Midnight Runner

He didn’t marry until he was in his thirties. Her name was Monica, and she was the daughter of family friends; it was a marriage of convenience. Their daughter, Helen, was born in 1979, and it was around that time that he decided to follow his grandfather’s dream, and entered politics. He put all his financial interests into a blind trust and ran for an open Congressional seat, won by a narrow margin, and then by ever greater margins, until finally he challenged the incumbent senator, and won there, too. Congress began to wear upon him after a while, though: the backstabbing and deal-making and constant petty crises, and then, when his grandfather died in a private plane accident, he began to rethink all his priorities.

He wanted out, he decided. He wanted to do something more with his life. And it was at that point that his old friend, fellow veteran and now President, Jake Cazalet, came to him and said that if Daniel wanted to give up his seat, he understood, but he hoped Daniel was not forsaking public service. He needed someone like Daniel to be a troubleshooter, a kind of roving ambassador, someone he trusted absolutely. And Daniel said yes. From then on, wherever there was trouble, from the Far East to Israel, Bosnia, Kosovo, he was there.

Meanwhile, his daughter followed family tradition and went to Harvard, while his wife held the fort back home. When she was diagnosed with leukaemia, she didn’t tell him until it was too late – she hadn’t wanted to interrupt his work. When she died, the guilt he felt was intolerable. They held a funeral reception at their Boston home, and after the guests had departed, he and his daughter walked in the gardens. She was small and slim, with golden hair and green eyes, the joy of his life, all he had left, he thought, of any worth.

‘You’re a great man, Dad,’ she said. ‘You do great things. You can’t blame yourself.’

‘But I let her down.’

‘No, it was Mum’s choice to play it the way she did.’ She hugged his arm. ‘I know one thing. You’ll never let me down. I love you, Dad, so much.’

The following year she won a Rhodes Scholarship for two years at Oxford University, at St Hugh’s College, and Quinn went to Kosovo to work for NATO on the President’s behalf. That was where things stood, until one miserable March day when the President asked to see Quinn at the White House, and Quinn went…

WASHINGTON

2

Washington, early evening, bad March weather, but the Hay-Adams Hotel, where Daniel Quinn was staying, was only a short walk from the White House.

Quinn liked the Hay-Adams, the wonderful antiques, the plush interior, the restaurant. Because of the hotel’s location, they all came there, the great and the good, the politicians and the powerbrokers. Daniel Quinn didn’t know where he fitted in on that spectrum any more, but he didn’t much care. He just liked the place.

Quinn stepped outside and the doorman said, ‘I heard you were here, Senator. Welcome back. Will you be needing a cab?’

‘No, thanks, George. The walk will do me good.’

‘At least take an umbrella. The rain might get worse. I insist, Sergeant.’

Quinn laughed. ‘One old Vietnam hand to another?’

George took an umbrella from his stand and opened it. ‘We saw enough of this stuff back in the jungle, sir. Who needs it now?’

‘That was a long time ago, George. I had my fifty-second birthday last month.’

‘Senator, I thought you were forty.’

Quinn laughed, suddenly looking just that. ‘I’ll see you later, you rogue.’

He crossed to Lafayette Square, and George was right, for the rain increased, sluicing down through the trees, as he passed the statue of Andrew Jackson.

It gave him the old enclosed feeling. The man who had everything – money, power, a beloved daughter – and yet, too often these days, he felt he had nothing. It was what he called his ‘what’s-it-all-about’ feeling. He was coming to the other side of the square, lost in his own thoughts, when he heard the voices. In the diffused light from a street lamp he saw them clearly enough: two street people wearing bomber jackets, wet with the rain, talking loudly. They were identical except for their hair – one had it down to his shoulders, the other had his skull shaved. They were drinking from cans, and as one of them kicked an empty out to the sidewalk, he saw Quinn and stepped in his way.

‘Hey, bitch, where do you think you’re going? Let’s see your wallet, man.’

Quinn ignored him and moved ahead. The one with long hair produced a knife, and the blade jumped.

Quinn closed the umbrella and smiled.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Yeah, you can give me your money, asshole, unless you want some of this.’ He waved the blade in the air.

Shaven-head was next to Longhair now and he laughed, an ugly sound, and Quinn swung the umbrella, the tip catching the man under the chin. He dropped to one knee and Quinn stamped in his face, suddenly thirty years younger, a Special Forces sergeant in the Mekong Delta. He turned to the one with the knife.

‘You sure about that?’

The knife swung as Quinn grabbed the wrist, straightened the arm, and snapped it with a hammer blow. The man screamed and staggered back, and as the other started to get up, Quinn stamped in his face again.

‘Just not your night, is it?’

A limousine braked hard and the driver came out, producing a Browning from under his left arm. He was very big and very black and Quinn knew him well: Clancy Smith, an ex-Marine and the President’s favourite Secret Service man. His passenger, who’d joined him, was just as familiar, a tall, handsome man around Quinn’s age, his hair still black, named Blake Johnson. Johnson was the director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, though everyone who knew about it – which wasn’t many – just called it the Basement.

‘Daniel, are you okay?’ Blake asked.

‘Never been better. What brings you here?’

‘We decided to come pick you up, though I should have guessed you’d be walking, even on a night like this. The hotel told us we’d just missed you.’ He surveyed the scene. ‘Looks like you’ve been having a little excitement.’

The two men were on their feet now and had retreated under the trees, a sorry sight. Clancy said, ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘No, don’t bother,’ Quinn told him. ‘I think they’ve got the point. Let’s go.’

He got in the rear of the limousine and Blake followed. Clancy got behind the wheel and drove away.

It was quiet, except for the whimpering of Shaven-head. ‘For God’s sake, shut up,’ the other one said.

‘He broke my nose.’

‘So what? It’s going to spoil your pretty face? Give me a cigarette.’

Half a block away, another limousine sheltered under the trees. The man who sat behind the wheel was of medium height, around thirty, handsome with blond hair. He wore a white shirt, dark tie, and leather Gucci overcoat. His passenger was of the same age, a very beautiful woman with jet-black hair and fierce, proud features. There was a slightly Arab look to her, which was not surprising, since she was half-Arab, half-English.

‘That was a poor showing, Rupert. You have a rather inferior class of employee, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, very disappointing, Kate. Mind you, Quinn was impressive.’ Rupert Dauncey pulled on a pair of thin black leather gloves.

Lady Kate Rashid waved the thought aside. ‘We’d better get going. We’ll just have to try something else.’

‘Such as?’

‘I understand the President is dining tonight at the Lafayette Restaurant in the Hay-Adams. Perhaps he’d like some company.’

‘My God, cousin, you do like your fun.’ His voice was very pleasant, with a strong tinge of Boston. ‘Excuse me a moment. I’ll be back.’

As he got out, she said, ‘Rupert, where are you going?’

‘My money, sweetie, I want it back.’

‘But you’ve got money, Rupert.’

‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

He lit a cigarette as he crossed the avenue to the two men huddled under the trees.

‘Well, that was very entertaining.’

‘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

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.

Quinn said, ‘He looks like a dangerous man.’

‘You don’t know the half of it. Several years ago, Ferguson saved him from a Serb firing squad, and then he blackmailed him into joining his outfit. Now he’s Ferguson’s best man.’ Cazalet paused. ‘He helped save my daughter a few years ago, when she was kidnapped by terrorists, he and Blake together.’

Quinn looked from one to the other. ‘Your daughter? Kidnapped? I – I never knew –’

‘Nobody knew, Daniel,’ Cazalet said. ‘We didn’t want anybody to know. And he saved my life, too.’ He held up his hand as Quinn began to exclaim again. ‘And that brings us back to our original topic. Blake?’

Blake said, ‘Do you remember last Christmas when you stopped over in London?’

‘Of course. It was a chance to see Helen at Oxford.’

‘That’s right, and the President asked you to guest one or two functions through the Ambassador that would be attended by Lady Kate Rashid, the Countess of Loch Dhu.’

‘That’s right, and I wondered why. It wasn’t really made clear what I was trying to find out, except that I was to get to know her. So I met the lady briefly, made discreet enquiries, and had a code computer analysis done by my people on the Rashid organization.’

Blake said, ‘So you know how much they’re worth.’

‘I sure do. The latest quotes, including their oil interests in Hazar, indicate about ten billion dollars.’

‘And the president of the company?’

‘The Countess of Loch Dhu.’

Blake held out a folder. ‘This is our file on the Rashids. It’s very interesting. For instance, it includes a list of their charitable donations, which include large donations to several education programmes, including the educational programme of Act of Class Warfare, and the Children’s Trust in Beirut.’

Quinn said, ‘I remember that. But it all seemed kosher to me. Educational charities are common among the truly rich. It’s like handing out alms to the poor to assuage your guilt at having so much. I’ve been there myself.’

Blake said, ‘What if I told you the Children’s Trust in Beirut is a front for Hezbollah?’

Daniel Quinn was bewildered. ‘Are you suggesting she’s up to something subversive? Why would she want to do that?’

‘You remember how I said Dillon saved my life?’ said Cazalet. ‘Well, this is where that comes in.’

Blake continued. ‘As you know, Kate Rashid is Arab Bedu through her father and English through her mother – that’s where the title comes from, the Daunceys. She had three brothers, Paul, George, and Michael.’

‘Had?’

‘Yes. Last year, their mother was killed in a car accident by a drunken diplomat from the Russian Embassy. But a foreign diplomat can’t be brought to court, so the brothers arranged their own punishment, which was permanent. What further infuriated them was that they learned he had been brokering an oil deal in Hazar involving us and the Russians. Hazar was their territory. As far as they were concerned, here were these two great powers swaggering arrogantly over not only their economic rights but over Arabs in general: the West disrespecting the East. So they decided we needed to be taught a lesson.’

‘Paul Rashid tried to have me assassinated on Nantucket,’ Cazalet said. ‘Clancy took a bullet in the back meant for me. Blake personally shot one of the assassins.’

‘Mr President, this is – this is astonishing,’ Quinn said.

‘Unfortunately, it didn’t end there,’ Blake told him. ‘It’s all in the file. Suffice it to say that ultimately all three Rashid brothers paid the price for their fanaticism – leaving only their sister, Kate. The richest woman in the world probably, a woman who has everything and lost everything. Three beloved brothers. She wants revenge, I’m sure of it.’

‘You mean she couldn’t get the President last time, so she might try again?’

‘We believe she could be capable of anything. There’s one other wild card. The Daunceys had what the English aristocracy call a minor branch, some people who moved to America in the eighteenth century and settled in Boston.’

‘They’re lawyers and judges now,’ Cazalet said. ‘Very respectable. I know the family.’

Quinn said, ‘Is there something I should know here?’

Blake passed another file across. ‘Rupert Dauncey – West Point, Parris Island.’

‘Another Marine, eh?’

‘Yes, and a good soldier,’ Blake said. ‘He won a Silver Star in the Gulf, then served in Serbia and Bosnia. There was a suggestion he might have killed Serbs a tad harshly, but nothing came of it, and after a very nasty Muslim ambush, which he foiled, he received the Distinguished Service Medal. He was raised to a quick Captaincy –’

‘Which led to a transfer to the Marine Embassy Guard in London,’ the President said.

‘And I can guess what happened next,’ Quinn said. ‘Once in London, he introduced himself to the good Countess, is that it?’

‘They hit it off immediately, and have been very close ever since,’ Blake said. ‘He’s very good-looking, I gather, especially in his Marine dress uniform. All those medals. I believe, technically, that he’s Kate Rashid’s third cousin.’

‘Ah, well, that would make it legal.’

‘Well, no. To put it delicately, Rupert Dauncey is of a different persuasion,’ Blake told him.

‘You mean he’s gay?’

‘I’m not sure. He’s not into women, we know that. On the other hand, he doesn’t cruise bars, and there’s no indication of a boyfriend either. Anyway, if we can set that aside – we can’t help feeling that between the two of them, they’re hatching something. Lady Kate still bears a grudge not only against the President but against me and Sean Dillon and his crew, since we were all involved in the deaths of her brothers.’

Jake Cazalet said, ‘That’s why I want you to go to London. We’ll arrange for you to meet with General Ferguson, Dillon, Superintendent Bernstein. I’ll speak to the Prime Minister, who is well aware of the situation.’

‘And then?’

‘Nose around, use your contacts, see what you can find out. Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe she’s changed. Who knows?’

‘I do,’ Blake said. ‘She hasn’t, and she won’t.’

‘Fine. I bow to your superior judgment.’

‘I’ll go as soon as I come back from Kosovo,’ Quinn said. ‘Quinn Industries has a townhouse in London, I’ll stay there. If I remember right, in fact, it’s close to the Rashid place.’

‘Good.’ The President smiled. ‘Now, for the more immediate future, let’s discuss plans for dinner. I’m going out tonight, to the Lafayette. You should join us.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

‘Especially because – Blake always being a hundred and fifty percent right on intelligence matters – I understand that none other than the Countess of Loch Dhu and her cousin, Rupert Dauncey, are booked for dinner there as well.’

‘What?’

‘You know me, Daniel, I always did like to put the cat in amongst the pigeons. Time to stir things up.’ He turned to Clancy. ‘You’ve got things in hand, presumably?’

‘Absolutely, Mr President.’

‘Fine. We’ll meet at eight-thirty. Be kind enough to see that Senator Quinn is returned to the hotel.’

‘At your orders, Mr President,’ Clancy told him.

‘And Clancy, if Dauncey is around, don’t take any shit. He may be a Marine Major, but as I recall, you were one of the youngest sergeant majors in the Corps.’

‘What is this?’ Quinn demanded. ‘Parris Island? You expect him to kick ass?’

Jake Cazalet laughed. ‘Would you, Clancy?’

‘Hell, no, Mr President. I’d more likely put the Major on a seven-mile run with a seventy-five-pound pack on his back.’

‘I love it,’ Quinn said. ‘All right, I’ll see you there.’ He went out, Clancy following.

‘You’ll speak to Ferguson?’ Cazalet said to Johnson.

‘First thing in the morning.’

General Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He was at his desk the next day, the red security phone in one hand, a large, untidy man with grey hair, a fawn suit and Guards tie. He put the phone down and pressed his intercom. A woman answered.

‘General?’

‘Is Dillon there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll see both of you now.’

Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein entered, a woman in her early thirties, young for her rank, with close-cropped red hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her black trouser suit was elegant, and looked more expensive than most people could afford on police pay.

The small, fair-haired man with her wore an old black flying jacket. There was a force to him, obvious the moment he entered the room. He lit a cigarette with an old Zippo lighter.

‘Feel free, Dillon,’ General Ferguson said.

‘Oh, I will, General, knowing the decent stick that you are.’

‘Shut up, Sean,’ Hannah Bernstein told him. ‘You wanted us, sir?’

‘Yes. I’ve had interesting news from Blake Johnson concerning the Countess of Loch Dhu.’

Dillon said, ‘What’s Kate been up to now?’

‘It’s more a matter of what she might be up to. There are computer printouts on the way. Hannah, would you see if they’ve arrived?’

She went out. Dillon poured a Bushmills and turned. ‘She’s back, is that it, General?’

‘She promised to get the lot of us, didn’t she, Sean? As payment for her brothers?’

‘She can try and I love her dearly.’ Dillon drained his glass and poured another. He raised it in salute. ‘God bless you, Kate, but not after what you tried to do to Hannah Bernstein. Try anything like that again and I’ll shoot you myself.’

Hannah came in with fax sheets and printouts.