Midnight Runner (3 page)

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."

Chapter
3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. President."

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

"A hell of a thing."

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

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

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

"Let's sit down."

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

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

"What kind of research?"

Cazalet turned. "Blake?"

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

"So?" Quinn asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good God."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the president of the company?"

"The Countess of Loch Dhu."

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

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

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

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

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

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 the Russian had been brokering an oil deal in Hazar involving us and the Russians. Hazar was their territory. As far as they were concerned, here were these two great powers swaggering arrogantly over not only their economic rights but over Arabs in general: the West disrespecting the East. So they decided we needed to be taught a lesson."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Another Marine, eh?"

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

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

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