Midnight Runner

‘You told us he’d be a walkover,’ Shaven-head said.

‘Yes, life can be a bitch sometimes. But you two screwed up royally, didn’t you? I want my money back.’

‘Go to hell.’ Shaven-head turned to his friend. ‘Don’t give him nothing.’

‘Oh, dear.’

Rupert produced a .25 Colt from his right-hand pocket, a bulbous silencer on the end. He prodded Shaven-head’s left thigh and pulled the trigger. The man cried out and went down. Rupert held out a hand and the other got the bills out hurriedly.

Rupert said, ‘I noticed you had a mobile phone when we met earlier. I’d call the police if I were you.’

‘Jesus,’ the man said. ‘And what do I say?’

‘Just tell them you were mugged by three very large black men. It’s Washington, they’ll believe you. Terrible, the crime situation in the city, isn’t it?’

He walked back to the car. As he got behind the wheel, Kate Rashid said, ‘Can we go now?’

‘Your wish is my command.’

3 (#uccbceb1c-4d6f-589e-9ff9-d9b29d4d4aee)

As they pulled up to the White House, Blake clicked off his cell phone. ‘I never heard Cazalet at a loss for words, but he is now. He’s shocked.’

‘I’m shocked,’ Quinn said. ‘Blake, I’m fifty-two years old. Vietnam was a long time ago.’

‘It was a long time ago for all of us, Daniel.’

‘But, Blake, what I did to those two back there. Where the hell did that come from?’

‘It never goes away, Senator,’ Clancy Smith told him. ‘It’s like being branded for the rest of your life.’

‘Is it the same for you? Does the Gulf War still affect you today?’

‘Ah, hell, I never think about it,’ said Smith. ‘We all cut throats on the right occasion, Senator, you just did it with style. That’s why you’re the legend.’

‘Bo Din?’ Quinn shook his head. ‘It’s like a curse.’

‘No, Senator, an inspiration,’ and they were inside the gate.

When the three of them entered the Oval Office, President Jake Cazalet was seated at his desk, which was littered with papers. The room was in shadows, a table light on the desk. Cazalet, like Blake and Quinn, was in his early fifties, his reddish hair peppered with grey. He jumped to his feet and came round the desk.

‘Daniel, what a hell of an experience. What happened?’

‘Oh, Blake will tell you. Could I possibly have an Irish whiskey?’

‘Of course. Clancy, will you see to it?’

‘Mr President.’

Daniel followed him out to the anteroom. He waited as Clancy poured, aware of the murmur of voices from the Oval Office. When he went back, Cazalet turned to greet him.

‘A hell of a thing.’

‘What? That I’ve just discovered I’m still a killer after thirty years?’

Cazalet took his hand. ‘No, Daniel, that you still have what it takes to be a hero. Those two lowlifes made a mistake. They won’t be trying that again for a while.’

‘Thanks, Mr President. I hope that’s true. Now – what can I do for you? Why did you want to see me?’

‘Let’s sit down.’

They drew chairs up to the coffee table. Clancy stood against the wall, as always, dark, taciturn, and watchful.

The President said, ‘Daniel, you’ve done a fine job so far in your new role, especially your work in Bosnia and Kosovo. I can’t think of anybody who could have done better in the time I’ve been here, and that’s five years now. I know you have another trip to Kosovo coming up, but after that – I was wondering if you could put down roots in London for a while? Completely separate from the London Embassy, just some…research it’d be useful to have done.’

‘What kind of research?’

Cazalet turned. ‘Blake?’

Blake Johnson said, ‘Europe has changed, Daniel, you know that. There are terrorist groups all over the place, and not only the Arab fundamentalists. The emerging problem is anarchism. Groups with names like the Marxist League, the Army of National Liberation, a new group called Act of Class Warfare.’

‘So?’ Quinn asked.

‘Before we get into the details,’ Cazalet said, ‘I must say this goes beyond any security classification you’ve ever had.’ He pushed a document across. ‘This is a presidential warrant, Daniel. It says you belong to me. It transcends all our laws. You don’t even have the right to say no.’

Quinn studied it. ‘I always thought these things were a myth.’

‘They’re real enough, as you see. However, you’re an old friend. I won’t force you. Say no now and we’ll tear this up.’

Quinn took a deep breath. ‘If you need me, Mr President, then I’m yours to command, sir.’

Cazalet nodded. ‘Excellent. Now – how much do you actually know about what Blake does at the Basement?’

‘I must confess, Mr President, not a tremendous amount. It’s some kind of private investigative squad, but the White House has done a pretty good job over the years of keeping a lid on it.’

‘I’m gratified to hear it. Yes, you’re right. Many years ago, faced with the possibility of Communist infiltration at every level of the government, the then President – I won’t even tell you who – invented the Basement as a small operation answerable only to him, totally separate from the CIA, FBI, and the Secret Service. Since then, it’s been handed from one President to another, and it’s certainly been invaluable to me.’

Blake cut in. ‘There’s also a similar outfit in London, to which we are very close, run by a man named General Charles Ferguson. He works out of the Ministry of Defence and is responsible only to the Prime Minister of the day, irrespective of politics.’ He grinned. ‘They’re known as the Prime Minister’s private army.’

‘I can see why you’d like that,’ Quinn said.

‘His chief assistant is a Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard. A hell of a woman. Smart as a whip, but she’s also killed several men, and been shot several times herself.’

‘Good God.’

‘The best is yet to come,’ Cazalet told Quinn. He passed him a file. ‘This is Sean Dillon, for years the Provisional IRA’s most feared enforcer.’

Quinn opened the file. The photos showed a small man, no more than five feet five, with fair hair almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black flying jacket. He dangled a cigarette from one corner of his mouth and smiled the kind of smile that seemed to say he didn’t take life too seriously.