Midnight Runner - Sean Dillon 10

by Jack Higgins

  Rupert said, "I noticed you had a mobile phone when we met earlier. I'd call the police if I were you."

  "Jesus," the man said. "And what do I say?"

  "Just tell them you were mugged by three very large black men. It's Washington, they'll believe you. Terrible, the crime situation in the city, isn't it?"

  He walked back to the car. As he got behind the wheel, Kate Rashid said, "Can we go now?"

  "Your wish is my command."

  3

  A S THEY PULLED UP TO THE WHITE HOUSE, BLAKE clicked off his cell phone. "I never heard Cazalet at a loss for words, but he is now. He's shocked."

  "I'm shocked," Quinn said. "Blake, I'm fifty-two years old. Vietnam was a long time ago."

  "It was a long time ago for all of us, Daniel."

  "But, Blake, what I did to those two back there. Where the hell did that come from?"

  "It never goes away, Senator," Clancy Smith told him. "It's like being branded for the rest of your life."

  "Is it the same for you? Does the Gulf War still affect you today?"

  "Ah, hell, I never think about it," said Smith. "We all cut throats on the right occasion, Senator, you just did it with style. That's why you're the legend."

  "Bo Din?" Quinn shook his head. "It's like a curse."

  "No, Senator, an inspiration," and they were inside the gate.

  When the three of them entered the Oval Office, President Jake Cazalet was seated at his desk, which was littered with papers. The room was in shadows, a table light on the desk. Cazalet, like Blake and Quinn, was in his early fifties, his reddish hair peppered with gray. He jumped to his feet and came round the desk.

  "Daniel, what a hell of an experience. What happened?"

  "Oh, Blake will tell you. Could I possibly have an Irish whiskey?"

  "Of course. Clancy, will you see to it?"

  "Mr. President."

  Daniel followed him out to the anteroom. He waited as Clancy poured, aware of the murmur of voices from the Oval Office. When he went back, Cazalet turned to greet him.

  "A hell of a thing."

  "What? That I've just discovered I'm still a killer after thirty years?"

  Cazalet took his hand. "No, Daniel, that you still have what it takes to be a hero. Those two lowlifes made a mistake. They won't be trying that again for a while."

  "Thanks, Mr. President. I hope that's true. Now--what can I do for you? Why did you want to see me?"

  "Let's sit down."

  They drew chairs up to the coffee table. Clancy stood against the wall, as always, dark, taciturn, and watchful.

  The President said, "Daniel, you've done a fine job so far in your new role, especially your work in Bosnia and Kosovo. I can't think of anybody who could have done better in the time I've been here, and that's five years now. I know you have another trip to Kosovo coming up, but after that--I was wondering if you could put down roots in London for a while? Completely separate from the London Embassy, just some...research it'd be useful to have done."

  "What kind of research?"

  Cazalet turned. "Blake?"

  Blake Johnson said, "Europe has changed, Daniel, you know that. There are terrorist groups all over the place, and not only the Arab fundamentalists. The emerging problem is anarchism. Groups with names like the Marxist League, the Army of National Liberation, a new group called Act of Class Warfare."

  "So?" Quinn asked.

  "Before we get into the details," Cazalet said, "I must say this goes beyond any security classification you've ever had." He pushed a document across. "This is a Presidential Warrant, Daniel. It says you belong to me. It transcends all our laws. You don't even have the right to say no."

  Quinn studied it. "I always thought these things were a myth."

  "They're real enough, as you see. However, you're an old friend. I won't force you. Say no now and we'll tear this up."

  Quinn took a deep breath. "If you need me, Mr. President, then I'm yours to command, sir."

  Cazalet nodded. "Excellent. Now--how much do you actually know about what Blake does at the Basement?"

  "I must confess, Mr. President, not a tremendous amount. It's some kind of private investigative squad, but the White House has done a pretty good job over the years of keeping a lid on it."

  "I'm gratified to hear it. Yes, you're right. Many years ago, faced with the possibility of Communist infiltration at every level of the government, the then-President--I won't even tell you who--invented the Basement as a small operation answerable only to him, totally separate from the CIA, FBI, and the Secret Service. Since then, it's been handed from one President to another, and it's certainly been invaluable to me."

  Blake cut in. "There's also a similar outfit in London, with which we are very close, run by a man named General Charles Ferguson. He works out of the Ministry of Defence and is responsible only to the Prime Minister of the day, irrespective of politics." He grinned. "They're known as the Prime Minister's private army."

  "I can see why you'd like that," Quinn said.

  "His chief assistant is a Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard. A hell of a woman. Smart as a whip, but she's also killed several men and been shot several times herself."

  "Good God."

  "The best is yet to come," Cazalet told Quinn. He passed him a file. "This is Sean Dillon, for years the Provisional IRA's most-feared enforcer."

  Quinn opened the file. The photos showed a small man, no more than five feet five, with fair hair almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black flying jacket. He dangled a cigarette from one corner of his mouth and smiled the kind of smile that seemed to say he didn't take life too seriously.

  Quinn said, "He looks like a dangerous man."

  "You don't know the half of it. Several years ago, Ferguson saved him from a Serb firing squad, and then he blackmailed him into joining his outfit. Now he's Ferguson's best man." Cazalet paused. "He helped save my daughter a few years ago, when she was kidnapped by terrorists, he and Blake together."

  Quinn looked from one to the other. "Your daughter? Kidnapped? I--I never knew--"

  "Nobody knew, Daniel," Cazalet said. "We didn't want anybody to know. And he saved my life, too." He held up his hand as Quinn began to exclaim again. "And that brings us back to our original topic. Blake?"

  Blake said, "Do you remember last Christmas when you stopped over in London?"

  "Of course. It was a chance to see Helen at Oxford."

  "That's right, and the President asked you to guest one or two functions through the Ambassador that would be attended by Lady Kate Rashid, the Countess of Loch Dhu."

  "That's right, and I wondered why. It wasn't really made clear what I was trying to find out, except that I was to get to know her. So I met the lady briefly, made discreet inquiries, and had a code computer analysis done by my people on the Rashid organization."

  Blake said, "So you know how much they're worth."

  "I sure do. The latest quotes, including their oil interests in Hazar, indicate about ten billion dollars."

  "And the president of the company?"

  "The Countess of Loch Dhu."

  Blake held out a folder. "This is our file on the Rashids. It's very interesting. For instance, it includes a list of their charitable donations, which include large donations to several education programs, including the educational program of Act of Class Warfare, and the Children's Trust in Beirut."

  Quinn said, "I remember that. But it all seemed kosher to me. Educational charities are common among the truly rich. It's like handing out alms to the poor to assuage your guilt at having so much. I've been there myself."

  Blake said, "What if I told you the Children's Trust in Beirut is a front for Hezbollah?"

  Daniel Quinn was bewildered. "Are you suggesting she's up to something subversive? Why would she want to do that?"

  "You remember how I said Dillon saved my life?" said Cazalet. "Well, this is where that comes in."

  Bla
ke continued. "As you know, Kate Rashid is Arab Bedu through her father and English through her mother--that's where the title comes from, the Daunceys. She had three brothers, Paul, George, and Michael."

  "Had?"

  "Yes. Last year, their mother was killed in a car accident by a drunken diplomat from the Russian Embassy. But a foreign diplomat can't be brought to court, so the brothers arranged their own punishment, which was permanent. What further infuriated them was that they learned the Russian had been brokering an oil deal in Hazar involving us and the Russians. Hazar was their territory. As far as they were concerned, here were these two great powers swaggering arrogantly over not only their economic rights but over Arabs in general: the West disrespecting the East. So they decided we needed to be taught a lesson."

  "Paul Rashid tried to have me assassinated on Nantucket," Cazalet said. "Clancy took a bullet in the back meant for me. Blake personally shot one of the assassins."

  "Mr. President, this is--this is astonishing," Quinn said.

  "Unfortunately, it didn't end there," Blake told him. "It's all in the file. Suffice it to say that ultimately all three Rashid brothers paid the price for their fanaticism--leaving only their sister, Kate. The richest woman in the world probably, a woman who has everything and lost everything. Three beloved brothers. She wants revenge, I'm sure of it."

  "You mean she couldn't get the President last time, so she might try again?"

  "We believe she could be capable of anything. There's one other wild card. The Daunceys had what the English aristocracy call a minor branch, some people who moved to America in the eighteenth century and settled in Boston."

  "They're lawyers and judges now," Cazalet said. "Very respectable. I know the family."

  Quinn said, "Is there something I should know here?"

  Blake passed another file across. "Rupert Dauncey--West Point, Parris Island."

  "Another Marine, eh?"

  "Yes, and a good soldier," Blake said. "He won a Silver Star in the Gulf, then served in Serbia and Bosnia. There was a suggestion he might have killed Serbs a tad harshly, but nothing came of it, and after a very nasty Muslim ambush, which he foiled, he received the Distinguished Service Medal. He was raised to a quick Captaincy--"

  "Which led to a transfer to the Marine Embassy Guard in London," the President said.

  "And I can guess what happened next," Quinn said. "Once in London, he introduced himself to the good Countess, is that it?"

  "They hit it off immediately, and have been very close ever since," Blake said. "He's very good-looking, I gather, especially in his Marine dress uniform. All those medals. I believe, technically, that he's Kate Rashid's third cousin."

  "Ah, well, that would make it legal."

  "Well, no. To put it delicately, Rupert Dauncey is of a different persuasion," Blake told him.

  "You mean he's gay?"

  "I'm not sure. He's not into women, we know that. On the other hand, he doesn't cruise bars, and there's no indication of a boyfriend either. Anyway, if we can set that aside--we can't help feeling that between the two of them, they're hatching something. Lady Kate still bears an animus not only against the President but against me and Sean Dillon and his crew, since we were all involved in the deaths of her brothers."

  Jake Cazalet said, "That's why I want you to go to London. We'll arrange for you to meet with General Ferguson, Dillon, Superintendent Bernstein. I'll speak to the Prime Minister, who is well aware of the situation."

  "And then?"

  "Nose around, use your contacts, see what you can find out. Maybe we're wrong. Maybe she's changed. Who knows?"

  "I do," Blake said. "She hasn't, and she won't."

  "Fine. I bow to your superior judgment."

  "I'll go as soon as I come back from Kosovo," Quinn said. "Quinn Industries has a townhouse in London. I'll stay there. If I remember right, in fact, it's close to the Rashid place."

  "Good." The President smiled. "Now, for the more immediate future, let's discuss plans for dinner. I'm going out tonight, to the Lafayette. You should join us."

  "I'd be delighted."

  "Especially because--Blake always being a hundred and fifty percent right on intelligence matters--I understand that none other than the Countess of Loch Dhu and her cousin, Rupert Dauncey, are booked for dinner there as well."

  "What?"

  "You know me, Daniel, I always did like to put the cat in amongst the pigeons. Time to stir things up." He turned to Clancy. "You've got things in hand, presumably?"

  "Absolutely, Mr. President."

  "Fine. We'll meet at eight-thirty. Be kind enough to see that Senator Quinn is returned to the hotel."

  "At your orders, Mr. President," Clancy told him.

  "And, Clancy, if Dauncey is around, don't take any shit. He may be a Marine Major, but as I recall, you were one of the youngest Sergeant Majors in the Corps."

  "What is this?" Quinn demanded. "Parris Island? You expect him to kick ass?"

  Jake Cazalet laughed. "Would you, Clancy?"

  "Hell, no, Mr. President. I'd more likely put the Major on a seven-mile run with a seventy-five-pound pack on his back."

  "I love it," Quinn said. "All right, I'll see you there." He went out, Clancy following.

  "You'll speak to Ferguson?" Cazalet said to Johnson.

  "First thing in the morning."

  G eneral Charles Ferguson's office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He was at his desk the next day, the red security phone in one hand, a large, untidy man with gray hair, a fawn suit, and Guards tie. He put the phone down and pressed his intercom. A woman answered.

  "General?"

  "Is Dillon there?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll see both of you now."

  Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein entered, a woman in her early thirties, young for her rank, with close-cropped red hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her black trouser suit was elegant and looked more expensive than most people could afford on police pay.

  The small, fair-haired man with her wore an old black flying jacket. There was a force to him, obvious the moment he entered the room. He lit a cigarette with an old Zippo lighter.

  "Feel free, Dillon," General Ferguson said.

  "Oh, I will, General, knowing the decent stick that you are."

  "Shut up, Sean," Hannah Bernstein told him. "You wanted us, sir?"

  "Yes. I've had interesting news from Blake Johnson concerning the Countess of Loch Dhu."

  Dillon said, "What's Kate been up to now?"

  "It's more a matter of what she might be up to. There are computer printouts on the way. Hannah, would you see if they've arrived?"

  She went out. Dillon poured a Bushmills and turned. "She's back, is that it, General?"

  "She promised to get the lot of us, didn't she, Sean? As payment for her brothers?"

  "She can try and I love her dearly." Dillon drained his glass and poured another. He raised it in salute. "God bless you, Kate, but not after what you tried to do to Hannah Bernstein. Try anything like that again and I'll shoot you myself."

  Hannah came in with fax sheets and printouts.

  Ferguson said, "I'll tell you first what Blake's told me, then you two read what's in here."

  A little while later, they were up to date.

  "So she's got herself a man," Hannah said.

  Dillon looked at the printout photo of Rupert Dauncey.

  "More or less, anyway." He grinned.

  Ferguson said, "I'll tell you what disturbs me. The information Daniel Quinn's people got about those donations: the Act of Class Warfare education program, the Children's Trust in Beirut."

  "Well, she is half-Arab, and the Bedu leader in Hazar," Dillon told him. "You expect her to give to Arab causes. But I agree. There's more here than meets the eye."

  Ferguson nodded. "So what do we do?"

  "To find out what she's up to?" Dillon turned to Hannah. "Roper?"

  She smile
d and said to Ferguson, "Major Roper, sir?"

  "The very man," Ferguson said.

  4

  D ANIEL QUINN WAS WAITING BY THE ENTRANCE OF THE Hay-Adams when the limousines arrived. Clancy Smith was first out, followed by three other Secret Service men from two escort vehicles. Clancy passed Quinn and nodded as he went in. Blake got out and waited for the President, who went up the steps and shook Quinn's hand.

  "Daniel."

  It was all for the cameras, of course. There were, as usual, two or three photographers who'd heard the President would be there. Lights flashed, photos were taken, Cazalet shaking Quinn's hand. Clancy appeared in the entrance. The other Secret Service men flanked the President and Blake as they went in.

  Blake, Cazalet, and Quinn were placed by the restaurant manager at a round table in a corner, excellent from a security point of view. All around them, enthralled diners produced a muted buzz of conversation. Clancy organized his men, who stood against the wall. Clancy himself hovered, always the dark presence.

  "Drinks, gentlemen?" Cazalet said. "What about a good French wine?" He turned to the waiter. "Let's try a Sancerre."

  The waiter, his evening made, nodded eagerly. "Of course, Mr. President."

  "I'll tell you, I can use a drink." Cazalet turned to Quinn. "I've been trying to deal with this whole energy thing we've been having. With the prices skyrocketing, oil demand climbing, those damn rolling blackouts--it's like I'm just waiting for some disaster to strike. And people are starting to notice. Did you see that poll last week? 'Why doesn't the government do something about it?' Well, I'm trying, damn it. Some people are starting to smell blood in the water--you know who I mean. If I can't figure out a way to alleviate this mess, the midterms next year are going to be a disaster, and then I can forget about trying to get through any of my programs. I might as well resign for any good I could do."

  Quinn started to say something, but Cazalet just waved him off. "Oh, never mind me. I'm just venting. That's not what this dinner is about." He smiled. "We're here for a little entertainment. It's like waiting for the start of a Broadway play." He glanced toward the door. "And I believe the curtain is about to go up."