The President's Daughter (13 page)

“That bad?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll leave in an hour with Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein. Dillon’s been up to his neck in this thing. We must see the President at the White House the moment we get in.”

“Not possible. He’s gone down to his own house for a couple of days on the beach at Nantucket. Time to reflect.”

“This is life and death, Blake.”

There was a pause. “I see.”

Ferguson took a deep breath. “You’re his friend, Blake. Tell him it refers to the safety of . . . one who was lost but now is found.”

“Jesus, Charles, what is this, a parlor game?”

“I can’t say more, not now. Just tell him. He’ll know what I mean. So will Teddy Grant. You’ve got to trust me on this, Blake—this is as important as it comes.”

And Johnson was all efficiency now. “Okay. Don’t come into Washington International. Make it Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll tell them to expect you. They’ll arrange a helicopter to drop you on the beach at Nantucket as they do for the President.”

Ferguson said, “No CIA, Blake, no security services of any description. Just come yourself.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Charles. Okay, I’ll go ahead and prepare the President. I’ll see you there,” and he put down the phone.

Ferguson said, “Right, let’s get moving. No time to waste on this one,” and he led the way out.

• • •

On the beach at the old house near Nantucket, the President walked, tracked by two Secret Service men and his dog, Murchison, a black flatcoat retriever. The wind was blowing, the surf tumbling in, and it was good to be alive and away from Washington. He called the nearest Secret Service man over, an enormous black ex-Marine called Clancey Smith, who had served in the Gulf.

“Light me a cigarette, Clancey,” the President said. “Can’t manage in this wind.”

Clancey took two Marlboros from his pack, lit them inside his storm coat, and passed one to the President.

Cazalet laughed. “Didn’t Paul Henreid do that for Bette Davis in
Now Voyager
?”

“Must have been before my time, Mr. President.”

At that moment, there was a cry and they turned and saw Teddy Grant running toward them. Murchison bounded forward to meet him and they arrived together, Teddy breathless.

“For God’s sake, Teddy, what is it?” Cazalet demanded.

Teddy gestured to Clancey, who withdrew, and only then did he deliver the bad news.

There was the usual press of people outside the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, tourists mostly, taking pictures and hoping for a sign of the good and the great, maybe even the President, but there were no TV cameras.

Mark Gold turned up the collar of his coat against the light rain and smiled at the nearest policeman. “No TV today. They can’t have lost interest in Cazalet that quickly.”

The policeman shrugged. “He ain’t here. Went down to Nantucket for a day or two. If you’d been here earlier, you’d have seen the helicopter.”

“Heh, I’m sorry I missed that.”

Mark Gold turned away through the crowd and walked some distance along Pennsylvania Avenue to where he had left his car. He was a senior computer operator in the Defense Department, a graduate of Columbia University in computer science. He couldn’t remember when he’d last visited a synagogue. His older brother, Simon, had been different, a deeply religious man who’d given up a lucrative job as a broker on the New York Stock Exchange to emigrate to Israel to farm on a kibbutz in the north near the Golan. He had been killed, along with twelve other people, when Hamas terrorists had blanketed the kibbutz with seven rockets.

Gold had gone to Israel, too late for any funeral, but to pay his respects, had stood at the grave of a much-loved brother, filled with a deep rage, so that when Aaron Eitan had accosted him, ostensibly for sympathy, but sounding him out, it was good to have someone to pour out his anger to.

It had ended with him being picked up by car, blindfolded, and delivered to a back street house in Jerusalem. When his blindfold had been removed, there was Judas in his black hood seated at a table.

So, Mark Gold was a Maccabee and proud to serve. It gave his life a sense of purpose, and his ability to access Defense Department computers was more than useful to the organization. He could even hack in to CIA records at Langley.

Before starting the car, he took out the special satellite-linked mobile phone and punched the coded series. Judas answered very quickly.

“It’s Gold. The President’s gone to his house at Nantucket for the weekend. I presume that’s where our friends will go.”

“Did you check the hotel?”

“Yes, reservations confirmed.”

“They’re certain to go there after Nantucket. Dillon, of course, will have performed his task. You can take care of him at the Charlton as we agreed.”

“Consider it done.”

Gold put the phone in his pocket, switched on the engine, and drove away.

When the Lear jet landed at Andrews Air Force Base, the news wasn’t good. The young major who was waiting to greet them saluted formally.

“My respects, General.”

“Brigadier,” Ferguson told him.

“We could have a problem. Nantucket, the whole area, is subject to fog a lot. We usually drop the President on the beach right outside his home by helicopter. That may not be possible today.”

“So where would we go?”

“There’s an air force base nearby. You’ll proceed onwards by limousine. It’s all been taken care of.”

“Then let’s get on with it,” Ferguson said.

Ten minutes later, the three of them were strapping into a helicopter that took off almost instantly.

When Mark Gold went into Sammy’s Bar, it was early evening and the place was almost empty. The black man with dreadlocks at the corner table was Nelson Harker and just now he was reading the
Washington Post.

Gold sat down. “Would you like a drink?”

“Not when I’m working.”

Harker looked up. He had an interesting face, a quick, intelligent look to him that Gold found surprising in a professional hit man, and Harker had killed often,
sometimes for as little as one thousand dollars. This time, he was getting ten, but with Dillon’s reputation, it seemed merited. He took a photo from his pocket and passed it over.

“Another photo of Dillon, just to make sure.”

“Heh, I’ve already seen one. So he’s been a big name with the IRA, the kind of shitheads who bomb women and kids. That ain’t no way to be. I spit on them.”

“Well, spit on Dillon at the Charlton Hotel later tonight. I want you there no later than ten.”

“And then?”

“If we don’t see him around, you can take him in his suite. There’s a night elevator in the basement garage to all floors.”

“Sounds good to me. Where’s my money?”

Gold took out an envelope and slipped it across. “Half now, half after.” He stood up. “See you later,” and walked out.

O
n the beach, the surf roared in as the President walked with Blake Johnson and Teddy Grant. They all wore storm coats against the wind, and Murchison, barking madly, made occasional forays into the water. Clancey Smith trailed them over to the left.

“For God’s sake, Blake, what can it mean?” the President demanded.

“I don’t know, Mr. President. What I do know for certain is that if Charles Ferguson says that this is serious, then you’d better believe it. The very fact that he had Dillon with him speaks for itself.”

“Yes, of course.” The President turned to Teddy. “You were in the hospital last year when I made the London trip and those Protestant activists tried to kill me. Dillon proved his worth that day. A remarkable man.”

“That’s one way of putting it, Mr. President. I’ve looked him up. I mean, whose side is he on? He tried to mortar the British War Cabinet in ninety-one during the Gulf War and damn near succeeded.”

“Yes, well, he’s on our side now.”

It was at that moment that Clancey Smith called, “I’m getting the word, Mr. President. The chopper’s landed and they’re on their way.”

“Thank God,” Jake Cazalet said, and a moment later a black limousine appeared on the beach, speeding toward the President’s house. “This way, gentlemen.” He ran along the beach through clinging strands of mist, Murchison snapping at his heels, and arrived at the house as the helicopter settled.

There was a fire in the main room and they sat round it while Dillon delivered the bad news. When he was finished, the President seemed shocked but also incredulous.

“Let me get this straight. This Judas creature insists that he has access to our main computer systems. CIA at Langley, FBI, Department of Defense?”

“That’s correct, Mr. President.”

“So that if we make any inquiry, attempt to discover who he and his people are, he will kill my daughter.”

“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Dillon said. “He takes a hard line. They not only killed Hakim and his men in Sicily, they killed the old couple and the girl.”

“And probably the prison guard, Jackson, in London,” Ferguson put in.

“And if I don’t sign Nemesis, he’ll kill her anyway?”

“I’m afraid so.” Dillon took the mobile phone Judas had given him and put it on the coffee table. “That’s what he gave me. Two chances to prove him right or wrong.”

“As we told you, Mr. President,” Ferguson said, “my check for any information on the Maccabees through British intelligence computer sources in London drew an almost instant response.”

“So now you want to try the Defense Department’s system.”

Ferguson nodded. “If we get the same response, we’ll know exactly where we are.”

It was Hannah Bernstein who interrupted. “I wonder if you mind my asking you something, Mr. President. It’s the policeman’s mind, I’m afraid. In my job you develop a nose for things, just a hunch with nothing to back it up.”

“And you have one now, Chief Inspector?” Cazalet asked her. “Okay, fire ahead.”

“The Basement, who knows about it? Is it as secret as they say?”

The President turned to Blake Johnson. “You have my permission.”

Blake said, “Officially, I’m the General Affairs Department, and that’s all people know. I have a secretary named Alice Quarmby, a widow and entirely trustworthy, and that’s it: no other staff. People imagine I’ve something to do with White House administration.”

“Then how do you manage?”

“Rather like Judas. I have a circle of people in other employment, former FBI, for example, scientists, university professors, whom I call on for a specific job. Always totally reliable people.”

“Are you saying the Secretary of Defense or the National Security Advisor, people like that, don’t realize the true nature of the Basement?” Ferguson asked.

“Teddy knows, but then Teddy knows everything.” The President managed a grin. “Let me explain. Several Presidents ago, and I won’t say which one, there were a series of scandals to do with Communist infiltration of the CIA and the Defense Department. You may recall the legend of the Russian mole in the Pentagon.”

“I do indeed, Mr. President.”

“The President of the day, on his own initiative,
charged an old personal friend, an ex–CIA man, to set up the General Affairs Department, which meant that he had someone totally trustworthy to rely on. It worked very well, and when his successor took office, the President spoke to him privately on the matter and the Basement carried on.”

“And still does,” Blake Johnson said. “Of course, there have been a few whispers over the years, but nothing concrete enough to invade our secrecy. Our only connection abroad has been with you, Charles, and that’s a special relationship.”

“Indeed it is,” Ferguson said and turned to Hannah. “What are you driving at, Chief Inspector?”

“Listening to what Dillon had to say, it would seem that Judas mentioned his connections with the main security services, but he never mentioned the Basement.”

“My God, girl, you’re right,” Dillon said. “There’s a grand copper’s mind for you.”

“I would have thought he would, particularly in a matter so personal to the President.”

“What you’re saying is that he doesn’t know about the existence of the Basement,” Ferguson said.

She nodded. “And we can prove it one way or the other.” She turned to Blake. “I presume that because of the extreme secrecy of your activities you have your own computer bank?”

“I sure do. I can access Langley, FBI, the Defense Department, but mine is locked up tight with our own security codes.”

“Good. He told Dillon he could make another security computer inquiry after London to prove his power. Let’s not access the other security services, let’s put our question to the Basement’s computer bank.”

There was a short pause, and it was Teddy who said,
“I always did say we should have more women policemen. It’s the devious minds women have.”

“We’ll give it a try,” Blake said. “I’ll use the control room, Mr. President.”

He got up and went out and Jake Cazalet stood up. Murchison, lying on the floor, got up also and the President said, “No, lie down.”

Instead, Murchison went to Hannah and she stroked his ears. Dillon said, “If it works, it changes a lot of things.”

“We’ll see,” Ferguson said.

Johnson came back. “I asked for any terrorist group known as the Maccabees and an individual known as Judas Maccabeus. The response was negative. Nothing known.”

“So now we wait,” the President said. “But for how long?”

“He was on to us on the instant in London,” Ferguson said.

“Well, I tell you what,” Jake Cazalet told them. “This is one of the worst scenarios in my life, but a man must eat and I believe a light meal’s been organized in the kitchen. Let’s go in for an hour and see what happens.”

“I told Mrs. Boulder to go early,” Teddy said, when they went into the kitchen. “It’s all ready. I’ll serve. She left the potatoes in the oven on a low heat and everything else is cold.”

Hannah helped him and the President opened two bottles of ice-cold Sancerre. They had cold salmon, new potatoes, salad, and crusty bread, but the conversation was episodic. Everyone had eyes only for the mobile phone that Judas had given to Dillon and which lay on the table.