The Countess of Loch Dhu was at the door. The diamonds at her neck and throat were dazzling, the black silk trouser suit a kind of art form. Beside her, Rupert Dauncey wore an elegant Brioni blazer and slacks, with a white shirt and dark tie. The blond hair was perfectly combed.
The restaurant manager was on to them in a moment and began to lead them through the tables. As they grew closer, the President said, "Speak to her, Blake, you're the one who knows her."
Blake stood up as she approached and said, "Kate. Well, this is serendipity."
She paused, smiled, then reached to kiss his cheek. "Why, Blake, how nice." She turned. "Have you met my cousin, Rupert Dauncey? No, I don't believe you have. You have a lot in common, you know."
"Oh, his reputation precedes him," said Blake.
Rupert Dauncey smiled. "As does yours, Mr. Johnson. And Senator Quinn's here."
"Thank you," said Quinn. "Nice to see you again, Countess."
She nodded. "Likewise."
"Mr. President," said Blake, "may I present Lady Kate Rashid, the Countess of Loch Dhu."
Cazalet stood and took her hand. "We've never met, Countess. Will you and Mr. Dauncey join us for a drink? A glass of champagne, perhaps?"
"How could I refuse?"
Blake waved to the waiter and spoke to him. Rupert pulled a chair out, seated her, and turned to Clancy Smith.
"The last time I saw you, Sergeant Major, we were in very deep shit inside Iraqi lines."
"We surely were, Major. I missed you in Bosnia."
"A good place to miss anybody." Dauncey smiled and moved to stand beside him. "But we're holding things up."
The waiter poured glasses of Dom Perignon. Cazalet raised his glass. "To you, Lady Kate. Rashid Investments is doing extremely well at the moment, I'm told. I'm particularly impressed with your Hazar results."
"Oil, Mr. President. Everyone needs oil." She smiled. "As you know yourself."
"Yes, but the Hazar operations have had remarkable results. I wonder why."
"You know why. Because I control the Rashid Bedu in both Hazar and the Empty Quarter. Without me, you and the Russians are nothing. They're the cruelest deserts in the world, you know." She turned to Blake and smiled. "But Blake knows that. He was there when my brother George was killed."
"Yes, I was," Blake said. "I was also there the night before, when Cornet Bronsby was killed." He turned and told the President what he already knew. "Bronsby was with the Hazar Scouts. They don't have a real army down there, just a regiment. The Rashid Bedu did a very thorough job on him with their knives." He turned to Kate with a smile, but there was no humor in it. "But then at dawn, Sean Dillon took his revenge. It was four of you, as I recall, wasn't it? At five hundred meters? A hell of a marksman, Sean."
"A hell of a bastard," Kate Rashid said.
"Because one of them was your brother George? He should have thought of that before he started murdering people."
The air hung thick and cold around the table. Then the Countess smiled. "Well, murder is something you'd know a lot about, wouldn't you, Mr. Johnson? Not to mention the price one must pay for it. Sometimes a very high price." She leaned close to him. "Please share that knowledge with your friends, won't you?"
"Don't do it, Kate." Blake held her wrist. "Whatever it is you're planning, don't do it."
"Blake, I can do anything I want," she said. "Rupert?"
He pulled her chair back. She stood. "Mr. President, an honor." She turned and nodded to Dauncey, who said, "Gentlemen," and followed.
There was silence for a while after she'd gone. Finally, Quinn said, "What the hell was all that about?"
"Just read the files, Daniel," Cazalet said. "And get to London as soon as you can." He gazed after her. "Something tells me we may have less time than we've thought."
K ate Rashid and her cousin sat at another corner of the restaurant. "Cigarette, Rupert."
He gave her a Marlboro and flicked a brass lighter made from an AK round.
"There you go, sweetie."
She reached for the lighter. "Where did you get this, Rupert? I never asked you."
"Oh, it's a Gulf War souvenir. I was ambushed, in a pretty bad situation, and I picked up an Iraqi AK assault rifle. It saved my bacon until help arrived, funnily enough, in the person of Sergeant Major Clancy Smith over there. Afterwards, when I checked, there was one round left in the magazine."
"That was close."
"It surely was. I pocketed it and had it made into a lighter by a jeweler in Bond Street." He took it from her. "You know the phrase, Kate? Memento mori?"
"Of course, Rupert, my darling. Reminder of death."
"Exactly." He tossed the lighter up and grabbed it again. "I should be dead, Kate, three or four times over. I'm not. Why?" He smiled. "I don't know, but this reminds me."
"Do you still go to Mass, darling, to Confession?"
"No. But God knows and understands everything, isn't that what they say, Kate? And he has an infinite capacity for forgiveness." He smiled again. "If anyone needs that, I do. But then you know that. You probably know everything about me. I should think that it took you all of half an hour after I introduced myself at that reception in London before you had your security people on my case."
"Twenty minutes, darling. You were too good to be true. A blessing from Allah, really. I'd lost my mother and my three brothers and then there you were, a Dauncey I never even knew existed--and thank God for it."
Rupert Dauncey felt emotion welling inside of him. He reached for her hand. "You know I'd kill for you, Kate."
"I know, darling. You may well have to."
He smiled and put a cigarette in his mouth. "I love you to bits."
"But Rupert, women don't figure on your agenda."
"I know, isn't it a shame? But I still love you." He leaned back. "So where are we?"
"Senator Daniel Quinn over there. It's very interesting how chummy he seems to be with Cazalet. Before when I wanted him dead, it was because his people were finding out too much about my activities. Now, I wonder if he doesn't have some bigger agenda."
"Such as?"
"I don't know. But I think it would be interesting to find out...Do you know that he has a daughter, Rupert? Named Helen. She's a Rhodes scholar at Oxford."
"Yes? And?"
"I want you to cultivate her."
"I don't understand."
"Well, you know about my little charitable works, don't you? I believe in supporting oppressed and minority political groups. People like Act of Class Warfare, the United Anarchist Front, the Army of National Liberation in Beirut. They're a little wild, but...well meaning."
"Well meaning, my backside."
"Rupert, how unkind. Well, anyway, the Act of Class Warfare education program operates from my castle, Loch Dhu, in western Scotland, a rather run-down old thing but nice and remote. It provides adventure courses for young people. Teaches them how to handle themselves. And for some of the older ones...a little more."
"Like in Hazar?"
"Very good, Rupert! Yes. The Army of Arab Liberation Children's Trust. That's rather more serious business. Full paramilitary training, run by mercenaries. Some of them are Irish, you know. There are plenty of them around since this whole peace process thing began."
"So what do you want from me?"
"I want you to oversee Loch Dhu, start keeping an eagle eye out, make sure nobody is snooping around. And I want you to keep close contact with Act of Class Warfare."
"Why?"
"Because I've got a feeling we'll be seeing Senator Quinn again, and sooner than we think. Did you know, Rupert, that Act of Class Warfare has branches at most of the major universities now? Filled by the children of the affluent who want to destroy capitalism?" She chuckled.
"And what does that have to do with Quinn?"
"Because, my dear Rupert...Helen Quinn is a member of the Oxford branch."
I n London the following morning, Major Roper appeared at Sean Dillon's cottage at
Stable Mews, a strange young man in a state-of-the-art electric wheelchair. He wore a reefer coat, his hair was down to his shoulders, and his face was a taut mask of the kind of scar tissue that only comes from burns. An important bomb-disposal expert with the Royal Engineers, decorated with the George Cross, his extraordinary career had been terminated by what he called "a silly little bomb" in a small family car in, courtesy of the Provisional IRA.
He'd survived and discovered a whole new career in computers. Now if you wanted to find out anything in cyberspace, no matter how buried, it was Roper you called.
Ferguson and Dillon were there to greet him.
"Sean, you bastard," Roper said cheerfully.
Dillon smiled and helped him over the step. "You look well."
"Hannah didn't say much. She sent me a file, though. Are we going to war again?"
"I'd say it's a distinct possibility."
He followed Roper along the corridor and they found Ferguson on the telephone. He replaced it. "Major, how goes it?"
"Fine, General. You've got work for me?"
Ferguson nodded. "Indeed we do."
For the next half hour, they went over the whole background of the case, until finally Dillon said, "And what we would like you to do first is check out those groups she's been giving money to. If she's got an Achilles' heel, that may be it. I don't know what we're looking for, exactly"--he grinned--"but we'll know when we find it."
"You realize," Roper said, "that if Quinn's people checked her out a few months ago, she knows it. They're bound to have left footprints, which means that she's had time to try to cover her tracks, if she wanted to."
"Does that mean you don't think you'll find anything?" Ferguson asked.
Roper's scar tissue lifted in what passed for a smile. "I said she'd try. I didn't say she'd succeed."
LONDON OXFORD HAZAR
5
R OPER'S APARTMENT IN REGENCY SQUARE WAS ON THE ground floor, with its own entrance and a slope to the door to facilitate his wheelchair. The entire place, including the kitchen and bathroom, which had a specialized shower and toilet system, was designed not only for a handicapped person but for one who, as in this case, was determined to fend for himself. In what should have been a sitting room, there was instead a computer laboratory and workbench, and the equipment there was state-of-the-art, some of it classified, obtained not only because he was a Major on the Army reserve list but because Ferguson used his muscle whenever he had to.
Three days after Quinn's meeting with the President, the front doorbell sounded at ten in the morning. Roper pressed a remote control and a moment later, Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein came in.
"So, what have you got?" Ferguson asked Roper.
"Well, as you said, the Rashid Educational Trust pours money into an incredible variety of causes. The list's as long as your arm. Most of them appear legit, but not all of them. This Children's Trust in Beirut, for instance, is definitely Hezbollah. And she's got other trusts scattered around Syria, Iraq, Kuwait, the Oman. I'm still working on them, but I'd bet you anything some of them are terrorist fronts as well."
"What on earth's she playing at?" Ferguson said.
"She's consolidating her power," Dillon said. "Establishing links with all the major Arab leaders. Gaining influence through either peace or violence, depending on what suits her particular needs."
Roper nodded. "And don't forget the size of her oil interests in the Middle East. Rashid Investments controls a third of all production there. She could bring down the whole house of cards if she wanted to."
"Christ," Ferguson groaned. "A third of Mideast oil production."
Dillon turned back to Roper. "What about here at home? She hasn't made grants to the IRA or the Ulster Freedom Fighters or anything like that?"
"No, but there are a lot of fringe organizations, like the People's Army, the Socialist Marxist League, the Nationalist Liberation Group, the United Anarchists, and so on--and all the contributions presented as educational grants."
"And next time there's a riot in London, how many of the members will be there?" Hannah asked.
Roper shrugged. "She's very clever. Everything is done in the open and aboveboard. Many people would applaud what she's doing."
"On the surface, maybe," Ferguson said. "She's clever, all right. What about Act of Class Warfare?"
"Despite its name, it seems pretty innocuous. Its biggest feature is a kind of outdoor educational program for kids from twelve to eighteen. School parties, canoeing, trekking, mountain climbing."
"I wonder what the older students get?" Dillon asked.
"Its headquarters is in western Scotland, in a town called Moidart, at Loch Dhu Castle. Yes, it belongs to the Countess."
Ferguson was astonished. "But I've been there. We all have."
Even Roper was surprised. "What do you mean?"
It was Dillon who answered. "A few years ago, we had to deal with a very bad article named Carl Morgan who'd rented that castle for a few weeks. The General, Hannah, and I took him on from Ardmurchan Lodge on the other side of the loch."
Hannah turned to Ferguson. "But Lady Katherine owned it."
"Actually, it's a little more complicated than that," said Roper. "When Sir Paul Dauncey received the title of Earl of Loch Dhu from James the First, it was an old castle even then. It was rebuilt in mid-Victorian style by one of the later Earls, starting in 1850, but the family hardly ever used it--they preferred Dauncey Place. More recently, they leased it to the Campbell family for fifty years. On the death of Lady Katherine Rose five years ago, the lease reverted to the Daunceys."
"Or since the marriage of Kate's mother to the Rashids," Dillon said.
"Carl Jung once said there was a thing called synchronicity," Hannah said. "An event going beyond mere coincidence that makes you think there's some deeper meaning involved."
"Yes, spooky, isn't it?" Dillon said. "Kate Rashid's been waiting for us to turn up all this time."
"Don't talk nonsense." It was Ferguson who interjected. "But, you know, I think it's time for us to shake the pot a bit."
"What do you mean, sir?" Hannah asked.
Ferguson turned to Dillon. "Sean, I think it's time for 'We know that they know and they know that we know.'"
"And what would that accomplish?" Dillon asked.
"All right. Now, this is top secret and for your ears only, and Whitehall would probably skin me alive for telling you--but for the past couple of years, Kate Rashid's done...some work for the government. She's been a secret emissary for the Foreign Office and the Prime Minister."
"What?!" Hannah exclaimed. "Oh, I can't believe this!"
"Do we get to know who's at the other end?" Dillon asked.
"Saddam Hussein."
"Good God," Hannah moaned.
"She knows him well, you see, and he's a great admirer."
"She can't put a foot wrong, can she?" Roper commented. "So what you're saying is that she has protectors, that we'd have difficulty getting certain people to think ill of her at the highest levels of government."
"Yes. But I damn well do," Ferguson said.
"And you'd like Kate Rashid to know you're on her case?"
"Exactly." He turned to Hannah Bernstein. "You and Dillon, I want you to go to Loch Dhu Castle, see what you can stir up."
"When, sir?"
"Right now. Phone Farley Field. Tell Lacey and Parry to get the Gulfstream ready. If I remember right, there's an old abandoned RAF strip by the Loch. It's only four hundred and fifty miles, it should take you an hour and a half."
"We'd need transport, sir."
"Then phone the air-sea rescue base at Oban. Tell them to send an unmarked car. Do it now. Go on, Superintendent, you can use your mobile in the car."
He almost pushed her out of the room, and Dillon smiled at Roper as he followed. "Now you know how we won the war."
"Which war?" Roper asked.
A t Farley Field, the small RAF installation used for covert operat
ions, they were greeted by Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry. Both officers were holders of the Air Force Cross, awarded for hazardous operations in various parts of the world on Ferguson's behalf. Both men wore nondescript blue flying overalls with no rank tabs.
Lacey said, "Nice to see you, Sean. Will it be messy?"
"Probably not--but you never know, do you?"
"We're using the Lear, since it doesn't have RAF roundels, Superintendent. You did say you wanted this business low-key."
"Of course. Let's get moving."
She went up the ladder, Dillon behind her, and the pilots followed. Lacey went to the cockpit and Parry closed the door. A minute later, they sped down the runway and took off, climbing fast to thirty thousand.
"Why the emphasis on anonymity when Ferguson wants Kate to know it's us?" Dillon asked.
"We're a covert organization, and we want to keep it that way. A plane with RAF roundels and two officers in uniform could form the basis of a formal complaint if the Countess so desired."
"Ah, Kate would never do that. There are rules, even in our business."
"You've never obeyed a rule in your life."
He lit a cigarette. "The ones that suit me, I do. How are you feeling these days, Hannah?"
The previous year, during the feud with the Rashids, she'd been shot three times by an Arab gunman.
"Don't fuss, Dillon. I'm here, aren't I?"
"Ah, the hard woman you are."
"Oh, shut up."
Parry had left a couple of newspapers on the seat. She picked up the Times and started to read.
A t the same time, other things were happening in the world. In Kosovo, Daniel Quinn entered the village of Leci in a Land Rover owned by the British Household Cavalry Regiment. A trooper stood up behind a mounted machine gun and another drove, while Quinn, wearing a combat jacket, sat in the rear beside a Corporal of Horse--the equivalent of a Sergeant in other units--named Varley.
It started to rain. There was smoke in the air, acrid in the damp, from houses still burning. There was no sign of the population.
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