Part 22 (1/2)
”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 embarra.s.sment to me personally and to you politically.”
”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 Ras.h.i.+d empire. And tell me this-what happens if the law doesn't work? Aren't I ent.i.tled 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 Emba.s.sy will no longer offer you any kind of a.s.sistance.”
”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 a.s.sistance 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. n.o.body is going to break Kate Ras.h.i.+d 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.”
Late 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.”
The 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed inside. In a cubbyhole, the night porter sat drinking tea and reading the Evening Standard. Evening Standard. He glanced up. He glanced up.
”Good evening.”
A notice on the wall said: The chapel is open to all for private wors.h.i.+p. The chapel is open to all for private wors.h.i.+p.
”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 pa.s.sed inside.
Rupert, 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.”