Edge of Danger (7 page)

‘And bloody boring.’ Billy turned to Dillon. ‘You got anything on the go I could help with?’

‘Back to Heidegger, is it, Billy? You feel the need for some action and passion?’

‘Here, you lay off,’ Salter told his nephew. ‘Last time, we almost didn’t get you back.’

‘So, I’m bored,’ Billy said. ‘And you won’t let me do the booze and cigarette runs from Amsterdam anymore.’

“Cos I don’t want you nicked. Lesser mortals can take that chance. You just be a good boy.’

He poured more champagne, and Dillon said, ‘I’ll keep you in mind, Billy.’

Billy raised his glass. ‘Always willing and available, Dillon.’

At the White House, Jake Cazalet sat at his desk in the Oval Office in shirtsleeves, working through a stack of paperwork. The door opened and Blake

Johnson came in. Outside, rain drove against the window. The President sat back.

‘What have you got for me?’

‘Hazar, Mr President.’

‘The Sultan’s death?’

‘The Sultan’s assassination.’

Jake Cazalet got up, went to the window, and looked out. Blake said, The CIA doesn’t know anything about it, they say. They claim to be totally baffled. The question is: Baffled? Or embarrassed? We know the Sultan’s people tried to kill Paul Rashid on behalf of our own oil interests and the Russians’, and the Sultan was the CIA’s man. I’d say they have a lot to answer for. And now, there’s all this agitation from Hizbullah, Army of God, Sword of Allah, all the rest of them. Something’s going on.’

‘Dammit!’ Jake Cazalet said. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

‘It’s a dirty world, Mr President. I can’t prove it, but I’ll lay you odds Rashid struck back.’

‘Does Charles Ferguson know anything about it?’

‘I don’t know, Mr President. I haven’t asked him.’

‘Well, do so. Then get back to me.’

It was late in London as Ferguson sat by the fire of his flat in Cavendish Place and talked to Blake.

‘I can’t help you with the Sultan, although my personal feeling, too, is that it was a Rashid hit.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Absolutely. I have a trusted operative, Colonel Tony Villiers, commanding the Hazar Scouts as a contract officer. He keeps me well informed. During the Gulf War, he also commanded the SAS unit Rashid served in.’

‘Well, that’s close enough. Thanks, Charles. How’s Dillon?’

Ferguson hesitated. ‘Well, since you mentioned him … Dammit, Blake, this is strictly confidential, but… sit back, my friend, I’ve got a story to tell you. It concerns the Rashids.’

He went through everything: Drumcree, Aidan Bell, Kate Rashid, the shooting of the Provisional IRA men.

‘My God,’ Blake said. ‘What are they up to?’

‘So you don’t believe their story either, do you? The Rashids are moving into Northern Ireland, that’s a fact.’

‘Maybe, but there’s a lot more to all this than they’re saying. Well, keep me informed, Charles.

Give my love to Hannah - and tell Dillon to watch his back.’

He put down the phone and went back to the Oval Office to bring the President up to date.

Nantucket

They made the trip from Long Island to Nantucket in the Alice Brown overnight. Arthur Grant took the wheel from Casey at midnight. Aidan Bell replaced him at four a.m.

It was still dark and the Irishman sat in the swivel seat, smoking a cigarette in the light of the binnacle, enjoying every minute of it and thinking about things.

He’d enjoyed seeing Dillon again, a great comrade in the old days, although their paths had altered, and he’d liked the girl. What a woman, and she’d seen right through him. It wasn’t the money, never had been. He’d really showed those Russians in Chechnya: the General, with one round through his head at six hundred metres, and fifty pounds of Semtex for his staff. What they’d called an Ulster fry-up in the old days in the IRA … The door creaked open and Liam Casey came in with tea and sandwiches.

‘I couldn’t sleep. How are you?’

‘Fine.’ Aidan Bell put on the automatic pilot and took a sandwich as Casey poured tea into two mugs. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’ll be fine myself, Aidan.’

‘And why wouldn’t you? We got away with it in Chechnya, didn’t we?’

Casey took a sandwich himself. ‘Yes, but the President of the United States, Aidan, that’s something else again.’

‘Ah, but what a ploy.’

He took another sandwich and Casey said, ‘I’ve been thinking. What if Cazalet doesn’t turn up this weekend? He must do that sometimes.’

‘I checked his schedule, Liam. What am I, daft? I also checked CNN News earlier today on the TV there above the chart table. There was a mention of him going to the old family house by the sea as usual. This is America, they tell you everything.’

‘Then why the hell didn’t you tell me, Aidan?’

‘Because Grant was in the wheelhouse at the time and you were on deck stowing the gear. What’s it matter?’

Casey gave him a cigarette. ‘I don’t like him. He’s what my old Gran used to call a sly boots.’ ‘Yes, well, if he crosses me, I’ll cut off his boots

with his feet still inside, but don’t worry. I’ve a story for him that should keep him happy. Leave it to me. Just make sure he doesn’t get into the weaponry bag.’

It was raining slightly, more of a sea mist than anything else, as the Alice Brown drifted parallel to the coast three miles off Nantucket. Arthur Grant was at the wheel and Aidan Bell and Casey worked under the stern canopy, which they’d draped with fishing nets. They already had the Dolphin Speed Trailer over the rail and tied up and were checking their diving gear.

‘Throttle back,’ Bell called, and Grant did as he was told, so that they simply coasted along as Bell and Casey pulled on their diving suits and

inflatables.

Grant had the windscreen open and leaned out.

‘Any problems?’

‘No,’ Bell said. ‘Put her on automatic and get

down here.’

Bell eased on his jacket with the tanks attached and wrapped the Velcro straps, while Casey did

the same.

Casey said, ‘You’re sure about this? Three miles

in forty-five minutes?’

‘It’s easily done at the speed this thing goes. We’ll

manage at fifteen feet all the way. We’ve plenty of air, and there’s an onshore current.’

He dropped the weaponry bag over onto the Dolphin and clipped his holding line to his weight belt as Grant arrived. Bell pulled on his gloves.

‘Well, it’s the moment of truth. We’re going on towards the coast looking for a World War II wreck. An Irish boat called Rose of Tralee.’ The story was beginning to sound so good that he almost believed it himself. ‘Amongst other things, it was carrying gold bullion from the Bank of England for safekeeping in Boston. People have been looking for her for years, but last month I traced an old guy of eighty-six who was a deckhand and survived when she was torpedoed by a U-boat. He didn’t know about the gold, but he was able to give me the position.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Grant said.

‘So, play your cards right and I’ll cut you in for a piece.’

‘Sure. Anything you say, Mr Bell,’ Grant said eagerly.

‘Okay. You stay here. Drop your line. Get the nets out. Look busy. With luck, we’ll see you in three hours.’

He pulled down his mask, put in his mouthpiece,

and went backwards over the stern rail. As he untied the line on the Dolphin, Casey joined him. Bell switched on the two heavy-duty batteries, mounted the front seating position and as Casey got on behind, took the Dolphin down, levelled off at fifteen feet and turned towards the distant coast of Nantucket Island with a surge of power.

Standing on the front porch of the old house, wearing a United States Marines tracksuit, Jake Cazalet drank his first cup of coffee of the day and watched Murchison, his beloved flatcoat retriever, walking with Clancy Smith on the beach below. There was a step behind, and as Cazalet turned, Blake Johnson joined him, also nursing a coffee. ‘Always great to be back, Blake,’ Cazalet told

him.

‘It sure is, Mr President.’ ‘Can’t wait for my run. You’ll join me?’ ‘If you’ll excuse me, not this morning. Even though it’s the weekend and early in the day, Harper is finding himself under considerable pressure in the Communications Room. There’s a lot coming down from the Hill. I’d better stay and give him a hand.’

‘All right, then come and look at my new toy. I had it shipped down during the week.’

He led the way round to the yard. The barn door stood open and inside was a large motorcycle on its stand. ‘A Montesa dirt bike,’ the President said. ‘It’ll be a lot of fun riding it along those roads.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Blake said. ‘To be honest, Mr President, I haven’t ridden a bike of any kind for years.’

‘Hell, a child could work this thing. Shepherds use them to herd sheep.’ He sat astride, started the engine, rode out and circled the yard. ‘There you go.’ He switched off and pushed it up on its stand. ‘Feel free!’

‘I will,’ Blake said.

As they walked back to the porch, it started to rain. Murchison was sitting waiting, tongue hanging. Clancy Smith came over wearing a hooded oilskin coat in yellow and carrying another, which he passed to Cazalet.

‘Knowing you, Mr President, I figure we’re going, rain or no rain.’

‘You’re always so right, Clancy.’ Cazalet pulled on the coat, buttoned it up, and whistled to Murchison. ‘Come on, boy.’

He went down the steps and started to jog, the dog at his heels. Clancy Smith adjusted his earpiece, transferred his favourite old Browning from his shoulder holster to his right-hand pocket, and went after them.

Aidan Bell was not far off in his calculations and, helped by the strong current, they entered the estuary leading to the marsh in fifty minutes. It was a salt marsh, of course, a magnificent wilderness of tall reeds, deep water channels, mudflats, and birds of every description, who rose angrily as the Dolphin surfaced.

Bell coasted onto a sloping sandbank, then he and Casey dismounted, eased the Dolphin forward and got rid of their jackets and air bottles. All this was done in silence. Finally, Bell undipped the weaponry bag, handed Casey an AK assault rifle and Browning, and took out his own. They stood there, strangely medieval in their black diving suits.

Bell said, ‘One thing we know is that he always runs before breakfast. That could mean he’s halfway round the roads already or that he’ll turn up at any minute. But there’s only one main road

from the house leading to the marsh network. I’d say three or four hundred yards. We wait there -we’re bound to get him either going in or coming out - so let’s move in.’

He turned and led the way through the reeds, feeling cool, calm, and completely unemotional.

Jake Cazalet, Clancy and Murchison were running fast now in the heavy driving rain, and the President was enjoying every minute of it. As he had said more than once, it washed the years away, and with the world as it was, he could certainly do with that.

Murchison ran strongly at his heel, Clancy was five yards back, and he paused on an old plank bridge that was roofed over, a temporary shelter from the rain.

‘You okay, Mr President?’ Clancy asked.

‘Fine. I’ll have the usual.’

Clancy produced a packet of Marlboros, lit two and passed one to Cazalet, who took it and inhaled with deep pleasure.

‘Don’t let any press photographers see you doing that, Mr President.’

‘Hell, I’m entitled to one weakness. These things

got me through Vietnam and you through the Gulf.’

‘They surely did,’ Clancy agreed.

They smoked in companionable silence, then ground out their cigarette butts. ‘Let’s go,’ Cazalet said, and led the way out into the rain, breaking into a run again.

Hidden in the reeds beside the main road, Bell saw them coming. He whispered loudly across to Casey, who was on the other side.

‘There they are. Get ready. You take the Secret Serviceman, I’ll have the President, and don’t be too eager. Take your time.’

He waited. There was no need for a long shot when it could be done virtually at point-blank range. He raised the AK to his shoulder, and Cazalet ran directly toward him.

And as Bell had told Kate Rashid, how often the best-laid schemes could go wrong. He’d planned meticulously, every contingency foreseen, except for the instincts of a flatcoat retriever named Murchison. With that special extra facility known

only to dogs, he sensed something wrong, took off like a rocket and plunged into the reeds on the other side of the road.

Casey lurched out into the open, struggling to cope with the fact that Murchison had him by the left ankle, and his AK discharged.

Jake Cazalet stopped running some twenty-five yards away and Aidan Bell stayed hidden and took aim, but Clancy Smith was fast. In the same moment, he knocked the President sideways and took the bullet that Bell had intended for Cazalet in his right shoulder.

He staggered but never wavered. ‘Take coyer, Mr President,’ he cried and shoved Cazalet down into the shelter of the reeds.

Cazalet gave a piercing whistle and, a moment later, Murchison joined them. There was blood in quantity pouring from the rent in Smith’s yellow oilskin jacket.

‘Is it bad?’ Cazalet asked.

‘I’ll be all right. You’d better take this, Mr President,’ and he passed the Browning across.

Bell called softly across the road, ‘Stay out of sight, Liam,’ and then he loosed off several bursts in the general direction where he’d seen Clancy Smith and Cazalet disappear.

Clancy was already calling in and Cazalet fired back twice.

In the Communications Room, Blake Johnson was seated next to Harper working through some signals when Clancy’s voice crackled over the loudspeakers with the shocking words. ‘Blake. Empire Down! Empire Down!’ At the same moment came the sounds of gunfire.

Blake reached for the mike. ‘Where are you?’

‘Halfway along the main road. I’ve been hit, but the President is okay. He’s doing the shooting back.’

‘I’m on my way.’ Blake turned to Harper. ‘Give me your piece. You know what to do.’

Harper, face wild, handed him a Beretta. Blake slipped it into his right-hand pocket, ran straight out onto the porch and to the barn. A moment later, he rode out on the Montesa and hurtled along the road.