Midnight Runner

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2002

Copyright © Harry Patterson 2002

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780008124915

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007381586

Version: 2015-07-20

Epigraph

Death is the Midnight Runner.

Arab proverb

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

IN THE BEGINNING

Chapter 1

WASHINGTON LONDON

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

LONDON OXFORD HAZAR

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

HAZAR

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

OXFORD LONDON

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

LONDON BOSTON WASHINGTON LONDON

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

HAZAR

Chapter 15

LONDON DAUNCEY PLACE

Chapter 16

About the Author

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS

Further Reading

About the Publisher

IN THE BEGINNING

1

Daniel Quinn was a good Ulster name. Belfast Irish Catholic, as a young man, his grandfather had fought with Michael Collins during the Irish War of Independence, and then, a price on his head, he’d fled to America in 1920.

He’d become a construction worker in New York and Boston, but it was as a member of that most secret of Irish societies, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, that he’d begun to gain real power. Employers learned to fear him. Within a year, he was an employer himself and on his way to becoming a millionaire.

His son, Paul, was born in 1921. From an early age, Paul was obsessed with flying, and in 1940, while a student at Harvard, he’d travelled to England on impulse and, using his father’s name, joined the RAF as a fighter pilot, an American volunteer.

His father, anti-Brit, was horrified and then proud of him. Paul earned a DFC in the Battle of Britain, and then moved on to the American Army Air Force in 1943 and earned another one there. In 1944, however, Paul Quinn was badly shot up in a Mustang fighter over Germany. Luftwaffe surgeons did what they could, but he would never be the same again.

Released from prison camp in 1945, he went home. His father had made millions out of the war, and Paul Quinn married and had a son, Daniel, born in 1948, though his mother died in childbirth. Paul Quinn never completely regained his health, however, and contented himself as an attorney in the legal department of the family business in Boston, a sinecure, really.

Daniel, a brilliant scholar, also went to Harvard, to study economics and business administration, and by the time he was twenty-one, he had his master’s degree. The logical next step would have been to go into the family business, which now numbered hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of property, hotels and leisure, but his grandfather had other ideas: a doctorate, and then a glittering future in politics were what he had in mind.

Strange how life often swings on small things. Watching TV one evening, seeing the death and carnage in Vietnam on the news, the old man expressed his disapproval.

‘Hell, we shouldn’t even be there.’

‘But that isn’t the point,’ Daniel replied. ‘We are there.’

‘Well, thank God you’re not.’

‘So we leave it to the black kids who never stood a chance, to the working-class kids, to Hispanics? They’re getting slaughtered by the thousands.’

‘It’s not our business.’

‘Well, maybe I should make it mine.’

‘Damn fool,’ the old man said, a little fearful. ‘Don’t you do anything stupid, you hear me?’

The following morning, Daniel Quinn presented himself at the downtown Army recruiting office. He began with the infantry, and then joined Airborne as a paratrooper. His first tour brought him a Purple Heart for a bullet in the left shoulder and a Vietnamese Cross of Valour. Home on leave, his grandfather saw the uniform, the medals, and cried a little, but Irish pride won the day.

‘I still say we shouldn’t be there,’ he said, looking at his grandson’s tanned face, the skin taut over the cheekbones. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

‘And I say again, we are, so we have to do it right.’

‘What about a commission?’

‘No, Granddad. Sergeant is fine.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘I’m Irish, aren’t I? We’re all a little crazy.’

His grandfather nodded. ‘How long have you got home?’

‘Ten days.’

‘Then straight back?’

Daniel nodded. ‘I’m going into the Special Forces.’

The old man frowned. ‘What’s that?’

‘You don’t want to know, Granddad, you don’t want to know.’

‘Well, try and have a good time while you’re here. See a few girls.’

‘I surely will.’

Which he did, and then it was back to the green hell of Vietnam, the constant throbbing of the helicopters, death and destruction all around, all the roads inevitably leading to Bo Din and his own personal appointment with destiny.

Camp Four was deep in the bush north of the Mekong Delta, the river snaking through marshland, great banks of reeds and the occasional village. It was raining that day, a monsoon kind of rain that hung like a grey curtain, making it difficult to see much. Camp Four was a jumping-off point for Special Forces deep penetration operations, and Quinn had been ordered there just as they’d lost their master sergeant.

As usual, he’d hitched a lift in a Medevac helicopter, but, things being stretched, this contained only one pilot and a young medic-cum-air gunner named Jackson, who sat at the heavy machine gun and peered out the open door. The helicopter dropped lower as visibility became worse in the rain. There were paddy fields below, the brown line of the river, and Quinn stood, held on, and looked down.

A sudden explosion came over to the right, flames mushrooming, and as the pilot banked, a village emerged from the rain, some of the houses on stilts on the river. Quinn saw canoes and fishermen’s flatboats, people crowding into them, some of them already pushing off. He also saw Vietcong in straw hats and black pyjamas, heard the distinctive crack of AK47s, and below him people began toppling from boats into the water.

As the helicopter approached, the VC looked up in alarm and some of them raised their rifles and fired. Jackson returned fire with his heavy machine gun.

‘Christ, no!’ Quinn told him. ‘You’ll get the civilians, too.’

The pilot called over his shoulder, ‘We’d better get out of here,’ and banked away as a round or two hit them. ‘That’s Bo Din. Lots of VC activity in this area.’

It was at that moment that Quinn saw the mission on the edge of the village, the tiny church, the small group of people in the courtyard, Vietcong moving up the street.

‘It’s a nun with a dozen kids,’ Jackson said.

Quinn grabbed the pilot by the shoulder. ‘We’ll have to put down and get them.’

‘We’d be lucky to get off again,’ the pilot shouted. ‘Look down the road.’

There were Vietcong everywhere, at least fifty, swarming between the houses, hurrying to the mission.

‘Courtyard’s too small. I’d have to land in the street. It won’t work.’

‘Okay, just drop me off, then get the hell out of here and bring in the heavy brigade.’

‘You’re nuts.’

Quinn looked down at the nun in her white tropical habit. ‘We can’t leave that woman or those kids. Just do it.’

He stuffed the pockets of his camouflage jacket with flares and grenades, slung pouches of magazines around his neck, and found his M16. Jackson fired a long burst down the street that scattered the Vietcong and knocked several down. The helicopter hovered just above the ground and Quinn jumped.

‘I guess I’m nuts, too,’ and Jackson followed him, clutching an M16, a belt of magazines around his neck, a medical bag over his shoulder. There was a storm of firing as the Vietcong started up the street again, and the two Americans ran to the entrance of the courtyard where the nun was coming forward with the children.

‘Back, Sister,’ Quinn called. ‘Get back.’ He pulled his grenades out and tossed one to Jackson. ‘Together.’

They pulled the pins, counted to three, stepped out and lobbed. The explosions were deafening. A number of Vietcong went down, the rest retreated for the moment. Quinn turned to the nun. She was in her early twenties, with a pale and pretty face. When she spoke, it became clear she was English.

‘Thank God you came. I’m Sister Sarah Palmer. Father da Silva is dead.’

‘Sorry, Sister, there’s only the two of us. The helicopter’s gone for help, but God knows how long it will take.’

Jackson fired a burst down the road and called, ‘What the hell do we do? We can’t hold this place. They’ll be all over us.’

The wall at the rear had crumbled over the years. Beyond, great banks of reeds at least ten feet tall faded into the downpour.

Quinn said to Jackson, ‘Take them into the swamp, do it now.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll hold things here as long as I can.’

Jackson didn’t even argue. ‘Let’s move it, Sister,’ and she didn’t argue either.

Quinn watched them go, the children greatly upset, some crying. They scrambled across the crumbling wall, and he took a grenade from his pocket and pulled the pin. He heard the sound of an engine and when he peered round the wall, a battered jeep was coming up the street, two Vietcong standing up at a machine gun behind the driver. God knows where they’d got it from, but more Vietcong sheltered behind. They started to fire, and Quinn tossed the grenade at the last possible moment. It dropped neatly into the jeep and there was a hell of an explosion, bits of the vehicle and broken men tossed in the air, flames everywhere.

The rest of the Vietcong ran for their lives. A silence descended, with only the rush of the rain. Time to go. Daniel Quinn turned, ran to the crumbling wall, scrambled across, and made for the reeds. A moment later, he jumped into those reeds, pausing only to fit his bayonet to the M16, then he plunged forward.

Sister Sarah Palmer led the way, holding the hand of one child and carrying the smallest, the others following. She spoke softly to them in Vietnamese, telling them to be quiet. Jackson followed at the rear, M16 ready.

They came out into a dark pool and she stood there, thigh deep, her habit hitched up to her belt. The rain thundered down, and there was a kind of white mist. She looked over her shoulder at Jackson.

‘If I’ve got my bearings, there should be a road over to the right.’

‘And what good will that do, Sister? They’ll run us down, and to be honest, I’m more concerned about Quinn. There hasn’t been a shot fired since that explosion.’

‘Do you think he’s dead?’

‘I sure as hell hope not.’

Suddenly, a young Vietcong stepped out of the reeds behind him, a bayonet on the end of his AK, and stabbed Jackson in the back under the left shoulder blade, missing his heart by inches. He cried out and went down on his knees. On the other side of the pool, three more VC emerged, all very young, one of them a girl, clutching AKs.

Jackson tried to get up, using his M16 as a crutch. In silence, the Vietcong watched gravely, then there was a sudden savage cry and Quinn burst out of the reeds, firing from the hip, ravaging all three in a kind of slow motion. The fourth, the one behind, surged forward, too late, as Quinn turned and bayoneted him.

Quinn put an arm around Jackson. ‘How bad is it?’

‘Hurts like hell. But I’m still here. There are some battle packs in my bag, but I think we’d better get out of here first.’

‘Right.’ Quinn turned to Palmer. ‘Move out, Sister.’

She did as she was told, following with the children. They came to a shallower spot, a knoll sticking out of the water. There was room for all of them. Jackson sat there and Quinn ripped at the jagged rent left by the bayonet, exposing the wound.

‘Battle packs in the bag?’

Sister Sarah Palmer reached for it. ‘I’ll handle it, Sergeant.’

‘Are you sure, Sister?’

She smiled for the first time. ‘I’m a doctor. The Little Sisters of Pity is a nursing order.’

Behind in the reeds, they heard many voices, like foxes crying. ‘They’re coming, Sarge,’ Jackson said, clutching his rifle and leaning over as she went to work on him.

‘Yes, they are. I’ll have to put them off.’

‘How can you do that?’ Sister Sarah asked.

‘Kill a few at random.’ Quinn took a couple of flares from his pocket and gave them to Jackson. ‘If the cavalry make it and I’m not back, get the hell out of here.’

‘Oh, no, Sergeant,’ Sister Sarah said.

‘Oh, yes, Sister,’ and he turned and plunged into the reeds.

He could have used his bayonet, a silent killing, but that wouldn’t have caused the panic he needed. His first target was providential, two VC standing so that they could survey the marsh, their heads and shoulders above the reeds. He shot both in the head at a hundred yards.

Birds lifted in the heavy rain, voices called to each other in anger from various areas. He selected one and moved in, shooting another man he found wading along a ditch. He got out fast, easing across the reeds, crouched by another pool and waited. Special Forces had developed a useful trick for such situations. You learned a few Vietnamese phrases as fluently as possible. He tried one now and fired a shot.

‘Over here, comrades, I’ve got him.’

He waited patiently, then called again. A few moments later, three more men appeared, wading through the reeds cautiously.

‘Where are you, comrade?’ one of them called.

Quinn took out his last grenade and pulled the pin. ‘Here I am, you bastards,’ he cried in English and lobbed the grenade. There were cries as they tried to scramble away and the grenade exploded.

By now there were shouts everywhere, as the panic he had sought for set in. As he moved on, he saw a road, Vietcong scrambling onto it. He eased back into the reeds to get his bearings and became aware of engines throbbing close by, but by then the late afternoon light was fading and it combined with the tropical rain to reduce everything to minimum visibility. A flare shot into the air, disappearing into the murk, a Huey Cobra gunship descended three hundred yards away and he heard others whirling above, but the Huey was too far away, and he plunged forward desperately, already too late.

The flare that Jackson had fired had worked, and two crewmen jumped out of the Huey and bundled the children inside quickly, followed by Sister Sarah.

The black crew chief lifted Jackson by the arms. ‘Let’s get out of here, man.’

‘But the Sergeant’s still out there, Sergeant Quinn.’

‘Hell, I know him.’ Shooting started again from the reeds and bullets thudded into the Huey. ‘Sorry, man, we’ve got to go. It’ll be dark any time and we’ve got to think of these kids.’

He raised Jackson to the waiting hands that pulled him in, followed and called to the pilot at the controls, ‘Let’s go.’

The Huey lifted. Jackson was actually crying and Sister Sarah leaned over him anxiously.

‘But what about the sergeant?’ she said.

‘There’s nothing we can do. He’s dead, he’s got to be dead. You heard all that shooting and the grenade exploding. He took on all those bastards single-handed.’ The tears poured down his cheeks.

‘What was his name?’

‘Quinn, Daniel Quinn.’ Jackson moaned in agony. ‘Christ, but it hurts, Sister,’ and then he passed out.

But Quinn was still in one piece, mainly because the enemy had assumed he’d escaped in the Huey. He made it to the river as darkness fell, thought about it, then decided that if he was to stand a chance he needed to be on the other side. He approached Bo Din cautiously, aware of the sound of voices, the light of the cooking fires. He slung his M16 around his neck, waded into the water, and with his combat knife sliced the line holding one of the flat-bottomed boats. The boat drifted out with the current, and he held on and kicked, Bo Din fading into the darkness. He made the other side in ten minutes, moved into the jungle and sat under a tree, enduring the heavy rain.

At first light, he moved out, opening a can of field rations, eating as he went. He hoped for a gunboat on the river, but there was no such luck, so he kept on walking through the bush, and four days later, as if returning from the dead, he arrived at Camp Four on his own two feet.

Back in Saigon, the general attitude was disbelief. His unit commander, Colonel Harker, grinned when Quinn, checked out by the medics and freshly uniformed, reported as ordered.

‘Sergeant, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know which is more extraordinary – your heroism in the field or the fact that you made it back alive.’

‘That’s very kind, sir. May I ask about Jackson?’

‘He’s in one piece, though he nearly lost a lung. He’s at the old French Mercy Hospital. The Army runs it now.’

‘He behaved admirably, sir, and with total disregard for his own safety.’

‘We know that. I’ve recommended him for the Distinguished Service Cross.’

‘That’s wonderful, sir. And Sister Sarah Palmer?’

‘She’s helping out at the Mercy. She’s fine and so are all the kids.’ Harker held out his hand. ‘It’s been a privilege, son. General Lee will see you at headquarters at noon.’

‘May I ask why, sir?’

‘That’s for the General to tell you.’

Later, at Mercy, he visited Jackson, and found him in a light, airy ward with Sister Sarah sitting beside him. She came round the bed and kissed him on the cheek.

‘It’s a miracle.’ She appraised him quickly. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t recommend doing it the way I did. How’s our boy?’

‘His left lung was badly injured by that bayonet, but it will heal in time. No more Vietnam, though. He’s going home,’ and she patted Jackson’s head.

He was overjoyed to see Quinn. ‘Jesus, I thought you were long gone, Sergeant.’

‘Daniel,’ Quinn told him. ‘Always call me Daniel, and if there’s ever anything I can do for you back in the States, just call me. You hear? And congratulations on your Distinguished Service Cross.’

‘My what?’ Jackson was incredulous.

‘Colonel Harker’s put you up for it. It’ll go through.’

Sister Sarah kissed Jackson on the forehead. ‘My hero.’

‘This is the hero, Daniel here. What about you, Sarge?’

‘Oh, Christ, I don’t want any medals. Now settle down. All this fuss is bad for your lung. I’ll see you later.’ He nodded. ‘Sister.’ And walked out.

She caught up with him at the rail of the shaded terrace, lighting a cigarette, handsome in his tropical uniform.

‘Master Sergeant Quinn.’

‘Daniel will be fine for you, too. What can I do for you?’

‘You mean you haven’t done enough?’ She smiled. ‘Colonel Harker was kind enough to tell me a bit about your background. With all you have, why did you choose to come here?’

‘Easy. I was ashamed. What about you? You’re English, dammit. This isn’t your war.’

‘As I told you, we’re a nursing order. We go wherever we’re needed – it doesn’t matter whose war it is. Have you ever been to London? We’re based at St Mary’s Priory on Wapping High Street by the Thames.’

‘I’ll be sure to look you up the next time I’m there.’

‘Please do. Now would you like to tell me what’s troubling you – and don’t try to say you’re not troubled. It’s my business to know these things.’

He leaned against a pillar. ‘Yes.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve killed before, Sister, but never like in the swamp. At least two of them at close range were young women. I was on my own, I had no choice, but still…’

‘As you say.’

‘But still a darkness came over me. I saw only the killing, the death and destruction. There was no balance, no order.’

‘If it worries you, make your peace with God.’

‘Ah, if only it were that simple.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go. Generals don’t like to be kept waiting. May I kiss you goodbye?’

‘Of course.’

He touched her cheek with his lips. ‘You’re a remarkable young woman,’ and he went away down the steps. She watched him go, then returned to Jackson.

At headquarters, he was passed through to General Lee with unusual speed, and soon found himself shown into the great man’s office by a smiling captain. Lee, a large, energetic man, jumped up behind his desk and rushed around. As Quinn tried to salute, Lee stopped him.

‘No, that’s my privilege. I’d better get used to it.’ He clicked his heels and saluted.

‘General?’ Quinn was bewildered.

‘I’ve had a communication this morning from the President. Master Sergeant Daniel Quinn, I am proud to inform you that you have been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.’ And he saluted again, gravely.

And so the legend was born. Quinn was sent home, endured many interviews and ceremonies until he could take no more, and finally, with no interest in a permanent military career, he left the Army. He went back to Harvard and studied philosophy for three years, as if trying to exorcize some kind of demon, and carefully kept out of bars so that he would not become involved in any physical arguments. He did not trust himself enough for that.

Finally, he agreed to go into the family business. At least it meant he’d be able to help his old friend, Tom Jackson, who’d received a law degree from Columbia after Vietnam and had risen over the years to head the legal department at Quinn Industries.

He didn’t marry until he was in his thirties. Her name was Monica, and she was the daughter of family friends; it was a marriage of convenience. Their daughter, Helen, was born in 1979, and it was around that time that he decided to follow his grandfather’s dream, and entered politics. He put all his financial interests into a blind trust and ran for an open Congressional seat, won by a narrow margin, and then by ever greater margins, until finally he challenged the incumbent senator, and won there, too. Congress began to wear upon him after a while, though: the backstabbing and deal-making and constant petty crises, and then, when his grandfather died in a private plane accident, he began to rethink all his priorities.

He wanted out, he decided. He wanted to do something more with his life. And it was at that point that his old friend, fellow veteran and now President, Jake Cazalet, came to him and said that if Daniel wanted to give up his seat, he understood, but he hoped Daniel was not forsaking public service. He needed someone like Daniel to be a troubleshooter, a kind of roving ambassador, someone he trusted absolutely. And Daniel said yes. From then on, wherever there was trouble, from the Far East to Israel, Bosnia, Kosovo, he was there.

Meanwhile, his daughter followed family tradition and went to Harvard, while his wife held the fort back home. When she was diagnosed with leukaemia, she didn’t tell him until it was too late – she hadn’t wanted to interrupt his work. When she died, the guilt he felt was intolerable. They held a funeral reception at their Boston home, and after the guests had departed, he and his daughter walked in the gardens. She was small and slim, with golden hair and green eyes, the joy of his life, all he had left, he thought, of any worth.

‘You’re a great man, Dad,’ she said. ‘You do great things. You can’t blame yourself.’

‘But I let her down.’

‘No, it was Mum’s choice to play it the way she did.’ She hugged his arm. ‘I know one thing. You’ll never let me down. I love you, Dad, so much.’

The following year she won a Rhodes Scholarship for two years at Oxford University, at St Hugh’s College, and Quinn went to Kosovo to work for NATO on the President’s behalf. That was where things stood, until one miserable March day when the President asked to see Quinn at the White House, and Quinn went…

WASHINGTON

2

Washington, early evening, bad March weather, but the Hay-Adams Hotel, where Daniel Quinn was staying, was only a short walk from the White House.

Quinn liked the Hay-Adams, the wonderful antiques, the plush interior, the restaurant. Because of the hotel’s location, they all came there, the great and the good, the politicians and the powerbrokers. Daniel Quinn didn’t know where he fitted in on that spectrum any more, but he didn’t much care. He just liked the place.

Quinn stepped outside and the doorman said, ‘I heard you were here, Senator. Welcome back. Will you be needing a cab?’

‘No, thanks, George. The walk will do me good.’

‘At least take an umbrella. The rain might get worse. I insist, Sergeant.’

Quinn laughed. ‘One old Vietnam hand to another?’

George took an umbrella from his stand and opened it. ‘We saw enough of this stuff back in the jungle, sir. Who needs it now?’

‘That was a long time ago, George. I had my fifty-second birthday last month.’

‘Senator, I thought you were forty.’

Quinn laughed, suddenly looking just that. ‘I’ll see you later, you rogue.’

He crossed to Lafayette Square, and George was right, for the rain increased, sluicing down through the trees, as he passed the statue of Andrew Jackson.

It gave him the old enclosed feeling. The man who had everything – money, power, a beloved daughter – and yet, too often these days, he felt he had nothing. It was what he called his ‘what’s-it-all-about’ feeling. He was coming to the other side of the square, lost in his own thoughts, when he heard the voices. In the diffused light from a street lamp he saw them clearly enough: two street people wearing bomber jackets, wet with the rain, talking loudly. They were identical except for their hair – one had it down to his shoulders, the other had his skull shaved. They were drinking from cans, and as one of them kicked an empty out to the sidewalk, he saw Quinn and stepped in his way.

‘Hey, bitch, where do you think you’re going? Let’s see your wallet, man.’

Quinn ignored him and moved ahead. The one with long hair produced a knife, and the blade jumped.

Quinn closed the umbrella and smiled.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Yeah, you can give me your money, asshole, unless you want some of this.’ He waved the blade in the air.

Shaven-head was next to Longhair now and he laughed, an ugly sound, and Quinn swung the umbrella, the tip catching the man under the chin. He dropped to one knee and Quinn stamped in his face, suddenly thirty years younger, a Special Forces sergeant in the Mekong Delta. He turned to the one with the knife.

‘You sure about that?’

The knife swung as Quinn grabbed the wrist, straightened the arm, and snapped it with a hammer blow. The man screamed and staggered back, and as the other started to get up, Quinn stamped in his face again.

‘Just not your night, is it?’

A limousine braked hard and the driver came out, producing a Browning from under his left arm. He was very big and very black and Quinn knew him well: Clancy Smith, an ex-Marine and the President’s favourite Secret Service man. His passenger, who’d joined him, was just as familiar, a tall, handsome man around Quinn’s age, his hair still black, named Blake Johnson. Johnson was the director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, though everyone who knew about it – which wasn’t many – just called it the Basement.

‘Daniel, are you okay?’ Blake asked.

‘Never been better. What brings you here?’

‘We decided to come pick you up, though I should have guessed you’d be walking, even on a night like this. The hotel told us we’d just missed you.’ He surveyed the scene. ‘Looks like you’ve been having a little excitement.’

The two men were on their feet now and had retreated under the trees, a sorry sight. Clancy said, ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘No, don’t bother,’ Quinn told him. ‘I think they’ve got the point. Let’s go.’

He got in the rear of the limousine and Blake followed. Clancy got behind the wheel and drove away.

It was quiet, except for the whimpering of Shaven-head. ‘For God’s sake, shut up,’ the other one said.

‘He broke my nose.’

‘So what? It’s going to spoil your pretty face? Give me a cigarette.’

Half a block away, another limousine sheltered under the trees. The man who sat behind the wheel was of medium height, around thirty, handsome with blond hair. He wore a white shirt, dark tie, and leather Gucci overcoat. His passenger was of the same age, a very beautiful woman with jet-black hair and fierce, proud features. There was a slightly Arab look to her, which was not surprising, since she was half-Arab, half-English.

‘That was a poor showing, Rupert. You have a rather inferior class of employee, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, very disappointing, Kate. Mind you, Quinn was impressive.’ Rupert Dauncey pulled on a pair of thin black leather gloves.

Lady Kate Rashid waved the thought aside. ‘We’d better get going. We’ll just have to try something else.’

‘Such as?’

‘I understand the President is dining tonight at the Lafayette Restaurant in the Hay-Adams. Perhaps he’d like some company.’

‘My God, cousin, you do like your fun.’ His voice was very pleasant, with a strong tinge of Boston. ‘Excuse me a moment. I’ll be back.’

As he got out, she said, ‘Rupert, where are you going?’

‘My money, sweetie, I want it back.’

‘But you’ve got money, Rupert.’

‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

He lit a cigarette as he crossed the avenue to the two men huddled under the trees.

‘Well, that was very entertaining.’

‘You told us he’d be a walkover,’ Shaven-head said.

‘Yes, life can be a bitch sometimes. But you two screwed up royally, didn’t you? I want my money back.’

‘Go to hell.’ Shaven-head turned to his friend. ‘Don’t give him nothing.’

‘Oh, dear.’

Rupert produced a .25 Colt from his right-hand pocket, a bulbous silencer on the end. He prodded Shaven-head’s left thigh and pulled the trigger. The man cried out and went down. Rupert held out a hand and the other got the bills out hurriedly.

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

As 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 grey. 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, to 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 enquiries, 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 programmes, including the educational programme 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.’

Blake 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 he 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 a grudge 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.’

General 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 grey 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 programme, 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 smiled and said to Ferguson, ‘Major Roper, sir?’

‘The very man,’ Ferguson said.

4

Daniel 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 sky-rocketing, 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 programmes. I might as well resign for all the 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.’

The Countess of Loch Dhu was at the door. The diamonds at her throat were dazzling, the black silk trouser suit a kind of art form. Beside her, Rupert Dauncey wore an elegant Brioni blazer and trousers, 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 Pérignon. 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 cruellest 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 humour 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 metres? 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 honour.’ 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 thought.’

Kate 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 jeweller 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 programme 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.’

In 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 Belfast, 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 have.’

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

5

Roper’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 Middle Eastern 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 above board. Many people would applaud what she’s doing.’

‘On the surface, maybe,’ Ferguson said. ‘But 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 programme 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.

At Farley Field, the small RAF installation used for covert operations, 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 feet.

‘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.

At 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.

Varley said, ‘It looks as if that same Albanian flying column’s been here, too.’

‘Could we be in trouble?’

‘Probably not, as long as we fly that.’ Varley nodded to the Union Jack pennant mounted at the side of the engine.

‘I noticed you don’t fly the UN flag or wear their blue berets.’

‘We go our own way. It works better. They don’t think of us as taking sides.’

‘That makes sense.’

He heard the throb of a helicopter overhead, unseen in the mist and rain. It reminded him at once of Vietnam, and it brought back the unmistakable smell that only came from burning flesh, once experienced, never forgotten. It was almost too much for Quinn as a hundred memories, dormant for years, came flooding back.

The driver braked and switched off the engine. It was very silent in the rain, the sound of the helicopter fading.

‘Bodies, Corporal.’

Varley stood and so did Quinn. There were half a dozen of them: a man and a woman and three children, another body face-down some yards away.

‘Looks like a family party, all gunned down together.’ Varley shook his head. ‘Bastards. I’ve seen bad things in my time, but this bloody place beats the lot.’ He turned to the trooper at the machine gun. ‘Cover us while we move them. We can’t very well drive over them.’

‘I’ll help,’ Quinn told him.

He and Varley and the driver got out and approached the bodies, and for Quinn it really was Vietnam all over again, as if nothing had happened in between. He picked up one of the children, a boy who looked about eight, and took him to the side of the street, laying him down against a wall. Behind him, Varley and the trooper followed with a child each.

Quinn felt dreadful, the darkness creeping into him from deep inside, as Varley and the trooper picked up the man between them, carried him to the wall, then returned for the woman.

He took a deep breath and went to the other body, which was dressed in boots, baggy pants, an old combat jacket, and a woollen hat. It had obviously been shot in the back. He turned the body over and recoiled in horror as he looked into the mud-spattered face of a young woman. The eyes were open, fixed in death. She was perhaps twenty-one or two. She could have been his own daughter.

Varley called, ‘You need a hand, Senator?’

‘No, I can manage.’

Quinn knelt, picked the girl up and stood. He walked to the wall and sat her down so that she was against it. He took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped the mud from the face, then closed the eyelids, stood up, walked away, leaned against the wall, and was violently sick.

The trooper with Varley said, ‘Bloody politicians. Maybe it does them good to see some real shit for a change.’

Varley grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. ‘Thirty years ago, while serving with the Special Forces in Vietnam, that “bloody politician” won the Congressional Medal of Honor. So why don’t you just button your lip and get us out of here?’

The trooper slid behind the wheel, Varley and Quinn got in the rear, and they moved out. The Corporal of Horse said, ‘You know what we do in London, don’t you, Senator? The Household Cavalry? We ride around in breastplates and helmets with plumes and sabres, and the tourists love us. The British public, too. They think that’s all we are: chocolate soldiers. So why did I serve in the Falklands at nineteen, in the Gulf War and Bosnia, and now this shit heap?’

‘So the great British public is misinformed.’

Varley produced a half bottle from his pocket. ‘Would you like some brandy, Senator? It’s strictly against regimental regulations, but medicinal on occasion. Even though it is rotgut.’

It burned all the way down, and Quinn coughed and handed it back. ‘Sorry about what happened back there. I feel as if I let you down.’

‘It happens to all of us, sir. Don’t worry about it.’

‘The thing is, I have a daughter. Helen. That young woman was just about her age.’

‘Then I’d say you could do with an extra swallow.’ And Varley passed the bottle back to him.

Quinn took another drink and thought about his daughter.

Who at that moment in time was seated in an Oxford pub called the Lion, which was popular with students and just down the street from an old school hall where Act of Class Warfare had its Oxford headquarters. She was sitting in one corner with a young, long-haired student named Alan Grant, drinking dry white wine and laughing a lot. Grant was doing a trick for her. His brother was a security specialist and had sent Grant a new toy – a pen that doubled as a tape recorder. Grant had been amusing himself by recording snatches of conversation and playing them back with appropriately caustic comments. Helen thought it was a riot.

In a booth on the other side of the bar, Rupert Dauncey sat with a minor Oxford professor named Henry Percy, a woolly minded individual fond of just about any kind of cause.

‘Thank you for the cheque, Mr Dauncey. We at Act of Class Warfare are incredibly grateful for the continuing support of the Rashid Educational Trust.’

Rupert Dauncey had already decided the man was a hypocritical creep and wondered how much of the cash had actually stuck to his fingers, but he decided to play the game.

‘We’re glad to be of help. Now what’s all this on Saturday? Some kind of demonstration in London? I hear you’re going.’

‘Indeed we are. Liberty in Europe Day! The United Anarchist Front has organized it.’

‘Really? I thought there already was liberty in Europe. Well, never mind. So your rosy-cheeked students are going to take part.’

‘Of course.’

‘You know the police don’t like demonstrations in Whitehall. They can so easily turn into riots.’

‘The police can’t stop us. The voice of the people will be heard!’

‘Yes, of course,’ Rupert agreed dryly. ‘Are you leading this thing or are you just one of the marchers?’

Percy stirred uneasily. ‘Actually, I, uh, I won’t be able to be there on Saturday…I have a prior commitment.’

I just bet you have, Rupert Dauncey thought, but he smiled. ‘Do me a favour. That nice girl over there, I heard her speaking as I passed. I believe she’s American. Is she one of your members?’

‘Yes on both counts. Helen Quinn. Rhodes Scholar. Charming girl. Her father is actually a senator.’

Rupert, who knew very well who she was, and even knew the boy’s name, said, ‘Introduce me on the way out, won’t you? I love meeting fellow Americans abroad.’

‘Of course.’ Percy got up and led the way. ‘Hello, you two. Helen, I’d like you to meet Rupert Dauncey, a countryman of yours.’

She smiled. ‘Hi there, where are you from?’

‘Boston.’

‘Me too! That’s great. This is Alan Grant.’

Grant obviously saw the whole thing as an intrusion and had turned sullen. He pointedly ignored Dauncey. Rupert carried on. ‘You’re a student here?’ he asked her.

‘St Hugh’s.’

‘Ah, an excellent college, I’m told. Professor Percy tells me you’re going to this rally on Saturday.’

‘Absolutely.’ She was full of enthusiasm.

‘Well, take care, won’t you? I’d hate to see anything happen to you there. Goodbye. I hope to see you again.’

He walked out with Percy, and Grant said in a cockney accent, ‘Posh git, who does he think he is?’

‘I thought he was nice.’

‘Well, that’s women for you.’ He touched a button in his pocket, and Rupert’s voice rang out: ‘I’d hate to see anything happen to you there.’

‘I know what he’d like to see happen to you,’ he grumbled. ‘Felt like punching him in the nose.’

‘Oh, Alan, stop it!’ Honestly, sometimes Alan just went too far, Helen thought.

For Hannah Bernstein and Dillon, the flight to Moidart crossed the Lake District, the Solway Firth and the Grampian Mountains, and soon the islands of Eigg and Rum came into view, the Isle of Skye to the north. They descended to an old World War II airstrip with a couple of decaying hangars and a control tower. An estate car was parked outside the tower, a man in a tweed suit and cap beside it. Lacey taxied the Lear toward him and switched off. Parry opened the door, dropped the steps, and Lacey led the way down. The man came forward.

‘Squadron Leader Lacey, sir?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Sergeant Fogarty. They’ve sent me from Oban.’

‘Good man. The lady is Detective Superintendent Bernstein from Scotland Yard. She and Mr Dillon here have important business at Loch Dhu Castle. Take them there and do exactly what the Superintendent tells you. You’ll bring them back here.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Lacey turned to the others. ‘See you later.’

They approached the castle in twenty minutes, still as imposing as they remembered it, and set well back from the road. The walls were ten feet high, and smoke curled up from the chimney of the lodge. The gates were shut. Dillon and Hannah got out, but there were no handles, and when he pushed, nothing happened.

‘Electronic. That’s an improvement from the old days.’

The front door opened and a man with a hard, raw-boned face appeared. He wore a hunting jacket and carried a sawn-off shotgun under his left arm.

‘Good afternoon,’ Hannah said.

He had a hard Scots voice. ‘What do you want?’ He sounded decidedly unfriendly.

‘Now then,’ Dillon told him. ‘This is a lady you’re dealing with, so watch your tone. And who might you be, son?’

The man stiffened, as if sensing trouble. ‘My name’s Brown. I’m the factor here, so what do you want?’

‘Mr Dillon and I were here some years ago for the shooting,’ Hannah told him. ‘We rented Ardmurchan Lodge.’

‘We know you’re running adventure courses for young people at the castle these days,’ Dillon said, ‘but we wondered if Ardmurchan Lodge might not still be available. My boss – General Ferguson – would love to rent it for the shooting again.’

‘Well, it isn’t, and the shooting season’s over.’

‘Not the kind I’m interested in,’ Dillon told him amicably.

Brown took the shotgun from under his arm. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

‘I’d be careful with that – I’m a police officer,’ Hannah said.

‘Police officer, my arse. Get out of here.’ He cocked the shotgun.

Dillon raised a hand. ‘We don’t want any problems. Obviously, the lodge isn’t available. Come on, Hannah.’

They went back to the car. ‘Drive on just out of sight of the gate,’ Dillon told Fogarty.

‘What happened back there is an intelligence matter, Sergeant, you understand?’ Hannah said.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Good, then pull in,’ Dillon told him. ‘I’m going over the wall and you can give me a push.’

They stopped and got out, Fogarty joined his hands together, and Dillon put his left foot in them. The big sergeant lifted, and Dillon pulled himself over the wall, dropped into the trees on the other side and moved towards the lodge.

Brown was in the kitchen, the gun on the table, and dialling a number on the wall phone, when he heard a slight creak and felt a draught of air. Brown dropped the phone and reached for the shotgun and then became aware of the Walther in Dillon’s right hand.

‘Naughty, that,’ Dillon said. ‘I might have shot you straight away instead of just thinking about it.’

‘What do you want?’ Brown said hoarsely.

‘You were phoning the Countess of Loch Dhu in London, am I right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Dillon slashed him across the face with the Walther. ‘Am I right?’ he asked again.

Brown staggered back, blood on his face. ‘Yes, damn you. What do you want?’

‘Information. Act of Class Warfare. School parties, right? Kids having a nice week in the country, climbing, canoeing on the loch, trekking. That’s what you offer?’

‘That’s right.’ Brown got a handkerchief out and mopped blood from his face.

‘And what about the other courses for the older ones?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The guys and girls who like to hide their faces with balaclavas and take part in riots. Let me guess. You teach them interesting things like how to make petrol bombs and handle policemen on horseback.’

‘You’re crazy.’

Dillon slashed him again.

‘I can’t help you,’ Brown said wildly, his face crumbling. ‘It’s as much as my life’s worth.’

‘Really?’ Dillon grabbed him by the throat, pushed him across the table, and rammed the muzzle of the Walther against the side of his right knee. ‘And what’s a knee worth? You’ve got ten seconds to decide.’

‘No, no. All right. I’ll tell you. It’s true. They run training courses, just as you say. They come from all over the country, sometimes even abroad. But I just take care of the house and grounds – that’s all I know, I swear it!’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much. But that’s all right. All I needed was your confirmation. That wasn’t too bad, was it? Now if you’ll just open the gates, I’ll be on my way.’ He picked up the shotgun and tossed it through the open door into some bushes. ‘Then I suggest you make that phone call to the good Countess. I’m sure she’ll be most interested.’

Brown shuffled to the front door, pressed a button in a black box, and opened the door. Outside, the main gates began to part. Dillon stopped and turned.

‘Don’t forget now. Dillon was here, and give her my love.’

He walked out into the road and half-ran to the car. He got in beside Hannah and said to Fogarty, ‘Back to the plane.’

They drove away. Hannah said, ‘You didn’t leave anyone dead back there?’

‘Now, would I do a thing like that? It turns out he was a very reasonable man, our factor. I’ll tell you about it on the plane.’

Brown, between a rock and a hard place, took Dillon’s advice, of course, and phoned Kate Rashid at her house in London but found that she was out, which made him feel worse. Desperate, his face hurting like hell now, he tried the mobile number he’d been given for emergencies. Kate and Rupert were eating at the Ivy. She listened as Brown poured it all out.

She said calmly, ‘How badly are you hurt?’

‘I’m going to need stitches. The bastard slashed my face with his Walther.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Tell me again what he said.’

‘Something like, say Dillon was here and give her my love.’

‘That’s my Dillon. Get yourself a doctor, Brown. I’ll talk to you later.’ She put her mobile on the table.

The waiter had stood back respectfully. When Rupert nodded, he now poured Cristal champagne in both glasses and withdrew.

‘To your bright eyes, cousin,’ he toasted her. ‘Why is it I smell trouble from the little I’ve heard?’

‘Actually, what you smell is Sean Dillon.’ She drank a little champagne and then told him what Brown had said. ‘What’s your opinion, darling?’

‘Well, obviously they were there on Charles Ferguson’s behalf. They didn’t even pretend. Their only reason for visiting Loch Dhu was to let you know that they knew.’

‘What a clever boy you are. Anything else?’

‘Yes. In a way, he’s calling you out.’

‘Of course he is. Oh, General Ferguson’s in charge, but it always comes down to Dillon. He spent all those years with the IRA, and the Army and the RUC never touched his collar once, the bastard.’

‘But a clever bastard. So what now?’

‘We’ll see him tonight. It’s time you two met.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘Because, as you said, he’s calling me out. It’s an invitation, and I know just where to find him.’

6

Later that afternoon at Ferguson’s flat, the General sat by the fire, listening to Hannah Bernstein’s account of the trip. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You seem to have behaved with your usual ruthless efficiency, Sean.’

‘Ah, well, the man needed it.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘She won’t let it go. It’s like one of those old Westerns. The villain comes out of the saloon to meet the hero for a gunfight in the street.’

‘An interesting parallel.’

‘She won’t be able to resist a face-to-face.’

‘And where will this event take place?’

‘Where we’ve met so often before – the Piano Bar at the Dorchester.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight. She’ll be expecting me.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘You know, you could be right. I’d better come with you.’

‘What about me, sir?’ Hannah asked.

‘Not this time, Superintendent. You’ve had a strenuous day. You could do with a night off.’

She bridled. ‘You know, I did pass a stringent medical exam before Special Branch allowed me to return to duty. I’m fine, really I am.’

‘Yes, well, I’d still prefer you to take the night off.’

‘Very well, sir,’ she said reluctantly. ‘If you’ve no further need of me, I’ll get back to the office and clear a few things up. Are you coming, Sean?’

‘Yes, you can take me to Stable Mews.’

Ferguson said, ‘Seven o’clock about right, Sean?’

‘Fine by me.’

She dropped him at his cottage, but Dillon didn’t go in. He waited until the Daimler had turned the corner, rolled up the garage door, got into the old Mini Cooper he kept as a run-around, and drove away.

He was thinking about Harry Salter. Salter was a very old-fashioned gangster, now reasonably respectable, but not completely so, and he and his nephew, Billy, had been involved as much as anyone else in the feud that had led to the death of Kate Rashid’s brothers.

Traffic was as bad as London traffic usually is, but Dillon finally reached Wapping High Street, turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. He parked outside the Dark Man, Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.

The main bar was very Victorian, with gilt-edged mirrors behind the mahogany bar, and porcelain beer pumps. Bottles ranged against the mirror seemed to cover every conceivable choice for even the most hardened drinker. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool reading the London Evening Standard.

At that time in the afternoon, before the evening trade got going, the bar was empty except for the four men in the corner booth playing poker. They were Harry Salter; Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, his minders; and Harry’s nephew, Billy.

Harry Salter threw down his cards. ‘These are no bleeding good to me,’ and then he looked up and saw Dillon and smiled.

‘You little Irish bastard. What brings you here?’

Billy turned in his chair and his face lit up. ‘Hey, Dillon, great to see you,’ and then he stopped smiling. ‘Trouble?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘’Cos you and me have been to hell and back more times than I can count. By now, I can tell the signs. What’s up?’

There was an eagerness in his voice and Dillon said, ‘I’ve been the ruin of you, Billy. You never used to be so willing to put yourself in danger. Remember when I quoted your favourite philosopher: “The unexamined life is not worth living”?’

‘And I said that to me it meant the life not put to the test is not worth living. So what’s up?’

‘Kate Rashid.’

Billy stopped smiling. They all did. Harry said, ‘I’d say that calls for a drink. Bushmills, Dora.’

Dillon lit a cigarette and Billy said, ‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Remember Paul Rashid’s funeral, Billy?’

‘Don’t I just. No mourners, she said, but you had to go anyway.’

‘And you said, “Is that it then?” and I said, “I don’t think so.” And then when we ran into her at the Dorchester, she sentenced us all to death.’

‘Well, she can try,’ Harry said. ‘As I told her then, people have been trying to knock me off for forty years and I’m still here.’

Billy said, ‘Look, what’s happened, Dillon? Let’s be having it.’

Dillon swallowed his Bushmills and told them everything. They’d worked with him and Blake Johnson in the past, knew all about the Basement, so there was no reason to hide anything. He finished by telling them what had happened at Loch Dhu and what he intended to do.

‘So you think she’ll be there tonight?’ Harry Salter asked.

‘I’m certain of it.’

‘Then Billy and I will be there, too. We’ll have another drink on it,’ and he called to Dora.

A little while later, Dillon punched the doorbell at Roper’s place. The Major said over the voice box, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Sean, you daft sod.’

The electronic lock buzzed, and Dillon pushed open the door. Roper was seated at his computer bank in his wheelchair.

‘I’ve had Ferguson on the line. He told me about Loch Dhu, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

Dillon lit a cigarette and told him. ‘So there you are. Pretty much as we thought.’

‘So it would appear.’

‘What have you got? Anything new?’

‘Well, I thought I’d see if I could trace Kate Rashid’s travel patterns. She uses a company Gulfstream, so I can access times easily enough – air traffic slots have to be booked – and I can ascertain when she’s been on board through Passport Control and Special Branch.’

‘Any significant pattern?’

‘Not much. She’s only been up to Loch Dhu once recently. Used the same old airstrip you did. Here’s something that might be interesting, though: she went to Belfast last month.’

‘Now that is interesting. Any thoughts on where she went?’

‘Yes. She landed late afternoon and had a slot booked back to Heathrow the following afternoon, so that seemed to indicate a hotel for the night. So I started with the Europa, accessed their booking records, and there she was.’

‘And why was she there?’

Roper shook his head. ‘That I don’t know. But if she does it again, I’ll let you know. You could follow her. Of course, it could be perfectly legitimate. Rashid Investments has taken a big stake in Ulster since peace broke out.’

‘Peace?’ Dillon laughed harshly. ‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

‘I agree with you. After all, I was the one who defused a hundred and two bombs. Too bad it wasn’t a hundred and three.’ He patted the arm of the wheelchair.

‘I know,’ Dillon said. ‘You know, considering I was on the other side, I sometimes wonder why you put up with me.’

‘You were never a bomb man, Sean. Anyway, I like you.’ He shrugged. ‘By the way, if you want a drink, there’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge over there. It’s all I’m allowed.’

Dillon groaned. ‘God help me, but it will do to take along.’ He got the bottle from the fridge. ‘Jesus, Roper, it’s so cheap it’s got a screw top.’

‘Don’t moan about it, pour it. I’m a reserve officer on a pension.’

Dillon obeyed, and put a glass at Roper’s right hand while Roper played with the keys. Dillon took a swallow and made a face. ‘I think someone made this in the backyard. What are you looking at now?’

‘Rupert Dauncey. Quite a character, but nothing we don’t know about him already. There’s something about him, though, a ruthlessness, always on the edge. There’s a dark side to that one.’

‘Ah, well there’s a dark side to all of us. Can you tell if he was with Kate on the Irish trip?’

‘There are Special Branch regulations regarding passengers on executive jets. He wasn’t on board. He’s a comparatively new arrival to her entourage, remember.’

‘I suppose so.’

Roper drank some wine. ‘However, he is on board tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, with the Countess. Would you like to know where they’re going?’

‘Where?’

‘Hazar.’

‘Hazar, hmm? That means Hamam airport. You know, the RAF built it in the old days. There’s only one runway, but it can take anything, even a Hercules. Check on something for me. Last time I was there, we used an outfit called Carver Air Transport. See if they’re still there.’

Roper tapped his keys. ‘Yes, they are. Ben Carver? Ex-Squadron Leader in the RAF?’

‘The old sod,’ Dillon said. ‘So what’s Kate up to?’

‘That’s what Ferguson asked when I told him. Of course, there are a dozen different reasons why she could be going down there, but Ferguson said he would contact Tony Villiers, ask him to keep an eye on her.’ Colonel Tony Villiers was the Commander of the Hazar Scouts.

‘That should help. Villiers is good, and he isn’t particularly keen on the Rashids since they skinned his second-in-command, Bronsby.’

‘Yes, they do have their little ways. Now go away, Dillon. I’ve got work to do.’

At that moment, on the border between Hazar and the Empty Quarter, Tony Villiers was encamped with a dozen of his Hazar Scouts and three Land Rovers. A small fire of dried camel dung burned, a pan of water on top.

His men were all Rashid Bedu and all accepted Kate Rashid as leader of the tribe, but the clan spilled across the border as well. There were good men over there in the Empty Quarter and there were bad men, bandits who crossed into Hazar at their own risk, for the Scouts had sworn a blood oath to Villiers. Honour was of supreme importance to them – each one would kill his own brother if necessary, rather than violate his oath.

They sat around the fire, AK assault rifles close at hand, wearing soiled white robes and crossed bandoliers. Some smoked and drank coffee, others ate dates and dried meat.

Tony Villiers wore a head cloth and crumpled khaki uniform, a Browning pistol in his holster. He’d never got used to dates and had just eaten the contents of a large can of baked beans cold. One of the men came across with a tin cup.

‘Tea, Sahb?’

‘Thanks,’ Villiers replied in Arabic.

He sat down and leaned against a rock, drank the bitter black tea, smoked a cigarette, and looked out to the Empty Quarter. It was disputed territory there, and utterly lawless. As someone had once said, you could kill the Pope there and no one would be able to do a thing. That’s why he kept to his side of the border whenever possible.

Villiers, approaching fifty now, had served in the Falklands and every little war in between up to the Gulf and Saddam, then had ended up on secondment here in Hazar. It was just like in the old days, a British officer commanding native levies, and it was beginning to pall.

‘Time to go, old son,’ he said softly. As he lit another cigarette, the mobile in his left breast pocket rang.

The Codex Four was not available on the open market. It had been developed for intelligence use in places where strict security was necessary, and Villiers had his courtesy of Ferguson.

‘That you, Tony? Ferguson here.’

‘Charles, how’s every little thing at the Ministry of Defence?’

‘Put your scrambler on.’

Villiers pressed a red button. ‘Done.’

Ferguson said, ‘Where are you?’

‘Wouldn’t mean a thing to you, Charles. Marama Rocks, just on the border with the Empty Quarter. I’m on patrol here with a few of my men.’

‘You’ve got a new second-in-command, I hear.’

‘Yes, another Cornet, from the Life Guards this time, named Bobby Hawk. He’s off in the other direction with his patrol. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I’ve just heard that Kate Rashid’s flying in tomorrow.’

‘Well, that’s not unusual. She comes here all the time.’

‘I know, but there’ve been some funny things going on here. I just have a gut feeling, that’s all. Where does she go?’

‘Lands at Hamam, then goes to Shabwa Oasis in the Empty Quarter by helicopter. But you know that, you’ve been there yourself.’

‘Is anything going on there, Tony?’

‘I wouldn’t know. These days I’m forbidden by the Sultan’s decree to go over the border into the Empty Quarter.’

‘Don’t you find that strange?’

‘Not really. All right, I know Kate Rashid has the Sultan by the throat, so I assume that it’s her order, not his. But she’s the leader of the Rashid Bedu and that’s Rashid territory. End of story.’

‘Could there be something going on out there?’

‘Preparing for a revolution, you mean? Come on, Charles, what does she need a revolution for? She’s got everything she wants.’

‘All right, all right, but be a good chap. Scout around, put the word out.’

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