by Jack Higgins
“Who says so?”
“Sean Dillon. He phoned me at noon and asked me to speak to you, which I now have.”
Behind Alice, Elsie opened the door and peered in, and the President waved. “It’s all right, Elsie.”
She withdrew, and the President said, “Let me make one thing clear. I have enormous respect for Dillon, but the Secret Service and the FBI will need more than that to go on.”
“All I know is he means to try something, and he’s an evil creature capable of anything. He put a hired assassin on to Dillon’s young cousin and her girlfriend the other night, but they were armed and blew him away. He could easily be planning the same kind of thing for the streets of Washington.”
“Alice, I’ll speak to the right people; I can do no more. Tell Elsie on the way out that I sent for you. It will make her feel better.”
Which Alice did, but as Elsie couldn’t understand how it had happened, it didn’t help at all, and Alice returned to her office to clear her desk and get ready for home.
She answered her phone when it rang, thinking it might be Blake, so the sound of the Master’s voice was a shock.
“Oh dear, Alice, you have been a naughty girl. So now we’ve got the President discussing your information with the Secret Service; the FBI; the Washington, DC, police. Have I left anyone out? It won’t help, you know. It certainly won’t help you. So why don’t you go home now and think about where your stupidity has led you.”
She had seldom felt so tired yet so angry, and she took out an Australian drover’s coat and a rain hat once owned by her long-dead husband, then locked the office door and went upstairs.
A green Lincoln was parked outside the entrance, the driver standing under the cupola, a tough military-looking black man she’d known for years.
“And how are you, Kilroy?”
“Could be worse,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not setting out on an Australian cattle drive?”
“It’s a thought,” she said. “But I doubt whether I could find enough romance in me these days.”
A shabby Ford work van drove past, a roughly painted sign on its side that said ANY JOB TAKEN. A driver peered out and then continued on, turning from view as Alice Quarmby walked straight through the heavy rain toward her Mercedes.
There was the roar of an engine, and the Ford van jumped out, drifted sideways, and bounced her at some speed. Then it turned around and drove very fast down to the exit.
A Secret Service man had appeared in the entrance, but Kilroy said, “Get an ambulance,” then scrambled into the Lincoln and drove to where Alice lay.
She made no sound and there was no blood on her face—it was as if she were in a deep sleep. Old soldier that he was, Kilroy opened the drover’s coat and found blood on her left side and, gently sliding a hand down her left leg, was aware of a fracture. It was then that the ambulance arrived from MedStar Washington Hospital Center and took Alice away, and then the police arrived, grateful for Kilroy’s description of the guilty vehicle, its number, and his opinion that the driver who glanced out appeared to be of Middle Eastern appearance.
As for the President, he was consumed with guilt at not having treated Dillon’s information more seriously. Most difficult of all was to have to explain it to Holland Park. It was Roper who took the call.
“I’m sure you appreciate how terrible I feel about Alice Quarmby. She’s being treated at the finest trauma center in Washington, but I feel mortified that I didn’t take Dillon’s warning more to heart when Alice brought it to me.”
“We’ve all miscalculated the Master to some extent, Mr. President,” Roper said. “I’ll let General Ferguson know what’s happened, and Blake. I think this will hit him particularly hard.”
—
WHICH IT DID, and Cazalet and Ferguson made the decision to drop Blake from the Cabinet Office committee and have him return to Holland Park and await events. Blake was completely stressed out, and his friends—Holley, Dillon, Hannah, and Sara—were being particularly careful with him. Suddenly Roper sat up. “Fox News coming up now. An attempt to murder White House staffer Alice Quarmby by—here we go—Muslim youth Wali Hakim, who crashed in flames while being chased by D.C. police. Hakim was known to have an interest in al-Qaeda and ISIS, and was in police files in New York and Washington. Alice Quarmby remains heavily sedated in the trauma center at MedStar Washington Hospital Center.”
“News at least,” Hannah said. “And hope in it.”
Dillon’s Codex sounded, and the Master said, “So here we are again, Mr. Dillon. Alone, are you, or with friends, or perhaps you haven’t any left, after stirring up the wretched Alice as you did?”
Blake exploded then. “You are not fit to mention her name!”
“Oh, yes, I am, and I’m winning, Mr. Dillon; it’s time you realized that. The young Wali Hakim was a martyr for our cause. There are others like him. We can’t be beaten,” and he switched off.
—
BLAKE WAS DISTRAUGHT, and it was obvious to all. “You know, my mother died of cancer when I was twelve years old, so it was my Dad and I until I lied about my age at seventeen and ended up in Vietnam. Then years later, when I inherited the Basement, I found this icon named Alice Quarmby came with it, ‘the old broad,’ as she described herself, serving one president after the other over the years. A White House institution. God help me, I don’t know where to put myself.”
Holley said, “Well, I do. In Washington, D.C. I have a perfectly good Falcon jet at Farley Field, and we can make the flight in five and a half hours if we push it. Is that okay, Major Roper? I understand you to be in command here when no one else is around.”
“True,” Roper said. “So my orders are to get the hell out of here before I change my mind, and, yes, I’m aware you’ll need a second pilot, so that’s obviously you, Dillon, and no arguments from the ladies, please.”
“Who’s complaining?” Sara asked, as Holley, Blake, and Dillon left quickly and Dillon’s Mini roared to life.
“Just shut up and allow me to send Farley Field my orders for the flight. What a shame. I’d always had hopes of making colonel, but you can’t have everything.”
“I always thought you were special, now I know you are,” Hannah told him.
“So are you two on the same wavelength over this?” Roper asked Sara.
“Absolutely,” Sara said. “But I do think you should send a message to the White House notifying the President that Blake is on his way—which, ironically, is exactly what the President has been wanting for some days. I don’t think General Ferguson would argue about that, so you may be a colonel yet.”
“For the first time, I can see why you are in the Intelligence Corps, Captain Gideon,” Roper said. “I’ll follow your orders at once; I’ll also request the hospital to expect a visit at, say, ten o’clock Washington time. Since the request is from the White House, I’m sure they’ll comply.”
“Excellent. My final advice is: Don’t speak to Ferguson, just send him a text. Once he’s read that a time or two, shocked though he may be, he’ll realize he has no option but to agree.”
“Your advice is noted, and at the rate you are going, I expect you to make major sooner rather than later.”
Hannah said, “Do you have any orders for me, sir?”
“Yes,” he said. “Take Sadie home to Highfield Court, lock yourself up in the conservatory, sit down at the Schiedmayer concert grand, and get practicing.”
“At your command, oh great one,” she told him, and left.
—
THE FALCON HEADED OUT over the Atlantic at forty thousand feet, Holley at the controls. Dillon sat beside Blake in the cabin, trying to cheer him up without much success.
Finally, he gave up trying. “I’d get some sleep, old son,” he said. “I’m needed in the cockpit. Have an Irish whiskey, extend your seat, and lie back. You’ll b
e asleep in no time.”
“I don’t think so,” Blake said.
“Pull yourself together or you won’t be fit enough to see Alice, you clod, and you don’t want that, do you?” Dillon told him harshly.
He joined Holley in the cockpit, who said, “How is he?”
“Terrible,” Dillon said. “I’ve never seen him like this. How’s the weather?”
“Rain, wind, the chance of storms in the mid-Atlantic.”
“Well, that should be fun,” Dillon told him.
“You can imagine you’re a Spitfire pilot in the Battle of Britain if you like while I check on our cargo and have a coffee.”
“I’m a Hurricane man myself,” Dillon said. “They shot down more planes than the Spitfire.”
“And not many people know that,” Holley said, and went out.
Dillon eased back in his seat and his Codex buzzed. Roper said, “I’ve heard from the White House. The President will be happy to see Blake, you, and Holley when you get in. Any way the White House can help, they will. He’s also asked me to assure you that Alice has the tightest possible Secret Service security at the hospital.”
Holley returned and eased into the other seat.
“How is he?” Dillon asked.
“Half asleep.”
Dillon passed his Codex across. “I’ve just recorded a conversation with Roper that ought to make him feel better.”
Holley listened, and said, “That should do the trick.”
“I could do with a cup of tea and a sandwich. I’ll let him listen to Roper and we’ll see if it works,” Dillon said, and went into the cabin. He passed his Codex to Blake.
“Message for you from Roper. It might cheer you up.”
And it seemed to straightaway. “Thank God,” Blake said. “Remember the Master saying to us that Wali Hakim was a martyr for the cause and there were others like him? It made me think of Alice in a hospital bed at the mercy of a lot of different people, but to know that the Secret Service is guarding her is a great relief.”
“Well, hang on to that feeling,” Dillon said. “And try to get some sleep, because that’s exactly what I intend to do for an hour.”
So he dimmed his light, tilted his seat, and closed his eyes.
—
A BRISK TAILWIND helped with the final approach to the American coast, and it was nine-fifteen when they landed at Reagan International, where they were immediately waved in to where several Mercedes waited with men in black raincoats and good suits at the ready, the Secret Service on display.
Blake knew them, of course, and it seemed to have an effect on him at once. A man named Murphy was in charge, he sped them past customs, and in fifteen minutes they were on their way.
Murphy sat in the front seat beside the driver, and the three in from England behind. “Good to see you, Blake,” he said. “And have I got news for you. A couple of hours ago Alice, God bless her, opened her eyes and started to ask questions.”
Blake was shocked. “Is that for real?”
“Absolutely. She’s got some hip and leg damage, but the docs are saying that, mentally, she’s the Alice we know and love. But you’ll see for yourself soon.”
Blake seemed to choke a little and gasped for air, and Dillon patted him on the back. “Take it easy and breathe deeply. You’ll be seeing her in minutes, so pull yourself together.”
—
ALICE WAS IN A PRIVATE ROOM, two very obvious security guards seated outside. A doctor in scrubs stood watching while a young nurse helped Alice drink through a straw. As Murphy led Blake, Dillon, and Holley in, Alice ejected the straw, joy on her face.
“The things an old broad like me has to do to get your attention. Is President Cazalet with you?”
“No, he’s needed too much by Number Ten Downing Street. I’m here only because Holley’s a rich bastard and offered the use of his Falcon.”
“Well, I must say I’m touched to have two such outstanding members of the Provisional IRA standing at the end of my bed. Is this allowed, Mr. Murphy?”
“For you, anything is allowed as far as the White House is concerned, Alice.”
“With a name like Murphy, how could he not approve?” Dillon said. “I’m sorry my warning didn’t work as I’d hoped.”
“Not your fault, Sean. Just put the Master down once and for all, and do it for me, that’s all I ask.”
“You have my word on it,” Dillon said.
“That’s good enough for me.” Alice turned. “But you shouldn’t be here. I love you, Blake, you’re like a son to me, but Jake Cazalet needs you in London. It’s your duty and you owe it to your country. I’ll be fine. The doctors will confirm that. I don’t want to see you again until this Master creature is stamped out once and for all. Now off you go to the Oval Office, where I’m told the President is waiting to have words.”
Blake laughed out loud. “Well, you always did say you were a tough old broad.”
“You can bet on that,” she said. “So you and your chums can oblige me by getting the hell back to London.”
—
MURPHY SAT UP FRONT AGAIN with the driver as they left for the White House. Blake was a different man, cheerful and smiling again in spite of the torrential rain.
“It’s great to be here,” he said to Murphy. “I’ve been away too long.”
“We’ve all missed you, Blake, and now you tell me it’s straight back to London.”
“When your country calls, what can you do?” Blake said. “But I miss Washington. Look at that, demonstrators this late and in this weather. That’s Pennsylvania Avenue for you.”
“Crazy people,” Murphy said, and told the driver to try the East Entrance, which they did, and they found a Secret Service man who escorted them to Elsie waiting at her desk outside the Oval Office.
“It’s good to see you back, Blake,” she said. “Can I ask how she is?”
“Broken bones, but fresh as a daisy otherwise,” Blake said. “She sent you her love.”
“That’s nice,” Elsie said. “The President’s waiting, and he wants you also, Mr. Murphy.” She opened the door to the Oval Office, announced them, and Murphy led the way in.
The President said, “Is everything supplied for the return flight?”
“So I am told, Mr. President,” Murphy said.
“Excellent. Just wait outside.”
Murphy went out, and the President said, “I was going to say hello, Blake, it’s been a hell of a long time, but I’ve something much more important to say to you. Alice told me, Mr. Dillon, that you had asked her to make clear to me the threats the Master had made about his intended behavior in Washington. I made the huge mistake of not taking it seriously. The guilt I feel for this is beyond description.”
Dillon said, “The depravity of the Master is considerable, Mr. President. It’s not your fault. Anyway, we’ve just had the pleasure of finding Alice awake and active again.”
“Particularly with her mouth,” Blake told him, “and if I might make a suggestion, nothing would thrill her more than a visit from you.”
“That’s a great idea, I’ll see her tomorrow.” The President was smiling now. “You always come up with an answer. That’s why I miss you so much, but I realize now that the work you and President Cazalet are engaged with in London is of crucial importance.”
“It’s good to know you support us in this way, Mr. President.”
“And you, Mr. Holley, special envoy for the Algerian foreign minister now, I hear. It’s good to see you, too. Now I’ll say good-bye to all of you, and have a safe flight back.”
The door opened, Murphy appeared and shepherded them out, walking them through the convoluted corridors of the White House to where the Mercedes waited to take them back to the airport.
Holley checked his watch. “Half past midnight. I’ve never
spent such a short time in America.”
Dillon said, “At Holland Park right now, Maggie Hall is serving full English breakfast.”
Murphy said, “What about the full Irish, Sean?”
“Ah, you’d have to go to the Europa Hotel in Belfast. They do the best in the world. I often dropped in during the Troubles. Roper had to call in there a time or two to defuse bombs, but we never met. Ironic, that.”
“Who’s Roper, then?” Murphy asked.
“Probably the greatest bomb disposal expert during the Troubles,” Dillon said. “He’s been in a wheelchair for years. It was a woman who got him in the end. A real crazy after revenge. A great man. He was awarded the George Cross.”
“I don’t understand,” Murphy said. “You were on different sides.”
“In the end, me old son, you could say we were all on the same side, but you would have needed to go through it to understand that.”
The Mercedes turned into the airport and drove straight to the Falcon through the torrential rain and pulled up at the airstair door. Dillon shook hands with Murphy.
“Look at it, the romance of flight. If we go down in the middle of the Atlantic, it was a real pleasure,” and he opened the car door and ran for the steps.
—
HOLLEY LET DILLON take the flight up to thirty thousand feet, climbing gradually all the way to the Maine coast, then up to forty thousand feet as they moved out over the Atlantic. Blake, the nonpilot, made himself comfortable with a pot of coffee in the cabin. Remembering Roper’s nocturnal habit, he tried calling him on his Codex and struck gold.
“Good to hear from you,” Roper said. “What on earth is behind this extraordinarily quick return journey?”
“Well, it appears that Alice is going to be all right. She was in some kind of a traumatic state, little evidence of life besides breathing, when it seems she suddenly opened her eyes and started asking where she was and what had happened.”
“So how is she?”
“Well, her hip and left leg are fractured, but she’s sitting up in bed in a private hospital room with the White House Secret Service in charge of her security.”