Edge of Danger (6 page)

At Trump Tower, they went up in a private lift to the Rashid penthouse, where Kate opened the door. She wore a black dress and a gold chain round her neck, very understated.

‘Mr Bell.’

‘Lady Kate. What do I give to the woman who has everything?’ He opened his briefcase and took out a cheap plastic box. ‘A present from County Down. A sign of good luck. A four-leafed shamrock.’

‘Well, we can do with lots of that, Mr Casey.’ She nodded. ‘In you come. My brothers are waiting.’

Paul Rashid sat by the fire in the drawing room with Michael and George. Kate made the introductions.

‘Aidan Bell and his associate, Liam Casey.’

‘Mr Bell.’ Paul Rashid didn’t shake hands. ‘My sister tells me you almost had me shot in Crossmaglen.’

‘True, but Allah was good to you,’ Bell told him.

‘I like that - I like it very much. You want a drink?’

‘Perhaps later. For now, let’s get to business, I think.’

‘Fine. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think you could do it, am I right?’

Bell said, ‘Yes, you are. Now, there are two common types of assassination. One is by nutcases who press through the crowd and shoot the President up close, with no chance of getting away. Often, they don’t even want to get away. That’s not for me. Two is the clever, complicated kind, the Day-of-the-Jackal thing, meticulously organized, every possibility accounted for — like I did in Chechnya when I got Petrovsky and his staff. That takes a long time to plan, however, and I sense you want results a little sooner.’

‘You’re quite right,’ Paul said. ‘So what’s the answer?’

Bell smiled. ‘There’s a third way.’

There was silence. It was Kate who said, ‘What, for God’s sake?’

Bell was enjoying himself. ‘Well, to shoot the President of the United States should be an impossibility-or could it be absurdly simple?’ He opened his briefcase and took out a magazine. He

held it up. ‘America, like Britain, is a democracy. You can write anything you want about the great and the good. There’s an article in here on Jake Cazalet, everyone’s favourite President. It was in my head, so I looked it up, and it’s all I need for a general plan. Now I only need to finish working out the details.’

The silence was profound. He smiled, feeling his power. ‘I think I’d like a large Bushmills Irish whiskey and then we’ll talk.’

A few minutes later, he stood on the terrace looking down at the traffic while Paul Rashid read the article, then passed it to the others.

‘All right,’ Paul said. ‘Now, tell us your plan, Mr Bell.’

‘As the article says, Jake Cazalet loves to spend his weekends at that old beach house on Nantucket. They helicopter him straight from the White House lawn to the house late Friday, and he spends Saturday and Sunday there before coming back Sunday night. He has no family, just that one daughter in Paris.

‘Cazalet doesn’t like a big fuss: he’s notorious for it. At the house, even the cook and the housekeeper come in on a daily basis; they live in town. There are staff quarters, but he refuses to have more

than two Secret Servicemen there at the weekend. I did a little extra research and learned that one is called Harper, he’s the communications officer. The other is his favourite, a big, black, former Marine named Clancy Smith, who served in the Gulf War. Smith is devoted to Cazalet. He’d step in the way of the bullet if he had to. And then there’s Blake Johnson.’

‘Yes, the article mentions him. It says he is the Director of something called the General Affairs Department at the White House,’ Rashid said.

‘Known as the Basement, because that is where it is. In actuality, it’s the President’s private hit squad, totally separate from the CIA, the FBI or the Secret Service. It’s been passed on from President to President for at least twenty years, no one knows quite how long. Johnson is also Cazalet’s closest friend, a Vietnam vet with a strong record.’

‘And you’re sure of all this?’ George Rashid said.

‘I have to be. It’s why I’m still alive.’

‘Okay, so we’ve got a down-to-earth President who doesn’t want a fuss and likes to be on his own,’ said Paul. ‘You know damn well that the perimeter of that area will be well monitored by the Secret Service.’

‘Exactly.’ Bell opened the briefcase again, took out a map and unfolded it. ‘See, from the President’s house we have a seafront of beach and sand dunes. But at the rear, we have this area of marsh, very unusual for Nantucket; it’s the only spot like it on the island. It stretches in quite a way: high reeds, water, mud, a paradise for bird watchers. Cazalet loves it. Goes for a run along the paths every morning with his dog, and good old Clancy Smith running behind. Smith has a gun under his left arm and an earpiece, naturally, but there’s no one else around, unless his friend Blake Johnson happens to be there that weekend and decides to join in the fun. If he turns up, I’ll stiff him, too.’

There really was a heavy pause now and it was Kate who said, ‘Everything you say makes sense, but there would be no way you would get inside the perimeter, inside the marsh.’

Bell smiled. ‘Sorry, I haven’t explained. You, my lord, have a house on Long Island, I believe?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’ll supply me with a boat - a Sport Fisherman will do - and someone to pilot it. We’ll sail up to the area and drift around a mile or so offshore. You’ll also find me a Dolphin Speed

Trailer. Those things have two large batteries and travel underwater. Liam and I will go scuba diving, something we’re good at, and then invade the marsh underwater into the reeds.’

‘Then what?’ Michael Rashid asked.

‘Then wait for Cazalet, shoot him and Clancy Smith, and bugger off out of there. It’ll take a little while for Harper to wonder why he hasn’t heard anything and in that time we’ll return with the Dolphin to the Sport Fisherman, then get back to Long Island, where you’ll have a Gulfstream waiting to get us the hell out of there and onwards to Shannon.’

He paused, emptied his glass then said to Paul Rashid, ‘Will it do?’

Rashid said calmly, ‘I think it will do very well.’ He turned to his brother George. ‘Another Bushmills for Mr Bell.’

It was Kate who said, ‘That’s quite a script, but what if the script goes wrong? What if it doesn’t work?’

‘Nothing is certain in this life,’ said Bell. ‘There’ll be dicey bits, but if we prepare this properly, it should work.’

‘Then see that you do prepare properly,’ said Paul. ‘Remember, we’ll only get one chance at

this. If you fail, Cazalet’s security will become so heightened it’ll be impenetrable. And then we’ll have to go through the trouble of finding another target.’

‘Another target?’ said Michael.

‘I told you, brother. One way or another, someone is going to pay.’

There was silence. Then Bell turned to Kate. ‘Will you be handling the organization of what we need?’

She glanced at Paul, then nodded. ‘Anything you want.’

‘All right. The Sport Fisherman I’ve already mentioned, the Dolphin Speed Trailer, diving equipment for two.’

‘Weaponry?’ Paul Rashid asked.

‘I prefer basic AK assault rifles, with silencers. A couple of Brownings with Carswell silencers. That’s all. Very simple, if things go well.’

‘You said if again,’ Kate told him.

Bell smiled. ‘Oh, Lady Kate, I’ve been at it for twenty-eight years, and if you knew how often the best-laid schemes go wrong, you’d understand why I’m a cynic. Now’ - Bell took a card from his pocket - ‘your one hundred thousand pounds was nice, but I want the next instalment now. That’s

my Swiss bank account. One million on deposit against the three.’

Paul Rashid nodded. ‘Of course.’ He took the card and passed it to Michael. ‘See to it.’ He smiled. ‘Champagne is indicated, I think.’

‘A nice thought.’ Bell smiled. ‘But it’s the last time. Once I start working, I stop drinking.’

‘Well, that seems sensible.’

Kate offered champagne all round. Rashid raised his glass. ‘So, we change the world.’

Bell laughed out loud. ‘God bless, ould son, but if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

Two days later, Kate Rashid took Bell and Casey down to the pier at Quogue, where they found a Sport Fisherman named Alice Brown and a man named Arthur Grant, who was fiftyish, with greying hair tied behind his neck.

‘Mr Grant,’ Kate said, ‘these are the gentlemen I spoke about. They want a run up to Nantucket, to do a little diving. Mr Bell is looking for some interesting wrecks. You already have the Dolphin on board.’

Grant poured himself a Jack Daniel’s. ‘Well, lady, that’s your story. Me, I think maybe they’re

up to something more than interesting wrecks, but I don’t give a damn. Twenty thousand bucks, and she’s yours.’

‘Agreed.’ She turned to Bell. ‘Keep in touch,’ and she went up the companionway.

Grant said, ‘She’s got a great ass on her.’

Bell dropped the bag containing the weaponry and kicked him on the right shin, then swung him around and Casey head-butted him. Grant fell back across onto the deck and Bell leaned over.

‘From now on, you belong to me, Grant. Do we understand each other? Watch your mouth, do your job and you’ll get the twenty grand. Otherwise -‘

He nodded to Casey, who took a knife from his pocket, pressed a button and the blade jumped up.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grant said.

‘Well, remember you’re sorry,’ Bell told him.

In London, Ferguson sat in his office at the Ministry of Defence working through papers. Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein came in.

‘Anything for me?’ Ferguson asked.

‘Not much, sir. That business with the Rashids?’

‘What?’

‘Our information is they’re all in New York. Some kind of family party.’

‘What’s Dillon up to?’

‘Believe it or not, sir, he’s gone shooting in West Sussex with Harry Salter. Pheasant.’

‘Salter? That damn gangster?’

‘Yes, sir, and young Billy.’

‘The nephew? Wonderful. He’s almost as bad as Harry.’

‘I need hardly remind you, sir, he was a great help last time around on that job in Cornwall.’

‘You don’t need to remind me, Superintendent. But he’s still a gangster.’

‘He agreed to jump by parachute with no training whatsoever, and killed four of Jack Fox’s men. Dillon would be dead without him.’

‘Agreed. And he’s still a damned gangster.’

At Compton House in West Sussex, it rained remorselessly, none of which bothered the shooting party. It was a syndicate of thirty that Harry Salter had paid into. He emerged from a long wheel-based Shogun wearing a cloth cap, a Barbour, jeans and rubber half-boots. He was sixty-five,

with a fleshy and genial face until he stopped smiling. One of the most famous gang bosses in London, he’d been to prison only once in a long career.

These days he had millions in dockside developments and leisure construction, though the rackets being in his blood, he was still involved in smuggling from the Continent. There was a lot of money to be made from the cigarette trade. In Europe, they were incredibly cheap, but in Britain, the most expensive in the world. No need to get involved in drugs or prostitution when you had cigarette smuggling.

He stood in the rain. ‘Bleeding marvellous. Isn’t it bleeding marvellous, Dillon?’

‘Country life, Harry.’

Dillon was wearing a cap and black bomber jacket. Billy Salter, Harry’s nephew, a man in his late twenties with a pale face and wild eyes, emerged next, wearing cap and anorak. His uncle’s right-hand man, he’d been in prison four times, all relatively short sentences for assault and grievous bodily harm.

‘This is all your fault, Dillon. What have you got me into now?’

‘Shoot a few pheasant, Billy, breathe the country

air. Last time out, it was villains trying to hit you. This should make a change.’

Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Harry’s two minders, dressed in jeans and anoraks.

‘What a bunch of idiots.’ Billy nodded at the other members of the syndicate emerging from Jeeps and Range Rovers.

‘Why the funny gear? What are those ridiculous trousers?’

‘It’s how people like that dress to shoot, Billy,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s an old English custom.’

The rest of the party was grouped around a large man with a florid face, and Dillon heard someone address him as Lord Portman. They all turned and looked at the Salter party with disfavour.

‘Good God, what have we here?’ Portman asked.

Another large man, this one with a grizzled beard, approached. ‘Gentlemen, can I help? I’m the head keeper, Frobisher.’

‘I should hope so, old son. Salter’s the name -Harry Salter.’

Frobisher was astonished, hesitated, then turned to the others. ‘This is Mr Harry Salter, president of the syndicate.’ There were looks of horror.

Salter said, ‘Lord Portman, is it?’

‘That is correct,’ Portman said frostily.

‘Chairman of Riverside Construction, right? So we’ve got something in common.’

‘I can’t imagine what.’

‘You don’t have to imagine. I took you over last week. I’m Salter Enterprises, so, in a manner of speaking, you work for me.’

The horror on Portman’s face was profound. He actually recoiled, and it was Dillon who said genially to Frobisher, ‘Can we get on?’

Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were unloading.the gun bags. Frobisher said, ‘We’ll space the valley up to that wood. I’ll give you a number each.’

‘We know how it works, old son,’ Dillon told him. ‘I’ve explained to my friends.’

Frobisher hesitated. ‘So you have shot before?’

‘Only people,’ Billy told him. ‘So let’s get on with it.’

Three hours later, in the Shogun, Baxter was driving and Billy opened a bottle of champagne and poured it into plastic cups.

‘What a bunch of toffee-nosed idiots. The look on their faces when I scooped the pool.’

‘Yes, well, you have had a certain amount of practice,’ Dillon said.

Harry Salter swallowed his champagne. ‘That Portman’s bleeding face was something to see.’

‘Are you going to throw him out, Harry?’ Billy asked.

‘No, I know his track record and he’s good. I’ll improve his package. He’ll come to heel. It’s what’s called business, Billy.’