscheduled stop in New York, and Mr. McCallister will be removed from the flight.”
Steve Rifkin spoke up. “It would be helpful if you could make yourself available for further interviewing after we have Mr. McCallister in custody.”
“What do you suspect him of?” Kelli asked.
“There’s nothing specific at the moment,” Rifkin replied. A radio on his belt crackled, and Rifkin answered it. “Tell the chief of the bomb squad to meet me at the top of the Bowl right now.” He replaced the radio on his belt.
“Bomb squad?” Kelli asked. “Is there a bomb somewhere around here?”
“The grounds have been thoroughly searched,” Rifkin replied, “and security has been very strict with anyone entering the grounds. It’s very unlikely that anyone could have smuggled a bomb in. Anything large enough to hold a significant bomb would have been searched immediately.”