Turbulence (Stone Barrington #46)(65)

“At some point I’m going to have to make my way to the airfield,” Stone said.

“And I,” Kelly interjected.

“Yes, and it would be advantageous if we had access to one of the many golf carts on the estate.”

The duke thought about it. “Nearest to the house would be the ones parked in a shed next to the skeet range. The keys are always in them.”

“Good. I like your Bentley.”

“It was my father’s, made to his specifications. He attended many a shooting party and days at the races in it, more comfortable than the queen in her shooting brake or her box. He called it a ‘sensible waste of money.’”

The big car glided across Oxfordshire like a yacht over a calm sea and they dropped anchor at the front door of Kensington House. The duke rapped on the glass separating their compartment from the driver. It slid down. “Herbert,” the duke said. “When we are inside I want you to park this car no more than ten metres from the front door, and do not allow anyone to move it. You may lock yourself in, if it helps.”

Footmen opened the rear doors, and the party disembarked into the front hall. “Keep our coats handy,” the duke said to the footman taking them. “We may get cold.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said, hanging them on pegs near the cloakroom door.

They were the last of the party to arrive. Twenty men and as many women, dressed to kill, stood in the grand hall drinking champagne or vodka encased in blocks of ice. Crystal bowls contained Beluga Caviar, nearly impossible to obtain outside Russia or Iran, and more than Stone had ever seen in one place. He had to restrain himself from finding a bowl and a spoon for himself, or perhaps, a trough.

“I’ve tasted this only once before,” Kelly said, spreading a dollop on a warm blini and stuffing it into her face.

“Don’t adulterate it with sour cream or chopped onions,” Stone said, accepting an icy glass of vodka from a footman. “And go easy on this stuff, we’re going to need clear heads.”

Even the duke and duchess were impressed, digging in.

Kelly cocked her head to one side. “Everyone is speaking Russian,” she said.

“Do you speak Russian?” Stone asked.

“A bit. I understand it better. I had four months of it at our language school, in Monterey, California, but I was working on two other languages, as well, so I lack fluency.”

“Then don’t talk,” Stone said. “Listen and translate anything worth knowing.”

They wandered among the guests. “My goodness,” Kelly said as they hovered near two Russian gentlemen, talking earnestly. “Sell oil stocks, if you have any; they’re talking about flooding the market.”

“Remind me to call my broker tomorrow,” Stone replied. “If we haven’t been incinerated by then.”

Kelly snagged a vodka from a passing tray.

“Careful,” Stone said, “that’s the high-octane stuff.”

“I’ll sip,” she said, filching a cracker containing an ounce of Beluga. “Good God.”

“What?”

“I swear to God, that tall man over there is Alexei Petrov, the president, himself.”

Stone followed her gaze. “I believe you’re right,” he said. They edged in that direction but came up on a pair of iron-faced gentlemen who were barely contained by their tuxedos.

Kelly said something to one of them in Russian, and the man attempted a smile.

“What did you say to him?” Stone asked.

“I apologized for stepping on his toes,” she said.

“Do you think he knows you’re an American?”

“I doubt it. My Russian accent is very good; it’s my vocabulary that fails me.”

“Do you know any of the men Petrov is talking to?”

“One is the Russian foreign minister. Another is their ambassador to Britain. The short one is the head of SVR, their intelligence service. The others are, I think, simply very rich men.”

“There are no poor men in this hall,” Stone said. “I wonder how many jets are lined up by the runway.”

“My guess would be about twenty,” Kelly said. “One for each couple here.”

“No plane-pooling?”

“Okay, maybe fifteen.”

“Or maybe one Russian airliner, suitably appointed.”

“You think they’re economizing?”

“I think they’re short of ramp space at the airfield,” Stone said.

“How do you suppose they handled customs and immigration?” she asked.

“Ten to one, they all have diplomatic passports. If so, a phone call from the ambassador to the foreign minister would handle it.”

“Do you think the foreign minister knows Petrov is among them?”

“I doubt it. The estate would be flooded with Special Branch officers and MI-5 counterintelligence people, if they even dreamed President Petrov might be here.”

“How do you know it isn’t?”

“Because there would be a lot of GRU people out there in the grass, watching for them.”

“If the estate is lousy with GRU, how are we going to get near the airfield?”

“Ask me when we’re there,” Stone said.