Bad Company (14 page)

“Father, on my life, I swear to you…”

The Baron raised a hand. “Well, Ferguson obviously thinks we do. It should be an interesting evening. And just to make sure, remember this: Newton and Cook don’t exist and we’ve never heard of Brick Lane.”

Only half a dozen people were in the Piano Bar when Ferguson arrived with Dillon and Hannah. Dillon wandered over to the piano, as he often did, and began to play: “A Foggy Day in London Town.” Hannah came and leaned on the piano. “I’ve never understood this, Sean, the piano. You seem to be good at so many things.”

“You mean like killing people?” He smiled. “Don’t be deceived, Hannah, good barroom piano is all.”

“You’re angry. That always worries me.”

“Yes, good and angry. I’m a bad man, Hannah. I’ve walked over plenty of corpses, but there’s something about Sara Hesser’s death that grinds at me. She deserved better.”

The waiter was pouring champagne when Max von Berger and Rossi appeared at the top of the steps by the bar.

The Baron sat opposite Ferguson and Hannah. Rossi and Dillon stood, in a way confronting each other.

“So what is this about, General?”

“Tell him, Superintendent.”

When she was finished, the Baron sighed. “So this poor lady falls off the jetty and your Professor Langley confirms she died of drowning, with no suspicious circumstances. So what does this have to do with me?”

“The fact that she died at all is a suspicious circumstance,” Dillon said.

Marco Rossi said, “You don’t have a leg to stand on, Dillon. This meeting is not only futile, it’s offensive.”

“Enough,” Ferguson said. “We’re not talking legalities, we’re talking truth. We may not be able to arrest you, but you know and we know what happened.”

“I know no such thing,” said the Baron. “Really, Marco is right. This is most offensive.” The Baron stood.

Dillon said to Rossi, “What did you do, push her over?”

Rossi took a step toward him and Hannah grabbed Sean’s arm. “Let it go.”

The Baron’s face was grim. “I think we’ll leave now,” and he walked out, followed by his son.

In the car outside, he said quietly, “You had nothing to do with this? Swear it to me.”

“On my life. She was an old woman who had a tragic accident. That’s all.”

“But, as Ferguson puts it, most fortunate for us.”

That his son was lying naturally occurred to him, but he pushed the thought away and leaned back.

In his own car, Ferguson clicked off his phone and immediately dialed again, his direct Codex Four line to the Basement office at the White House. Johnson, at his desk, answered at once.

“Yes?”

“Ferguson.”

“Charles, how goes it?”

“Rather badly. I’ve just talked to the Prime Minister. He wants me to go to Washington immediately and speak to the President personally. I’ll bring Dillon with me.”

“Sorry, Charles, but the President’s gone to his house on Nantucket for the weekend. Can I do anything?”

“It’s a very grave matter that affects him personally.”

There was a pause. “All right, go straight to Andrews Air Force Base. They’ll take you there by helicopter and make a beach landing. I’ll arrange it.” He hesitated. “This is a bad one, Charles?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I’ll get down there myself.”

“I think that would be wise, old boy. You’ll be going to war again, I assure you.” He hung up.

Johnson sat at his desk, frowning, then picked up the phone and rang the President on his direct line.

THE DAIMLER ARRIVED at Farley Field, was passed through by RAF police and drove to where the Citation X waited, the Airstairs door down.

Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry stood waiting. Both held the Air Force Cross, an acknowledgment of many hazardous missions on Ferguson’s behalf; on more than one occasion, they’d dropped Sean Dillon by parachute into uncertain landings. They were essential parts of Ferguson’s tightly knit, highly secret group. Both were in RAF uniform.

“I see you’ve dressed appropriately for once,” Ferguson said.

“Some of our closest friends are at Andrews Air Force Base, sir.”

“You’re right.”

An RAF sergeant, a small energetic woman, came down the steps. “June Walters, General. I’ll be looking after you. Follow me, please.”

She led the way and Ferguson obeyed. “Hello, boys,” Dillon said. “Here we go again.”

Lacey said, “Is this serious business, Sean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t book any out-of-season holidays for the next few weeks.”

“Terrific,” Parry said. “It’s always so interesting when you appear.”

“Nice plane,” Dillon said.

“Yes. Brand-new. Do you like it? Fastest commercial plane in the world next to the Concorde,” Lacey told him.

“That’s impressive. Let’s get on with it, then,” and Dillon went up into the aircraft.

They took off shortly afterward, fast-tracked by air traffic control as a priority-one flight, climbed steadily west, and had lifted to fifty thousand feet as they reached the Atlantic. Sergeant Walters appeared.

“I’ve got minestrone soup, melon, steak, new potatoes and vegetables.” She turned to Dillon. “I understand you like plain food, sir. There’s an item called an Irish potato pie – lamb, onion and dumplings.”

Dillon said, “Jesus, woman, that’s what you call plain food?”

She smiled. “Apparently. A drink, gentlemen?”

“Bring me a Bushmills whiskey and open a bottle of a halfway decent champagne and we’ll share it.” She restrained laughter, glanced at Ferguson, who nodded, and she went away.

Dillon lit a cigarette. “So, what are you going to say to Cazalet?”

“The truth about this whole affair as we know it.”

“And what will he say?”

“God knows. He’s an admirable and decent man, and he’s suffered many blows in his personal life. His wife died of leukemia; his father, the elder Jake Cazalet who figures so prominently in the diary, was killed in a car accident years ago. The kidnapping of his daughter, no one knows better than you. It was you and Blake who saved her.”

Dillon held out his hand, took the whiskey Sergeant Walters offered and swallowed it. “But if this von Berger thing leaks, the great American public won’t give a stuff about what’s gone before, will it?”

Sergeant Walters handed them a glass of champagne each. “You’re a cynic, Sean,” Ferguson said.

“A realist, but there you go, calling me by my first name again.”

“Which means?”

“That you want me to handle it the hard way.” He raised his glass. “Cheers, Charlie.”

“Cheers, Sean. You’re always so dependable.”

On the beach at the old family house on Nantucket, the President walked with his favorite Secret Service man, an enormous black ex-Marine named Clancy Smith, and Blake Johnson. The President’s dog, Murchison, a flat-coated retriever, ran in and out of the surf. The sea was rough, the wind keen. Cazalet spoke to Clancy and asked for a cigarette, and Clancy lit a Marlboro inside his coat and passed it.

Blake said, “I’ve told you before, sir, there are voters who would hold that against you.”

“We’re all entitled to a weakness, Blake, and these things got you and me through the Vietnam War.” Murchison jumped up and he patted him. “Now if I should beat this wonderful dog,
that
would lose me votes by the thousands.”

Blake lit a cigarette for himself inside his storm coat. “I give in, Mr. President.”

“So, Ferguson gave you no idea of what all this is about?”

“Only that it’s a bad one.”

“Then that’s bad enough.” There was a roaring in the distance, and they turned and saw the helicopter landing on the beach beside the house.

“God, the sound of those things. It always takes me back to the war,” Cazalet said. “Let’s go and greet our guests and see what’s gone wrong.”

Cazalet had always cherished his quiet weekends on Nantucket. He preferred to have only the housekeeper
cum
cook, Mrs. Boulder, organize things, and bring in whoever she needed to clean or run the place when he wasn’t there. So when they sat down in the large drawing room, it was only Cazalet, Blake and Smith, with Ferguson and Dillon sitting opposite. Ferguson covered the entire story. There was silence.

The President said, “Obviously, Blake informed me of the events at Kate Rashid’s funeral, but this – I never expected anything like this.”

There was another pause. Blake said, “Is it really that bad, Mr. President? It’s not as if anything actually happened.”

Dillon said, “May I speak, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Your father, Senator Jake Cazalet – his position in all this is clear. He acted, under orders and in good faith, as President Roosevelt’s man in a most delicate and secret situation.”

“That is true.”

“In a strange way, Hitler’s emissary, General Walter Schellenberg of the SS, was in a similar situation. He was not a Nazi party member. In fact, after the war he was tried and found guilty only of being a member of an illegal organization, the SS.”

“So?”

“I could be found guilty of being a member of the IRA for more years than I care to remember, but that wouldn’t change what Schellenberg personally felt. He was simply the Führer’s mouthpiece and your father was Roosevelt’s mouthpiece.”

“Dillon, watch yourself,” Ferguson said.

“No.” Cazalet put his hand up. “He’s right.”

Dillon nodded. “But you need to explore deeper than that because, as sure as hell, the press will.”

“What do you mean?” Blake asked.

“Well, many experts would say that Roosevelt perhaps
did
show an interest, because Hitler’s overtures included the idea of halting the Red Menace seeping into Western Europe. So let’s say Roosevelt toyed with the idea, or why bother sending Cazalet in the first place?”

It was Cazalet who said, “Go on.”

“But he considers all the facts and changes his mind. That change of mind would be what all the experts, and the press, would seize on.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Dillon?” Ferguson asked.

“That close to the end of things, the American army crossed the Elbe. General George Patton’s tanks could have roared up the autobahn and reached Berlin in twenty-four hours. Only they didn’t. They were ordered to stay where they were by Eisenhower, because Roosevelt had decided, after word from Stalin, that the Russians were entitled to seize Berlin. And so began forty-five years of Cold War. Not to mention one hundred thousand German women raped.”

There was a heavy silence, and it was Jake Cazalet who said, “You’re right. Everything you say is right.”

“Everything I say is what the world will seize on. Because the President sent him there, your father will be part of it, and because he was your father, you, sir, will be part of it. In my opinion, that is what Baron Max von Berger has already worked out.”

Everyone stirred uneasily. It was Blake who said, “Then how on earth can one combat him? Do we try preempting the whole thing? Spilling the story first?”

It was Ferguson who said, “It’s the story that’s the trouble.”

“I agree,” the President said. “And the trouble is, gentlemen, I’m engaged in world affairs of great moment. To be arguing with the United Nations over Iraq, with the threat of a scandal like this hanging over us – it would be a disaster. My opponents at home would rip me to pieces. Our enemies abroad would immediately take advantage.”

“So that means-?” Ferguson said, looking directly at the President.

Cazalet smiled, but there was no humor to it.

“Mr. Dillon?” he said. “If we had that diary…”

Dillon nodded. “I’ll see what we can do, sir.” He looked at Johnson.

“You up for it, Blake?”

Blake grinned. “I’m your man, Sean.”

MEANWHILE, MARCO ROSSI, trawling the security files at Rashid Investments, had discovered the scale of Kate Rashid’s involvement, not only in southern Arabia, but nearer to home in Ireland. In fact, she’d had very active arms deals brewing with both dissident IRA and Protestant Loyalist groups. Kate had been very evenhanded.

There was one name in particular he knew, a man once big with the Ulster Defence Association who, after a very public row, had moved to the Red Hand of Ulster, probably the most extremist Loyalist organization of all.

The sums of money involved were quite staggering. No sense letting that all go to waste, he thought.

This explained why he was walking through Kilburn, the most Irish area of London, on a dark evening, in a black bomber jacket, a Walther PPK snug against his back, to meet one Patrick Murphy. Mr. Murphy was the landlord of a public house called
The Orange George,
its outside wall painted in a way reminiscent of a Protestant area in Belfast.

Marco listened to the Irish music, then went in. The pub was full, and an Irish band was playing. He stood at one end, and a good-looking, middle-aged woman came up.

“Patrick Murphy is expecting me.”

“Is that so.” She looked him over and smiled. “You’re not having me on?”

He reached over and stroked her cheek. “I’d love to, and maybe later, but Pat Murphy is expecting me. Just say Marco. What’s your name?”

“Janet.”

“Well, who knows, Janet?”

She flushed and went into the back, more excited than she had been in a long time.

Murphy was seated in the back room, a late-middle-aged man with a belly on him, an account book open on the table, when Janet showed Marco in.

“Ah, Mr. Rossi. You’d better sit down.” He nodded to Janet, who went out. He reached for a whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses and poured.

“Good health.” He drank his whiskey. Marco ignored his and lit a cigarette.