by Jack Higgins
'Known as the Basement, because that is where it is. In actuality, it's the President's private hit squad, totally separate from the CIA, the FBI or the Secret Service. It's been passed on from President to President for at least twenty years, no one knows quite how long. Johnson is also Cazalet's closest friend, a Vietnam vet with a strong record.'
'And you're sure of all this?' George Rashid said.
'I have to be. It's why I'm still alive.'
'Okay, so we've got a down-to-earth President who doesn't want a fuss and likes to be on his own,' said Paul. 'You know damn well that the perimeter of that area will be well monitored by the Secret Service.'
'Exactly.' Bell opened the briefcase again, took out a map and unfolded it. 'See, from the President's house we have a seafront of beach and sand dunes. But at the rear, we have this area of marsh, very unusual for Nantucket; it's the only spot like it on the island. It stretches in quite a way: high reeds, water, mud, a paradise for bird watchers. Cazalet loves it. Goes for a run along the paths every morning with his dog, and good old Clancy Smith running behind. Smith has a gun under his left arm and an earpiece, naturally, but there's no one else around, unless his friend Blake Johnson happens to be there that weekend and decides to join in the fun. If he turns up, I'll stiff him, too.'
There really was a heavy pause now and it was Kate who said, 'Everything you say makes sense, but there would be no way you would get inside the perimeter, inside the marsh.'
Bell smiled. 'Sorry, I haven't explained. You, my lord, have a house on Long Island, I believe?'
'That's right.'
'You'll supply me with a boat – a Sport Fisherman will do – and someone to pilot it. We'll sail up to the area and drift around a mile or so offshore. You'll also find me a Dolphin Speed Trailer. Those things have two large batteries and travel underwater. Liam and I will go scuba diving, something we're good at, and then invade the marsh underwater into the reeds.'
'Then what?' Michael Rashid asked.
'Then wait for Cazalet, shoot him and Clancy Smith, and bugger off out of there. It'll take a little while for Harper to wonder why he hasn't heard anything and in that time we'll return with the Dolphin to the Sport Fisherman, then get back to Long Island, where you'll have a Gulfstream waiting to get us the hell out of there and onwards to Shannon.'
He paused, emptied his glass then said to Paul Rashid, 'Will it do?'
Rashid said calmly, 'I think it will do very well.' He turned to his brother George. 'Another Bushmills for Mr Bell.'
It was Kate who said, 'That's quite a script, but what if the script goes wrong? What if it doesn't work?'
'Nothing is certain in this life,' said Bell. 'There'll be dicey bits, but if we prepare this properly, it should work.'
'Then see that you do prepare properly,' said Paul. 'Remember, we'll only get one chance at this. If you fail, Cazalet's security will become so heightened it'll be impenetrable. And then we'll have to go through the trouble of finding another target.'
'Another target?' said Michael.
'I told you, brother. One way or another, someone is going to pay.'
There was silence. Then Bell turned to Kate. 'Will you be handling the organization of what we need?'
She glanced at Paul, then nodded. 'Anything you want.'
'All right. The Sport Fisherman I've already mentioned, the Dolphin Speed Trailer, diving equipment for two.'
'Weaponry?' Paul Rashid asked.
'I prefer basic AK assault rifles, with silencers. A couple of Brownings with Carswell silencers. That's all. Very simple, if things go well.'
'You said if again,' Kate told him.
Bell smiled. 'Oh, Lady Kate, I've been at it for twenty-eight years, and if you knew how often the best-laid schemes go wrong, you'd understand why I'm a cynic. Now' – Bell took a card from his pocket – 'your one hundred thousand pounds was nice, but I want the next instalment now. That's my Swiss bank account. One million on deposit against the three.'
Paul Rashid nodded. 'Of course.' He took the card and passed it to Michael. 'See to it.' He smiled. 'Champagne is indicated, I think.'
'A nice thought.' Bell smiled. 'But it's the last time. Once I start working, I stop drinking.'
'Well, that seems sensible.'
Kate offered champagne all round. Rashid raised his glass. 'So, we change the world.'
Bell laughed out loud. 'God bless, ould son, but if you believe that, you'll believe anything.'
Two days later, Kate Rashid took Bell and Casey down to the pier at Quogue, where they found a Sport Fisherman named Alice Brown and a man named Arthur Grant, who was fiftyish, with greying hair tied behind his neck.
'Mr Grant,' Kate said, 'these are the gentlemen I spoke about. They want a run up to Nantucket, to do a little diving. Mr Bell is looking for some interesting wrecks. You already have the Dolphin on board.'
Grant poured himself a Jack Daniel's. 'Well, lady, that's your story. Me, I think maybe they're up to something more than interesting wrecks, but I don't give a damn. Twenty thousand bucks, and she's yours.'
'Agreed.' She turned to Bell. 'Keep in touch,' and she went up the companionway.
Grant said, 'She's got a great ass on her.'
Bell dropped the bag containing the weaponry and kicked him on the right shin, then swung him around and Casey head-butted him. Grant fell back across onto the deck and Bell leaned over.
'From now on, you belong to me, Grant. Do we understand each other? Watch your mouth, do your job and you'll get the twenty grand. Otherwise -'
He nodded to Casey, who took a knife from his pocket, pressed a button and the blade jumped up.
'I'm sorry,' Grant said.
'Well, remember you're sorry,' Bell told him.
In London, Ferguson sat in his office at the Ministry of Defence working through papers. Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein came in.
'Anything for me?' Ferguson asked.
'Not much, sir. That business with the Rashids?'
'What?'
'Our information is they're all in New York. Some kind of family party.'
'What's Dillon up to?'
'Believe it or not, sir, he's gone shooting in West Sussex with Harry Salter. Pheasant.'
'Salter? That damn gangster?'
'Yes, sir, and young Billy.'
'The nephew? Wonderful. He's almost as bad as Harry.'
'I need hardly remind you, sir, he was a great help last time around on that job in Cornwall.'
'You don't need to remind me, Superintendent. But he's still a gangster.'
'He agreed to jump by parachute with no training whatsoever, and killed four of Jack Fox's men. Dillon would be dead without him.'
'Agreed. And he's still a damned gangster.'
At Compton House in West Sussex, it rained remorselessly, none of which bothered the shooting party. It was a syndicate of thirty that Harry Salter had paid into. He emerged from a long wheel-based Shogun wearing a cloth cap, a Barbour, jeans and rubber half-boots. He was sixty-five, with a fleshy and genial face until he stopped smiling. One of the most famous gang bosses in London, he'd been to prison only once in a long career.
These days he had millions in dockside developments and leisure construction, though the rackets being in his blood, he was still involved in smuggling from the Continent. There was a lot of money to be made from the cigarette trade. In Europe, they were incredibly cheap, but in Britain, the most expensive in the world. No need to get involved in drugs or prostitution when you had cigarette smuggling.
He stood in the rain. 'Bleeding marvellous. Isn't it bleeding marvellous, Dillon?'
'Country life, Harry.'
Dillon was wearing a cap and black bomber jacket. Billy Salter, Harry's nephew, a man in his late twenties with a pale face and wild eyes, emerged next, wearing cap and anorak. His uncle's right-hand man, he'd been in prison four times, all relatively short sentences for assault and grievous bodily harm.
'This is all your fault, Di
llon. What have you got me into now?'
'Shoot a few pheasant, Billy, breathe the country air. Last time out, it was villains trying to hit you. This should make a change.'
Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Harry's two minders, dressed in jeans and anoraks.
'What a bunch of idiots.' Billy nodded at the other members of the syndicate emerging from Jeeps and Range Rovers.
'Why the funny gear? What are those ridiculous trousers?'
'It's how people like that dress to shoot, Billy,' Dillon said. 'It's an old English custom.'
The rest of the party was grouped around a large man with a florid face, and Dillon heard someone address him as Lord Portman. They all turned and looked at the Salter party with disfavour.
'Good God, what have we here?' Portman asked.
Another large man, this one with a grizzled beard, approached. 'Gentlemen, can I help? I'm the head keeper, Frobisher.'
'I should hope so, old son. Salter's the name -Harry Salter.'
Frobisher was astonished, hesitated, then turned to the others. 'This is Mr Harry Salter, president of the syndicate.' There were looks of horror.
Salter said, 'Lord Portman, is it?'
'That is correct,' Portman said frostily.
'Chairman of Riverside Construction, right? So we've got something in common.'
'I can't imagine what.'
'You don't have to imagine. I took you over last week. I'm Salter Enterprises, so, in a manner of speaking, you work for me.'
The horror on Portman's face was profound. He actually recoiled, and it was Dillon who said genially to Frobisher, 'Can we get on?'
Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were unloading.the gun bags. Frobisher said, 'We'll space the valley up to that wood. I'll give you a number each.'
'We know how it works, old son,' Dillon told him. 'I've explained to my friends.'
Frobisher hesitated. 'So you have shot before?'
'Only people,' Billy told him. 'So let's get on with it.'
Three hours later, in the Shogun, Baxter was driving and Billy opened a bottle of champagne and poured it into plastic cups.
'What a bunch of toffee-nosed idiots. The look on their faces when I scooped the pool.'
'Yes, well, you have had a certain amount of practice,' Dillon said.
Harry Salter swallowed his champagne. 'That Portman's bleeding face was something to see.'
'Are you going to throw him out, Harry?' Billy asked.
'No, I know his track record and he's good. I'll improve his package. He'll come to heel. It's what's called business, Billy.'
'And bloody boring.' Billy turned to Dillon. 'You got anything on the go I could help with?'
'Back to Heidegger, is it, Billy? You feel the need for some action and passion?'
'Here, you lay off,' Salter told his nephew. 'Last time, we almost didn't get you back.'
'So, I'm bored,' Billy said. 'And you won't let me do the booze and cigarette runs from Amsterdam anymore.' "Cos I don't want you nicked. Lesser mortals can take that chance. You just be a good boy.'
He poured more champagne, and Dillon said, 'I'll keep you in mind, Billy.'
Billy raised his glass. 'Always willing and available, Dillon.'
At the White House, Jake Cazalet sat at his desk in the Oval Office in shirtsleeves, working through a stack of paperwork. The door opened and Blake Johnson came in. Outside, rain drove against the window. The President sat back.
'What have you got for me?'
'Hazar, Mr President.'
'The Sultan's death?'
'The Sultan's assassination.'
Jake Cazalet got up, went to the window, and looked out. Blake said, The CIA doesn't know anything about it, they say. They claim to be totally baffled. The question is: Baffled? Or embarrassed? We know the Sultan's people tried to kill Paul Rashid on behalf of our own oil interests and the Russians', and the Sultan was the CIA's man. I'd say they have a lot to answer for. And now, there's all this agitation from Hizbullah, Army of God, Sword of Allah, all the rest of them. Something's going on.'
'Dammit!' Jake Cazalet said. 'I don't like it at all.'
'It's a dirty world, Mr President. I can't prove it, but I'll lay you odds Rashid struck back.'
'Does Charles Ferguson know anything about it?'
'I don't know, Mr President. I haven't asked him.'
'Well, do so. Then get back to me.'
It was late in London as Ferguson sat by the fire of his flat in Cavendish Place and talked to Blake.
'I can't help you with the Sultan, although my personal feeling, too, is that it was a Rashid hit.'
'You're certain?'
'Absolutely. I have a trusted operative, Colonel Tony Villiers, commanding the Hazar Scouts as a contract officer. He keeps me well informed. During the Gulf War, he also commanded the SAS unit Rashid served in.'
'Well, that's close enough. Thanks, Charles. How's Dillon?'
Ferguson hesitated. 'Well, since you mentioned him… Dammit, Blake, this is strictly confidential, but… sit back, my friend, I've got a story to tell you. It concerns the Rashids.'
He went through everything: Drumcree, Aidan Bell, Kate Rashid, the shooting of the Provisional IRA men.
'My God,' Blake said. 'What are they up to?'
'So you don't believe their story either, do you? The Rashids are moving into Northern Ireland, that's a fact.'
'Maybe, but there's a lot more to all this than they're saying. Well, keep me informed, Charles.
Give my love to Hannah – and tell Dillon to watch his back.'
He put down the phone and went back to the Oval Office to bring the President up to date.
Nantucket They made the trip from Long Island to Nantucket in the Alice Brown overnight. Arthur Grant took the wheel from Casey at midnight. Aidan Bell replaced him at four a.m.
It was still dark and the Irishman sat in the swivel seat, smoking a cigarette in the light of the binnacle, enjoying every minute of it and thinking about things.
He'd enjoyed seeing Dillon again, a great comrade in the old days, although their paths had altered, and he'd liked the girl. What a woman, and she'd seen right through him. It wasn't the money, never had been. He'd really showed those Russians in Chechnya: the General, with one round through his head at six hundred metres, and fifty pounds of Semtex for his staff. What they'd called an Ulster fry-up in the old days in the IRA… The door creaked open and Liam Casey came in with tea and sandwiches.
'I couldn't sleep. How are you?'
'Fine.' Aidan Bell put on the automatic pilot and took a sandwich as Casey poured tea into two mugs. 'How are you feeling?'
'I'll be fine myself, Aidan.'
'And why wouldn't you? We got away with it in Chechnya, didn't we?'
Casey took a sandwich himself. 'Yes, but the President of the United States, Aidan, that's something else again.'
'Ah, but what a ploy.'
He took another sandwich and Casey said, 'I've been thinking. What if Cazalet doesn't turn up this weekend? He must do that sometimes.'
'I checked his schedule, Liam. What am I, daft? I also checked CNN News earlier today on the TV there above the chart table. There was a mention of him going to the old family house by the sea as usual. This is America, they tell you everything.'
'Then why the hell didn't you tell me, Aidan?'
'Because Grant was in the wheelhouse at the time and you were on deck stowing the gear. What's it matter?'
Casey gave him a cigarette. 'I don't like him. He's what my old Gran used to call a sly boots.' 'Yes, well, if he crosses me, I'll cut off his boots with his feet still inside, but don't worry. I've a story for him that should keep him happy. Leave it to me. Just make sure he doesn't get into the weaponry bag.'
It was raining slightly, more of a sea mist than anything else, as the Alice Brown drifted parallel to the coast three miles off Nantucket. Arthur Grant was at the wheel and Aidan Bell and Casey worked under the stern canopy, which they'd draped with fishing nets. They
already had the Dolphin Speed Trailer over the rail and tied up and were checking their diving gear.
'Throttle back,' Bell called, and Grant did as he was told, so that they simply coasted along as Bell and Casey pulled on their diving suits and inflatables.
Grant had the windscreen open and leaned out.
'Any problems?'
'No,' Bell said. 'Put her on automatic and get down here.'
Bell eased on his jacket with the tanks attached and wrapped the Velcro straps, while Casey did the same.
Casey said, 'You're sure about this? Three miles in forty-five minutes?'
'It's easily done at the speed this thing goes. We'll manage at fifteen feet all the way. We've plenty of air, and there's an onshore current.'
He dropped the weaponry bag over onto the Dolphin and clipped his holding line to his weight belt as Grant arrived. Bell pulled on his gloves.
'Well, it's the moment of truth. We're going on towards the coast looking for a World War II wreck. An Irish boat called Rose of Tralee.' The story was beginning to sound so good that he almost believed it himself. 'Amongst other things, it was carrying gold bullion from the Bank of England for safekeeping in Boston. People have been looking for her for years, but last month I traced an old guy of eighty-six who was a deckhand and survived when she was torpedoed by a U-boat. He didn't know about the gold, but he was able to give me the position.'
'Jesus Christ!' Grant said.
'So, play your cards right and I'll cut you in for a piece.'
'Sure. Anything you say, Mr Bell,' Grant said eagerly.
'Okay. You stay here. Drop your line. Get the nets out. Look busy. With luck, we'll see you in three hours.'
He pulled down his mask, put in his mouthpiece, and went backwards over the stern rail. As he untied the line on the Dolphin, Casey joined him. Bell switched on the two heavy-duty batteries, mounted the front seating position and as Casey got on behind, took the Dolphin down, levelled off at fifteen feet and turned towards the distant coast of Nantucket Island with a surge of power.
Standing on the front porch of the old house, wearing a United States Marines tracksuit, Jake Cazalet drank his first cup of coffee of the day and watched Murchison, his beloved flatcoat retriever, walking with Clancy Smith on the beach below. There was a step behind, and as Cazalet turned, Blake Johnson joined him, also nursing a coffee. 'Always great to be back, Blake,' Cazalet told him.