Читать книгу Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 11

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.’