Читать книгу Day of Reckoning - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 9

It was a wet March evening in Manhattan when the Lincoln stopped at Trump Tower, the snow long gone, but replaced by heavy, relentless rain. Jack Fox sat in the rear, Russo at the wheel, Falcone beside him. They pulled in at the kerb and Falcone got out with an umbrella.

Fox said, ‘You’re okay for a couple of hours.’ He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. ‘You two go and eat. I’ll call you on my mobile when I need you.’

‘Sure.’ Falcone walked him to the entrance. ‘Please convey my respects to Don Solazzo.’

Fox patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Aldo, he knows he has your loyalty.’

He turned and went in.

The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn’t say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.

‘Hey, Jack, come in.’

His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. ‘Uncle, you look good.’

‘So do you.’ The Don offered him the magazine. ‘I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that’s all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn’t good.’

Fox waved his hand. ‘It’s innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I’m related to you. But they think I’m legit.’

‘You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think “innocuous stuff” is all she’s after? Don’t delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we’re respectable – property, manufacturing, finance – but we’re still Mafia, that’s what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she’s after something – and you…you’re a good boy. You’ve done well, but I’m not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.’

‘Uncle, please,’ Fox said.

The Don waved his hand. ‘A young man wanting to make an extra buck I understand, but sometimes you’re greedy. There’s nothing I don’t know. Your dealings with the IRA in Ireland, for instance, that underground dump they have for the weapons they won’t hand over. The weapons you supply them. Your trips to London to the Colosseum.’

‘That’s our flagship casino, Uncle.’

‘Sure, but while you’re there, you organize armed robberies with our London connection. Over a million pounds cash two months ago from a security van.’ The Don waved him back. ‘Don’t annoy me by denying it, Jack.’

‘Uncle.’ Fox tried to sound contrite.

‘Just remember your true purpose. The drug business is no longer growing in America. You have to encourage its rise in Russia and the Eastern European countries. That’s where growth lies. Prostitution, leave to our Russian and Chinese friends. Just take a percentage.’

‘As you say, Uncle.’

‘Anything else is okay, but Jack, no more doing things behind my back.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘And this reporter, this Johnson. Have you gone to bed with her? The truth, now.’

Fox hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t been like that.’

‘Then like what? Why should she be interested in making you look good? She’s in it for more. I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. This piece, it’s not so bad, all right, but what’s next? What’s behind the front?’ The Don shook his head. ‘She flattered you, Jack, and you fell for it. You better find out what she really wants.’

‘What would you advise, Uncle?’

‘Turn over her apartment. See what you can find.’ He reached for a pitcher. ‘Have a martini and then we’ll eat.’

Terry Mount was very ordinary-looking, small and wiry, the kind of youngster who could have been a delivery boy for some deli. He was, in fact, a highly accomplished burglar and boasted that there was no lock he couldn’t open. He’d served time only once, and that was as a juvenile. His very ordinariness had saved his hide on many occasions.

A nice touch two nights before had netted him fifteen thousand dollars, which he’d just picked up from his fence, so he was feeling good, sitting in a bar, relishing the whisky sour the barman was creating, and then a heavy hand touched his shoulder.

Terry turned and his stomach churned. Falcone smiled. ‘Terry, you look good.’

Russo leaned against the bar, his usual dreadful self, and Terry took a deep breath. ‘Aldo, you want something?’

‘Not me, but the Solazzo family would like a favour. You would never say no to the Don, would you, Terry?’

‘Of course not,’ Terry gabbled, reached for the whisky sour and swallowed it in one gulp.

‘Only in this case, it’s Jack Fox who wants the favour.’

Which was enough to almost give Terry a bowel movement. ‘Anything I can do.’

‘That goes without saying.’ Falcone patted his cheek and said to the barman, who was looking wary, ‘Give him another. He’s going to need it.’

The barman said, ‘Now, look, I don’t want any trouble in here.’

Russo leaned over the bar, his face full of menace. ‘Make him the fucking drink and shut up. Okay?’

Hurriedly, the barman did as he was told, his hands shaking.

Jack Fox was in the sitting room of his Park Avenue townhouse, on the second floor, enjoying a light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches, when Falcone brought Terry Mount in.

‘Why, Terry, you look worried,’ Fox told him. ‘Now why should that be?’ He bit into a sandwich, then Falcone took a wad of money from his pocket. ‘Aldo, have you won the lottery or something?’

‘No, Signore, but I think Terry has. There’s fifteen grand here.’

Fox nodded to the champagne bucket and Falcone poured him another glass. ‘Terry, I think you’ve been a naughty boy again.’

‘Please, Mr Fox, I’m just trying to make a buck.’

‘And so you shall.’ Fox smiled. ‘Two grand, Terry.’

Terry’s eyes rolled. ‘And what do I have to do for that?’

‘What you do best.’ Fox pushed a piece of paper across that had been lying on the table. ‘Katherine Johnson. Ten Barrow Street. Just on the edge of the Village. You’ll toss her place this afternoon.’

‘But that doesn’t give me time to prepare.’

‘For what?’ Fox said coldly. ‘It’s a small townhouse. She won’t be there. You boast that you can break in anywhere.’

Terry licked his lips. ‘What do I do?’

‘She’s a magazine reporter, so you’ll probably find an office, a computer, a VCR, all that stuff. Bring whatever disks you find. Bring the videos on her business shelf.’

Terry said, ‘People keep videos all the time. I mean, do I bring all of them?’

‘Be sensible, Terry,’ Fox said patiently. ‘I’m not looking for Dirty Harry or She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Just use your brain, such as it is. The boys will take you, they’ll wait and bring you back. Anything you’ve got, I want by five o’clock. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.’

Terry’s feet hardly touched the ground as Falcone pushed him outside.

He went to Barrow Street wearing a bomber jacket that said ‘Smith Electronics’ on the back. He didn’t bother with the front door, after three rings got no reply, but went down to the basement. There were double deadlocks, but they both responded to his touch.

He found himself in a laundry room and moved upstairs to the entrance hall. There was a parlour, dining room and kitchen, so he tried the stairs, the only sound disturbing the quiet the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. The first door he tried was the study. He saw shelves crammed with books and videos, a computer next to two video and disk machines, and a multiple tape recorder. He switched them all on and removed everything he found in them, placing his haul in the carry bag that hung from his left shoulder. He opened drawers and found more disks and cassettes, which he also took.

The rest really was frustrating. Rows of movies on video, rows of instructional tapes. He was sweating now and swung at the shelves and scattered videotapes across the floor.

Okay. So he’d done what Fox wanted. Time to go. There were some bottles on a side table, and glasses. He poured some bourbon, savoured it, and left by the same route, locking the basement door before returning to Falcone and Russo.

When they arrived at the Park Avenue townhouse, Fox was waiting eagerly. He took the disks and tapes Terry Mount offered and said to Russo, ‘Look after him.’ He turned to Falcone. ‘You stay. It could be bad.’

‘Then it’s bad for both of us, Signore.’ They had been friends since boyhood.

Fox started checking the disks, mostly work notes, letters, accounts, and quickly discarded them. Then he started on the tapes Mount had found in the tape recorder, and on the second struck pure gold.

At first, the sounds were of an innocuous conversation about family business and so on. The woman’s voice was very pleasant and intimate, and the man’s…

Falcone said, ‘Jesus, Maria, Signore, that’s you.’

There were restaurant sounds in the background, a little music. Fox said, ‘She was recording us.’

Suddenly, the tape changed. Now, the woman was clearly making notes to herself.

‘There can be little doubt that Jack Fox, in spite of the war hero and Wall Street image, is nothing less than the new face of the Solazzo family and the new Mafia. I’ll lull him to sleep with the first article in Truth and then hit him hard with the rest. There might even be a special on the Truth Channel in this. I’ve just got to take it easy, and flatter him. His vanity should take care of the rest.’

Fox switched off the machine. ‘The bitch.’

‘So it would appear, Signore. What should we do?’

Fox got up, went to the sideboard, and poured a glass of Scotch. He turned. ‘I think you know, old friend.’ He went to the telephone and punched in a number. ‘Katherine Johnson, please. Hello, Kate? Jack Fox. Would you be free for dinner tonight? I was thinking about that piece, and, what the hell, there’s some more you might be interested in…You are? Terrific. Listen, don’t bother going home. I’ll send a car. You come on over to Park Avenue and pick me up. We’ve just bought this new restaurant in Brooklyn, and I’d like to check it out. Will you help?…Great! I’ll send Falcone to pick you up.’ He put the phone down, surprised at the genuine regret he felt.

In that evening of dreary rain, darkness already descending, she sat in the rear of the Lincoln, a small, pretty woman of forty, with dark hair and an intelligent face. Russo was at the wheel and Falcone beside him. They reached the Park Avenue house and Falcone called Fox on his mobile.

‘Hey, Signore, we’re here.’ He turned. ‘He’ll be right down.’

She smiled and took out a Marlboro. Falcone gave her a light.

‘Thank you.’

‘Prego, Signora.’

He closed the glass divide between them, and a moment later, Fox arrived, wearing a black overcoat. He scrambled in and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Kate, you look good.’

The Lincoln took off.

‘You look pretty good yourself.’

He smiled amiably. ‘Well, here’s to a good night.’

At that precise moment, Terry Mount was swallowing another whisky sour in a downtown bar, aware of the bulge that seventeen thousand dollars now made in his right-hand breast pocket. He went out into the street, drew up his collar as rain dashed in his face, started along the pavement, and sensed someone move in behind him, and then a needlepoint going through his clothes.

‘Just turn right into the alley.’ He did as he was told, and found himself shoved against a wall. A hand searched. ‘Hey, seventeen grand. You were right.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m a big black mother named Henry, and you wouldn’t want to meet me in the showers on Rikers Island.’

Terry was terrified. ‘I just did what I was told.’

‘Which means you know too much. Regards from the Solazzos.’

The knife went up through the breast bone and found the heart, and Terry Mount slid down the wall.

It was early evening and March dark on Columbia Street, Brooklyn, as the Lincoln turned right and pulled on to a pier where a few coastal ships were tied up. Russo switched off the engine. Suddenly alarmed, Katherine Johnson said, ‘What is this? Where are we, Jack?’

‘This is the end of the line, Signora. You sure played me for a sucker.’

She managed a smile. ‘Come on, Jack.’

‘Come on, nothing. I’ve had your house searched. Found your little tape recordings of us. Not that I said anything, but you sure did. Just take it easy and flatter me, huh? You shouldn’t have done that to me.’

‘For God’s sake, Jack, you’ve got to listen to me.’

‘No, I’m done listening. And talking.’

A limousine pulled up behind. Fox got out and said to Falcone, ‘Aldo, you make this good.’

‘At your order, Signore.’

Fox got in the rear limousine and was driven away.

Katherine tried to open the door, but Russo was there, his great hand raised. Falcone cried, ‘Leave it. I don’t want bruising.’ He found her neck and yanked her forward on her knees on the rear seat. Her skirt rose up.

‘Go on, get on with it.’

He held her as she struggled. Russo took a box from his pocket, opened it, and produced a hypodermic. ‘You’ll like this, girlie. Best heroin on the market.’ He jabbed her left thigh, then injected her again, this time in the right buttock. ‘There you go.’

She cried out and slumped forward.

Russo patted her. ‘Hey, she’s not bad looking. Maybe I could do myself a little good here.’

He turned, reaching for his zipper, and Falcone gave him a shove. ‘You stupid bastard, that’ll blow the whole thing. Come on, give me a hand.’

Grumbling, Russo picked up her feet while Falcone took her arms, and they carried her to the edge of the pier.

‘Easy now,’ and she was in the water.

‘Come on, let’s go get a drink.’ They walked back to the Lincoln, and a minute later they drove away.

Neither of them noticed Katherine Johnson’s purse, where it had fallen out of the car, in the shadows beside a packing case.

The following morning at six o’clock, rain drove in across the East River, rattling the windows of the old precinct house. Harry Parker, brought out of bed only an hour before, drank coffee from a machine and made a face as a woman detective sergeant named Helen Abruzzi came in.

‘This is disgusting,’ Parker told her. ‘Reminds me of why I switched to tea. Okay, what have we got?’

‘This kid is called Charlene Wilson. She was working a strip bar not far from here.’

‘And doing business on the side?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What happened?’

‘A man called Paul Moody took her home. When we found her, she’d been raped orally, half-strangled, her wrists tied.’

Parker frowned. ‘That sounds like those two murders in Battery Park.’

‘That’s what I thought, Captain, and that’s why I phoned you to come here. Charlene got away because he got drunk and fell asleep and she managed to loosen her hands.’

Parker nodded. ‘Okay, let me know when the line-up’s ready.’

She went out and Parker went to the window, the rain driving against it, and found a Marlboro, having long since stopped pretending to have quit. He lit it and looked out at the river morosely, a huge black man who had started life in Harlem, earned a law degree at Columbia, and then decided to join the police rather than a law firm. He’d never minded seventy-hour weeks, although his wife had, and had divorced him for it.

For three years now, he’d been captain in charge of a special homicide unit based at One Police Plaza. Sometimes he got depressed dealing with one killing after another, in a never-ending series, and when you were close to fifty you began to wonder if there was something better to do. He wondered if Blake had really meant what he’d said that there might be room for him in that special intelligence unit of his in Washington…

The door opened and Helen Abruzzi called, ‘Show time, Captain.’

The girl in the viewing room was in a bad way, a blanket around her shoulders, her face swollen, one eye black, bruise marks on her neck. Helen stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder, while Parker read the file. He finished, nodded, and she pressed a buzzer. A light flared and five men appeared on the other side. The girl cried out.

‘Number three. That’s him,’ she said and then she broke down.

Compassion didn’t come easy at six o’clock in the morning on the East River, but Parker put an arm around her.

‘Hey, take a deep breath. I know it isn’t easy, but I’ll make you a promise. I’m going to take this fuck out.’ He squeezed her shoulder and nodded to Abruzzi. ‘Take her away, then bring that bastard in.’

He stood at the window, looking down at the water, and after a while the door opened and Helen Abruzzi came in, followed by Paul Moody, cuffed between two police officers.

‘And who the hell are you?’ Moody demanded.

‘Captain Harry Parker. Sergeant Abruzzi’s got quite a list of charges against you, Moody, beginning with aggravated sexual assault.’

‘Hey, the bitch wanted it. She was into sadomasochism, all kinds of stuff. I mean, I was shocked, man.’

‘I’m sure you were, and I was forgetting physical assault on a minor.’

There was silence. Moody said, ‘What’s this minor crap?’

‘Didn’t Sergeant Abruzzi tell you? The girl, Charlene Wilson, was fifteen two weeks ago.’

Moody’s face paled. ‘Now, look, I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, you do now,’ Helen Abruzzi told him.

‘Another thing,’ Parker said. ‘There’ve been two killings in Battery Park within the last three months, using the same technique you prefer, Moody. Girls tied up, abused, beaten, and young.’

‘You can’t pin those on me.’

‘I don’t need to. We have good DNA samples retrieved from Charlene Wilson. We’ve got the DNA of the Battery Park killer. I’d bet my pension we’ll have a match.’

‘Fuck you, nigger bastard.’

Moody lunged at him and the two officers restrained him.

Parker said, ‘Why, Paul, you should conserve your energy. You’re going to need it to keep you going for the next forty years in prison.’ He nodded to the officers. ‘Get this piece of shit out of here.’

He turned to the window as the door closed. Helen Abruzzi said, ‘It’s a bad one, sir.’

‘They’re all bad, Sergeant.’ He turned. ‘I need air. I’ll take a walk if you can find me an umbrella. I’ll come back to sign the papers later.’

‘Fine, sir.’

He smiled, and suddenly looked charming. ‘You’ve been doing a good job here, Sergeant. I’ve been noticing. There’s an inspector’s job coming up, if you’d like a posting to Police Plaza. You deserve it. I can’t promise, mind you.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘Fine. I’ll see you later, but ring the front desk and get me that umbrella.’

It was raining hard on the waterfront. Parker had borrowed a police raincoat with caped shoulders, and carried the umbrella Abruzzi had organized. The rain actually made him feel good, cleared the head. He lit another cigarette, and then an old man was running towards him in a panic.

Parker got his hand up. ‘What is it? What’s your problem?’

‘I need the police!’

‘You’ve found them. What’s the problem?’

‘My name’s Richardson. I’m a night watchman at the old Darmer warehouse there. I was coming off shift and I went to the edge of the pier to toss my butt in the water, and…and there’s a woman in the water!’

‘Okay, show me,’ said Parker and pushed him forward.

Katherine Johnson was a couple of feet under dark green water. Her arms floated to each side, her legs were open, the eyes stared into eternity. There was a look of surprise on her face and she was achingly beautiful in death.

Harry Parker took out his mobile and called the precinct. ‘This is Captain Parker. I’ve got a Jane Doe in the water only three hundred yards from you. Let’s get an ambulance and back-up out here.’ He stood there, holding his mobile phone, then handed it to Richardson and took off his raincoat. ‘Hang on to those.’

He went down a flight of stone steps, waist deep in water, and reached for her. It was stupid, because that was the recovery team’s job, but he couldn’t leave her there. In a strange way, it was personal.

She was covered for a moment by flotsam, and he went chest deep and pulled her in and above his head. Above him, he heard the sound of vehicles grinding to a halt as the recovery team arrived.

Parker went home, changed, had breakfast at his corner coffee shop – eggs, bacon, English breakfast tea – and returned to his office. But the dead woman’s face, the open eyes, wouldn’t go away as he phoned Abruzzi.

‘What’s happening with the Jane Doe I found?’

‘She’s at the morgue. They’ve brought in the chief medical examiner. I believe he’s doing the post-mortem himself later this morning.’

‘I’ll be down. Tell him I’m coming.’

When Harry Parker arrived at the office of the chief medical examiner, Dr George Romano was eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.

‘Harry, my man, what’s new?’

‘This Jane Doe from the river. I took her out.’

‘So you’re feeling personal about it, right?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m about to finish the post-mortem. I was just taking a break. What do you want to know? Did she fall or was she pushed?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Okay, Harry, join me, ’cause this one stinks.’ Romano drained his coffee and led the way out.

They went into the post-mortem room, where two technicians waited, suitably gowned. Romano held up his arms and one of them helped him into a robe. He went and scrubbed at the sink.

‘There she is, all yours, Harry.’

Katherine Johnson lay on a slanting steel operating table, her head on a wooden block. She was naked, the Y cut of the preliminary vivid against her pale skin. Romano held up his hands and one of the technicians pulled on surgical gloves for him. There was a cart loaded with instruments and a TV video recorder on a swivel.

Romano said, ‘Tuesday, March 2, resuming post-mortem Mrs Katherine Johnson, 10 Barrow Street, Greenwich Village.’

‘Hey, what is this?’ Parker demanded.

‘Didn’t you know?’ Romano looked surprised. ‘The guy who found her, Richardson? He was hanging around and discovered her purse. She must have dropped it when she went over the pier. Plenty of ID.’

‘Okay. Fine. Let’s get on with it. Why did you say this stinks?’

‘She’s a nice lady, well nourished, good condition, about forty years of age.’

‘So?’

‘So she died of a massive heroin overdose. Enough to kill her twice over. It doesn’t fit. Someone like her, in her condition? Plus, someone on that stuff at a high level would have needle sores all over. She only had two – the recent ones. One in the left thigh, the other in the right buttock. And what was she doing in the water?’

‘Accidentally overdosed and fell in?’

‘Maybe. But I doubt it. Like I said, she wasn’t an addict. And another thing. Her medical insurance card was in her purse and I checked it out. She was a lefty.’

‘So?’

‘Harry, with the greatest will in the world, I can’t see a left-handed person injecting herself in the side of the right buttock. It’s possible but unlikely.’

He reached for a De Soutter vibratory saw.

‘So you’re saying she was stiffed by someone?’

‘Harry, like you, I’ve spent years in the death business. You get a smell for it. Yes, I’d say someone wasted her.’

‘Which means I’ve got a murder case on my hands.’

‘I’d say so. Now I’m about to take off the skullcap, so if you’re not too happy about that, I’d leave.’

‘Excellent advice. I’ll take it,’ said Harry Parker, and he turned and left.

He found his way to Abruzzi’s office. She was seated at her desk, working away.

‘I hear you turned up ID on the Jane Doe,’ he said. ‘Let me see.’

‘It’s an interesting one. She’s a reporter for Truth magazine, named Katherine Johnson. I did a computer printout. Divorced, no children. Her husband was a guy called Blake Johnson, FBI.’

Parker’s mouth went dry. ‘Blake Johnson?’

‘That’s right. You know him?’

‘We’ve worked together. Except he isn’t FBI anymore. He works for the President.’

‘Jesus, is this a hot one, Captain?’

‘I’d say as hot as they come. You zip your mouth tight, Sergeant.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Jesus,’ he said again. He looked at her. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of anything here, would you, Sergeant?’

She hesitated, then took a half-bottle of Irish whiskey from a drawer in her desk. ‘For medicinal purposes,’ she said.

‘And sometimes we need it. Sergeant, you’re working for me now. I’ll take care of things with your lieutenant. The first thing I want you to do is call the White House and ask for a woman named Alice Quarmby. Got that? That’s Johnson’s assistant. I need to talk to her.’

He turned to the window, stared out, and took another swig from the bottle. Abruzzi called to him, he turned and took the phone.

‘Alice? Harry Parker. Is Blake there?’

‘He’s with the President, Harry.’

‘Damn.’

There was a pause. ‘Is it important?’

So he told her.

In the Oval Office, President Jake Cazalet sat at his desk, Blake Johnson on the other side, as they reviewed the latest intelligence reports on the Irish peace process. The President’s favourite Secret Service man, Clancy Smith, a tall, black Gulf veteran, stood by the door. The phone rang and Cazalet picked it up.

‘Alice Quarmby, Mr President.’

‘Hello, Alice, you want Blake?’

‘No, Mr President, I need you.’

He straightened, aware from the tone of her voice that something was very badly wrong.

‘Tell me, Alice.’

She did, and a minute later he replaced the phone and turned to Blake, genuine pain on his face, for this was a man he liked more than most, a man who had helped save his beloved daughter’s life, who had saved the President himself from assassination.

Blake, sitting there in shirtsleeves, papers in front of him, said, ‘What’s the problem, Mr President? What did Alice say?’

Cazalet stood up and walked to the window, watching the rain drifting across Capitol Hill. He summoned up all his strength and turned.

‘Blake, you’re a true friend and one of the finest men I’ve known, and I’m going to hurt you now in the most terrible way. At least, thank God, it’s me.’

Blake looked puzzled. ‘Mr President?’

And Cazalet gave him the dreadful news.

When he was done, he ordered, ‘Whisky, Clancy, a large one.’

Clancy was at the sideboard at once and back within seconds with a crystal glass half-filled with bourbon. He handed it to Blake, who stared at it, frowning, then swallowed it whole. He put the glass down on the desk.

‘I’m sorry, Mr President. This is quite a shock. Although my wife and I were divorced, we’ve always stayed close, and now I…May I phone Alice back?’

‘Of course. Use the anteroom for privacy, then we’ll talk.’

‘Thank you.’ Clancy opened the door and Blake went out.

‘Clancy,’ Cazalet said, ‘I need a cigarette.’

Clancy found a pack, shook one out, and gave it to him. ‘Mr President.’

Cazalet inhaled deeply. ‘These got me through Vietnam, Clancy. Blake, too, I suspect. What about you? In the Gulf?’

‘Long days of boredom, broken by moments of sheer terror? Yes sir, a cigarette came in handy now and then.’

Cazalet nodded. ‘Old soldiers, the three of us.’ He sighed. ‘He doesn’t deserve this, Clancy. If there’s anything we can do for him, I’d appreciate it.’

‘My privilege, Mr President.’

Twenty minutes later Blake returned, his face grey, eyes burning.

‘Is there anything I can do to help, Blake?’

‘No, Mr President, except with your permission I need to get to New York now.’

Cazalet turned to Clancy Smith. ‘Make the call and get the Gulfstream ready to take Blake to New York immediately.’

‘You got it, Mr President,’ and Clancy went out fast.

Cazalet turned to Blake. ‘My friend, do you have any kind of idea what happened?’

‘No, Mr President.’ Blake pulled on his jacket. ‘But I intend to find out. And with Harry Parker helping me, that’s just what I’ll do.’ He held out his hand. ‘Many thanks, Mr President, for your understanding.’

He turned and went out.