Midnight Runner (22 page)

"And the whole thing went hideously wrong," Blake said.

"Ferguson explained your reasons for destroying the recording," Cazalet said. "And I must be honest and say I'm dismayed. You could have nailed Dauncey in Court."

"He'd have gotten off lightly, Mr. President, and that's not good enough. He didn't murder my daughter, but he's responsible for her death, not that wretched young man, and I intend to see that he pays."

"But legally and properly, Daniel. We must operate within the confines of the law."

"That wouldn't even put a dent in the Rashid empire. And tell me this--what happens if the law doesn't work? Aren't I entitled to justice?"

"No," the President said, "because justice is nothing without the law. It's what binds us all together, it's the framework of all our lives. Without it, we're nothing."

"Which is exactly what the bad guys count on. I'm tired, Mr. President, and a lot of people would say the same thing. Tired of the wrongdoers getting away with it."

"What I say still holds true."

"Then, on this matter, we must agree to differ."

He stood up and Cazalet said, "If you're determined to follow this course, Daniel, I can't protect you. You realize that, don't you?"

"I would expect it."

"Then I have to tell you, you no longer have any official status for me in London. The Embassy will no longer offer you any kind of assistance."

"And I am no longer bound by Presidential Warrant?"

"I suppose that, too, yes."

"May I go now? I have a plane waiting to take me to London."

"One last thing. General Ferguson feels as I do. He will not involve himself or his people in this course of action. That means you won't be able to rely on any assistance from Sean Dillon."

"Mr. Dillon has indicated differently, and he strikes me as a man of strong views."

"I regret to hear it. Good-bye, Senator."

Blake ushered Quinn out. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"Never more so."

Quinn walked away and Blake went back in the Oval Office. Cazalet was back behind the desk. "Do you think I was wrong?"

"No, sir, you weren't. But he's right about one thing. Nobody is going to break Kate Rashid and her organization using the law or any other straight-up-and-down methods. This is one of those scenarios that calls for the Dillons of this world."

"But Daniel Quinn isn't a Dillon. There isn't a devious bone in his body."

"Perhaps he'll turn out to be a fast learner, Mr. President."

L
ate that night in London, Rupert Dauncey had a phone call from one of the security people he'd put on duty outside Daniel Quinn's house, in a telecom van. There were two of them, Newton and Cook, both ex-SAS.

"He's back, sir," Cook said.

"When did he arrive?"

"An hour ago. I tried you, but your phone wasn't on."

Dauncey said, "I was out for a run."

"Well, I thought you'd like to know that that chauffeur of his has come out in full uniform and he's standing by the Mercedes. I'd say Quinn's about to move."

"I'll be there in three minutes." Dauncey slammed down the receiver, picked up his mobile, and was out of the flat in seconds. A moment later, he drove Kate's Porsche out of the garage. As he approached the corner of Park Place, the Mercedes turned out and he had a quick flash of Quinn sitting beside Luke. He followed and called Newton and Cook.

"I've got him and I'm close behind. You stay where you are."

T
he traffic was light because of the lateness of the hour. Quinn lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat. He'd always liked cities at night, particularly late at night. Rain-washed deserted streets, that feeling of loneliness. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself, and the thought had been immediately overwhelming.

They moved down toward the river, the Tower of London, St. Katherine's Dock, and finally came to Wapping High Street and pulled in at St. Mary's Priory. He'd last been here a year before, on one of his London trips for the President. It was a grim building in gray stone, with a great, well-worn oak door which stood open. A bell tower could be seen, and the roof of a chapel beyond the high walls.

"I won't be long," Quinn told Luke, got out, and crossed the road.

A sign said ST. MARY'S PRIORY, LITTLE SISTERS OF PITY: MOTHER SUPERIOR, SISTER SARAH PALMER.

"We never close," Quinn said softly, and passed inside. In a cubbyhole, the night porter sat drinking tea and reading the Evening Standard. He glanced up.

"Good evening."

A notice on the wall said: The chapel is open to all for private worship.

"Is the Mother Superior in?"

"I saw her go into the chapel a little while ago, sir."

"Thank you."

Quinn crossed to the chapel door, which stood open, and passed inside.

R
upert, parked some distance behind the Mercedes, had seen Quinn cross the road and followed him, pausing only to read the sign before venturing in.

He adopted the simple approach and said to the porter, "Where did my friend go?"

"The chapel, sir, he was looking for the Mother Superior."

"Thank you."

Rupert moved to the open chapel door and could hear voices. He peered in. It was very dark, the only light the candles up by the altar. He went and sheltered behind a pillar and had no difficulty in hearing what was being said.

W
hen Quinn stepped into the chapel he paused and looked toward the image of the Virgin, the candles burning in front of it so that it seemed to float in the darkness beside the altar. Sister Sarah Palmer was on her knees scrubbing the floor, a menial task usually performed by novices, but in her case designed to teach her humility, in spite of being Mother Superior. It was cold and damp and there was the unmistakable chapel smell.

"Candles, incense, and holy water," he said softly. "You'll have me crossing myself next."

She paused and looked up at him calmly. "Why, Daniel, what a surprise. Where have you come from?"

"Kosovo."

"Was it bad?"

"Too many bodies in the streets."

She dropped the scrubbing brush in her pail and mopped the floor with a rag. "As bad as Bo Din?"

"Different, but as bad in its own way."

She squeezed out the rag. "What is it, Daniel?"

"Helen's dead."

She stayed there on her knees, staring at him. "Oh, dear Lord." She got up as he dropped into one of the pews, and sat in front, half-turned toward him. "What happened?"

He started, then, and told her everything.

Afterwards, she said, "God has placed a burden on you, Daniel. What has happened is a terrible thing, but you must not allow it to destroy you."

"And how would I do that?"

"By seeking refuge in prayer, by reaching out for God's support..."

"Instead of seeking revenge?" Quinn shook his head. "But that's all I feel. It's a strange thing, suffering. I've discovered that there is the possibility of solace in making the other person suffer. It's as if nothing is enough. By letting Rupert Dauncey off the hook, I've extended his suffering, his punishment."

"Such thoughts will destroy you."

"If that is the price, I'll pay it." He got up, and so did she.

"Why did you come here, Daniel? You knew I couldn't condone your intention."

"Yes, but it was important that you hear the facts from me and perhaps understand my future conduct."

"So what do you expect, a blessing?"

"It wouldn't come amiss."

There was steel in her voice, a kind of anger, and for a moment she seemed the young nun at Bo Din again.

What she did then was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. She said, "Go, Christian soul, from this world, in the name of God the Father Almighty who created thee."

"Ah, very apt." Quinn smiled gently. "Good-bye and God bless you, Sarah." And he turned and went out.

Filled with despair, she dropped to her knees in the pew and started to pray. There was a movement nearby, and she opened her eyes, half-turned, and found a man squatting beside her. The blond hair, the handsome face was the Devil's face, she knew that at once.

"It's all right, Sister, I mean you no harm. I followed him here and, of course, saw your name at the door. I know who you are. You're the remarkable young nun from Bo Din."

"And who are you?"

"Many things. A bad Catholic, for one. Don't worry, I'd never harm you. God wouldn't forgive that."

"You're crazy."

"Possibly. I'm also the man he blames for his daughter's death."

"Rupert Dauncey," she whispered.

"That's me." He stood. "I liked your idea of a blessing. A prayer for the dying. That could well be appropriate." He smiled. "Don't forget to give him a call. Tell him I was here."

His footsteps echoed away and she pushed herself up and sat again in the pew, more afraid than she had ever been.

B
ack at Park Place, Newton and Cook saw the Mercedes drive into the yard. Quinn and Luke got out, and Quinn said, "I won't need you first thing, Luke. I'll go for a run in Hyde Park around seven-thirty, so tell Mary breakfast at nine."

The two men across the street heard it, and Cook phoned Dauncey, who had just got in, and relayed the information.

Rupert said, "Very good. Go home, but be back in the morning, dressed for running. When he leaves the house, follow him to the park."

"Then what?"

"Do what you have to do."

He didn't go to see his cousin and bring her up to date. Sister Sarah Palmer was too personal, and Kate would never understand his feelings. He poured a Jack Daniel's, found the evening paper, and sat down to read it. A moment later, his phone rang and he picked it up.

"It's Quinn. I've had Sister Sarah Palmer on the phone. I swear to God, if you harm that lady..."

"Don't be stupid, Senator, she's the last person in the world I'd harm, a marvelous woman like that. So goodnight and sleep tight." He hung up.

Quinn replaced his receiver, conscious that he actually believed Dauncey. He stood there thinking about it, and, on impulse, rang Sean Dillon at Stable Mews.

"It's Quinn." He told him the story. "I believe it when he says he wouldn't harm her. I don't know why, but I do."

"All right. The important thing, though, is that he followed you to this St. Mary's Priory, obviously from your house. I'd say you have watchers. Anything unusual in your street?"

"Hang on a minute." Quinn went to the window and peered out. "There's a British Telecom van."

"Telecom, my arse."

"Thanks for the tip."

"How did things go in Boston?"

"Much as you'd expect. It was Washington that was the disappointment." He told him about it, finishing, "And he made it clear Ferguson agrees with him."

"Well, we'll see about that. I'm my own man, and always have been. I'll see you in the morning and we'll discuss it."

"I'm going for a run in Hyde Park at seven-thirty. Have breakfast with me at nine."

"It's a date," and Dillon put down the phone.

H
e woke early the next morning and, looking at the clock, realized he had time to join Quinn on the run. He got up, dressed in a tracksuit, went downstairs, found his helmet, opened the mews garage, and drove away on the Suzuki.

On the way to Park Place, he thought about the Telecom van that Quinn had mentioned and wondered about the best way to handle that. Possibly an anonymous call to the police. Simple and direct.

He turned into South Audley Street from Grosvenor Square and, as he moved toward Park Place, Quinn emerged and darted across the road. A moment later, Cook and Newton, in tracksuits, showed up and followed him. Dillon cursed, swerved into Park Place, and turned in through Quinn's gates. He pulled the Suzuki up on its stand, reached into the right-hand saddlebag, lifted the secret flap at the bottom, and found his Walther. He slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his tracksuit and went after them, running fast.

Q
uinn crossed Park Lane using the underpass, ran up the steps on the other side, and entered Hyde Park, followed by Newton and Cook, but Dillon, pressing hard, was not far behind.

It was a misty morning, with a light drizzle. Half a dozen soldiers of the Household Cavalry cantered by, exercising their mounts, and there was the odd solitary rider. Quinn cut across the grass toward the trees. The mist was thicker there and there was no one about.

He heard a sudden rush of feet behind him and, as he turned, Newton shouldered him, sending him staggering. He fell to one knee and Cook kicked him in the chest. Quinn rolled over and managed to get to his feet as Cook ran in again. It all came back, the tricks of the trade, and he blocked Cook's punches, wrestled and threw him over his hip. Newton moved in from behind and slid an arm around his neck. Quinn dropped to his knees and turned over, tossing Newton over his head.