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. Ill 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 whats-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 youre going? Lets 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 Presidents favourite Secret Service man. His passenger, whod joined him, was just as familiar, a tall, handsome man around Quinns 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 wasnt 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 youd be walking, even on a night like this. The hotel told us wed just missed you. He surveyed the scene. Looks like youve been having a little excitement.
The two men were on their feet now and had retreated under the trees, a sorry sight. Clancy said, Ill call the police.
No, dont bother, Quinn told him. I think theyve got the point. Lets 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 Gods sake, shut up, the other one said.
He broke my nose.
So what? Its 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, Im 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. Wed better get going. Well just have to try something else.
Such as?
I understand the President is dining tonight at the Lafayette Restaurant in the Hay-Adams. Perhaps hed 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. Ill be back.
As he got out, she said, Rupert, where are you going?
My money, sweetie, I want it back.
But youve got money, Rupert.
Its 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 hed be a walkover, Shaven-head said.
Yes, life can be a bitch sometimes. But you two screwed up royally, didnt you? I want my money back.
Go to hell. Shaven-head turned to his friend. Dont give him nothing.
Oh, dear.
Rupert produced a .25 Colt from his right-hand pocket, a bulbous silencer on the end. He prodded Shaven-heads 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. Id 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. Its Washington, theyll believe you. Terrible, the crime situation in the city, isnt 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. Hes shocked.
Im shocked, Quinn said. Blake, Im 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. Its 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. Thats why youre the legend.
Bo Din? Quinn shook his head. Its 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.
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 Ive just discovered Im 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 wont be trying that again for a while.
Thanks, Mr President. I hope thats true. Now what can I do for you? Why did you want to see me?
Lets 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, youve done a fine job so far in your new role, especially your work in Bosnia and Kosovo. I cant think of anybody who could have done better in the time Ive been here, and thats 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 someresearch itd 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 youve 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 dont even have the right to say no.
Quinn studied it. I always thought these things were a myth.
Theyre real enough, as you see. However, youre an old friend. I wont force you. Say no now and well tear this up.
Quinn took a deep breath. If you need me, Mr President, then Im 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. Its 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.
Im gratified to hear it. Yes, youre right. Many years ago, faced with the possibility of Communist infiltration at every level of the government, the then President I wont 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, its been handed from one President to another, and its certainly been invaluable to me.
Blake cut in. Theres 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. Theyre known as the Prime Ministers private army.
I can see why youd 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 shes 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 IRAs 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 didnt take life too seriously.
Quinn said, He looks like a dangerous man.
You dont 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 hes Fergusons 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 didnt 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.
Thats 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.
Thats right, and I wondered why. It wasnt 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 theyre 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. Its 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 Childrens Trust in Beirut.
Quinn said, I remember that. But it all seemed kosher to me. Educational charities are common among the truly rich. Its like handing out alms to the poor to assuage your guilt at having so much. Ive been there myself.
Blake said, What if I told you the Childrens Trust in Beirut is a front for Hezbollah?
Daniel Quinn was bewildered. Are you suggesting shes 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 thats 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 cant 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 didnt end there, Blake told him. Its 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, Im sure of it.