Midnight Runner (21 page)

"It was my decision." Quinn swallowed his brandy.

"But an unwise one if you intend a violent response."

"No, General. You misunderstood. My action left me with my options wide open. And I do intend a violent response."

"In which case," Dillon said, "you can count on me."

"Dillon, I must remind you who you work for."

"That could be remedied, General," Dillon told him easily.

Ferguson gave him a long look. "I'd be sorry to hear that." He turned to Quinn. "It's your welfare I'm concerned about."

"I know that." Quinn got up. "I must go. I've got things to do."

"You'll need to speak to Blake Johnson. The President has an interest in this," Ferguson reminded him.

"Now there you can help me." Quinn nodded. "You bring Blake up to date for me, General. Tell him everything." He smiled. "Thanks, Sean," and he went out.

"Underneath the calm, he's an angry man," Ferguson said gloomily. "That's not good."

"It never is," Dillon told him, and they finished their brandies.

LONDON BOSTON WASHINGTON LONDON

Chapter
12.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, KATE RASHID AND RUPERT Dauncey left the house in a maroon Bentley. Dillon was parked a little way along the street, wearing a helmet and black leathers, pretending to be working on his Suzuki motorcycle. He got on and followed them.

There was no particular reason for the trip, and he hadn't told Ferguson or Hannah he wasn't reporting in. It was a fine bright morning, with plenty of traffic, so he was able to stay back and the Bentley was conspicuous enough. They took the motorway for most of the time until Hampshire, then country roads, where he had to take more care.

He was surprised when they didn't take the turn to Dauncey Place. He was able to stay behind a couple of farm trucks, the Bentley up ahead, and then it turned left and Dillon saw the sign DAUNCEY AERO CLUB.

It was the sort of place that had probably been an RAF station in the Second World War and then developed over the years. He saw a central building, a control tower, and something like thirty planes parked at the edge of two grass run-ways. Several vehicles were there as well, and the Bentley was one of them.

Dillon parked down toward the first runway and got out his binoculars. As Ferguson often liked to boast, Dillon could fly anything, and most of the planes he knew.

There was a rather nice Black Eagle taxiing along the side of the nearest runway. It stopped not too far away and a man in white overalls got out. Rupert Dauncey and Kate Rashid appeared from the main building and walked toward him. She wore dark Ray-Bans and a black jumpsuit. Rupert was in a bomber jacket and slacks. They paused to speak to the other man, then got into the Eagle. It taxied to the far end of the runway, turned, and took off.

Dillon moved to the end of the railings as the man in the white overalls approached and said cheerfully, "Nice Eagle, a real beauty. It's a collector's item these days."

"Owned by the Countess of Loch Dhu," the man said. "Flies it herself, and she's good."

"Where to today?" Dillon asked, and offered him a cigarette.

The man accepted. "She sometimes likes a day out of France, but she told me she was going to the Isle of Wight today. First, she was going to drop in at the big house, Dauncey Place. She has an airstrip there."

"Is that legal?"

"It is if you own half the county." The man laughed. "There's a cafe inside if you want anything."

"No, thanks, I'd better get going."

Dillon got on the Suzuki and drove away. He rode back up to London, thinking.

The next time he parked was at the Dark Man on the wharf at Wapping. Harry Salter, Billy, Baxter, and Hall were eating shepherd's pie, and everyone, except Billy, was drinking beer.

Salter looked up with a frown. "Here, what's this?" and then Dillon took his helmet off. "Jesus, it's you, Dillon," and Salter laughed. "You up for a part in a road movie or something?"

"No, I've been for a run in the country, Rashid country. Dauncey village and beyond."

Harry stopped smiling. "Trouble?"

"You could say that."

"Then you'd better have a drink on it." He nodded to Billy, who went behind the bar and came back with half a bottle of Bollinger and a glass.

Dillon thumbed off the cork and poured. "What do you think, Billy? There's an aero club six miles from the house down there and she flies out of it in a Black Eagle, similar to the plane Carver flew when you and I went down to Hazar that time."

"You mean she flies it herself?"

"It was news to me, Billy--I never knew she was a pilot."

"Well, you learn something new every day," Harry said, "but that's not what you came to tell us, is it?"

"No, it isn't," and he gave them the full story: Quinn, his daughter, Alan Grant, everything.

When he was finished, there was silence for a few moments, and Billy said, "What a bastard."

"That doesn't even begin to describe him," Harry said. "I knew he was trouble the minute I set eyes on him. What happens now?"

"Quinn will be back in a few days. Then we'll see."

"He was crazy to destroy that pen and tape," Harry said. "Dauncey would have gone down the steps for what he did."

"And for how long?" Billy demanded. "No, Quinn was right. He wants more than the law can give him, and I say more power to him."

"So you'll be helping him go to war when he gets back?" Harry asked.

"That's about the size of it."

"And the General?"

"Doesn't approve."

Billy said, "What in the hell are we talking about here? Kate Rashid sentenced us all to death, didn't she? And that includes Ferguson. I think we should be in this together."

"And so do I." Harry held out his hand. "Count us in, Dillon, whatever Ferguson says."

B
efore leaving London, Daniel Quinn had spoken to his old friend from Vietnam days, Tom Jackson, at Quinn Industries in Boston, shocking him greatly with the news of Helen's death. Quinn didn't go into the details of what had really happened. He didn't see the point.

"Is there anything I can do?" Jackson asked.

"Yes. I'm bringing Helen's ashes with me. I want you to get in touch with Monsignor Walsh. I want a funeral tomorrow, and I want it very low key, with very few people."

"Of course."

"I want to stave off for as long as possible any newspapers that might want to make something out of the suggestion of drug involvement in her death."

"I understand."

"To that end, I'm not informing the extended family. I'd like you to be there, Tom, but I'll be frank. It's mainly because I may need your good offices."

"Anything."

"Telephone Blake Johnson at the White House. Let him know what's happening. He has my permission to inform the President. I'll leave it with you."

Tom Jackson, an astute and clever attorney, said, "Daniel, is there more to this?"

"One of these days I'll tell you, old buddy."

T
he following afternoon, he sat in the church at Lavery Cemetery, where the Quinn family had a mausoleum. There was Monsignor Walsh, who had been the family priest for so many years that he had christened Helen. He was assisted by a much younger priest, a Father Doyle. Two attendants from the cemetery staff waited in sober black at the rear of the church.

Monsignor Walsh was doing his best in trying circumstances. In a way, it was reminiscent of the crematorium in London, and Quinn let it drift over his head, the usual familiar words: I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.

But it's not true, Quinn thought. There is no resurrection here, only death.

Behind him, the church door opened and banged shut, steps approached along the aisle, there was a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Blake Johnson, who managed a smile and sat in the opposite pew.

They stood for the Lord's Prayer and Walsh sprinkled the ornate cask containing the ashes. The taped organ music was subdued now. The young priest picked up the ashes and nodded to Quinn, who went forward and received them.

A procession formed up, the two cemetery attendants at the front, then the two priests, Quinn following with the ashes, Tom Jackson, and Blake Johnson bringing up the rear. True to form, it started to rain as they came out. The two attendants produced umbrellas for Blake and Jackson, one held an umbrella over Quinn, the other over the two priests.

The little procession wound its way through the cemetery, which was very old. There were pines and cypresses, winged angels and Gothic monuments, the sentiments on the gravestones recording an implacable faith in the possibility of life in the hereafter.

The attendants stopped at a large pillared mausoleum, with angels on either side of a bronze door. One of them produced a key and pulled the door open.

Quinn walked between the two priests. "If no one minds, I'd like to do this on my own."

Inside, there were several ornate coffins: his mother and father, his wife, and three other members of his extended family. Flowers had been placed beneath a niche in the wall. The cask with her ashes fit quite well. He knew, because Jackson had told him, that her name would be chiseled into the granite beneath the niche, enhanced with gold leaf.

He stood there quietly, his head not bowed in prayer, for he was beyond prayer. "Good-bye, love," he said softly, then went out.

One of the attendants shut the door and locked it. Monsignor Walsh moved close. "Daniel, don't close out the world, don't close out God. There is a purpose in all things."

"Well, you'll forgive me if I'm not buying that this morning, but thanks for coming. She was always very fond of you. You must excuse me," and Quinn walked off, followed by Jackson and Blake.

They reached the parking lot by the church and he paused. "Sorry, Blake, it's not my best day. I'm grateful you've come."

"The President himself wanted to be here, Daniel, but it would have turned into a circus, which he knew was the last thing you would have wanted."

"I appreciate his thoughtfulness."

"You're going back to London?"

"As soon as possible."

"The President wants to see you."

"Why?"

"General Ferguson spoke to us. He's concerned. We all are. I'm sorry to have to remind you that you're bound to the President by the Presidential Warrant. You can't say no."

Tom Jackson said, "Presidential Warrant? I thought that was an old wives' story."

"Well, it isn't," Blake said.

Quinn said, "Okay, I'll go home, pack a few things for the return journey, and I'll see you at the airport. You can give Tom a lift."

Jackson said, "For God's sake, what's going on?"

Quinn said to Blake, "Did Ferguson tell you everything?"

"Yes."

"Good. You can tell Tom on the way back. Like I said, I'll see you at the airport."

He climbed in beside the chauffeur, gave him an order, and they drove away.

B
lake had arrived in a Presidential Gulfstream. Quinn spoke to his own pilots, told them to follow to Washington and book a slot for London. Jackson was there to see him off.

"Daniel, if you want that bastard dead, let me do it, but not you. He's not worth it."

"It's my affair, Tom, don't worry about me. I'm kicking you out of the Legal Affairs department, by the way."

Jackson looked shocked. "But, Daniel, what have I done?"

"Nothing but do a good job at everything to which you turned your hand. Bert Hanley spoke to me. That heart of his is worse than ever. The doctors want him out. So, you're President, effective immediately. I'll still be around as Chairman, but you'll manage pretty damn well without me." He hugged Jackson. "God bless, Tom, but I've got things to do." He smiled bleakly. "Bo Din all over again."

"No, Daniel," Tom Jackson called, but Quinn was already passing through security.

Later, on the plane, Blake said, "He thinks the world of you."

"He's a great guy and I'd go to hell for him, but what I've got to do, I've got to do. I'm determined about it." He tipped his seat back and closed his eyes.

C
lancy Smith opened the door for them and they entered the Oval Office. Cazalet, in shirtsleeves, was wearing reading glasses, signing one letter after another. He glanced up, got to his feet, and came around the desk.

"Daniel. I'd like to say it's good to see you."

"Mr. President, let's take it as read and get on with things. What can I do for you?"

"Let's sit down," which they did, and Cazalet carried on. "General Ferguson has spoken to us, Blake and myself, on a conference call. I'm truly shocked at what he told me about Rupert Dauncey's conduct in this matter."

"It wasn't really aimed at me, you realize. Dauncey didn't intend my daughter's death. He simply wanted her on drugs at that rally, hoping she might be arrested and become a serious embarrassment to me personally and to you politically."