The President's Daughter

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The President’s Daughter

A
Berkley
Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
1997
by
Higgins Associates Limited

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The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

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ISBN:
0-7865-0986-4

A
BERKLEY
BOOK®

Berkley
Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY
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First edition (electronic): July 2001

IN THE HOUR BEFORE MIDNIGHT

THE WHITE HOUSE CONNECTION

EAST OF DESOLATION

THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER

FLIGHT OF EAGLES

YEAR OF THE TIGER

DRINK WITH THE DEVIL

ANGEL OF DEATH

SHEBA

ON DANGEROUS GROUND

THUNDER POINT

MIDNIGHT MAN (
also published as
EYE OF THE STORM)

THE EAGLE HAS FLOWN

COLD HARBOUR

MEMORIES OF A DANCE-HALL ROMEO

A SEASON IN HELL

NIGHT OF THE FOX

CONFESSIONAL

EXOCET

TOUCH THE DEVIL

LUCIANO’S LUCK

SOLO

DAY OF JUDGMENT

STORM WARNING

THE LAST PLACE GOD MADE

A PRAYER FOR THE DYING

THE EAGLE HAS LANDED

THE RUN TO MORNING

DILLINGER

TO CATCH A KING

THE VALHALLA EXCHANGE

—
THE KORAN

J
ake Cazalet was twenty-six years old when it happened, the incident that was to have such a profound effect on the rest of his life.

His family were Boston Brahmins, well respected, his mother hugely wealthy, his father a successful attorney and Senator, which meant that the law seemed the natural way to go for young Jake. Harvard and the privileged life, and as a college student it was possible to avoid the draft and Vietnam seemed far away.

And Jake did well, a brilliant student who got an excellent degree and moved on to Harvard Law School with enormous success. A great future was predicted. He started on a doctorate, and then a strange thing happened.

For some time, he had been disturbed by the scenes from Vietnam, the way he saw that brutal war portrayed on television each night. Sometimes it seemed like a vision from hell. A sea change took place as he contrasted his comfortable life with what life seemed like over there. The ironic thing was that he could actually get by in Vietnamese, because at the age of thirteen he had lived in
Vietnam, when his father had spent a year at the U.S. Embassy.

And then came the day in the cafeteria at college. People were lining up for the lunch counter, lots of new students, and amongst them one who was no more than twenty, dressed in white tee shirt and jeans like anyone else, books under one arm, the difference being that where his right arm had been there was now only a small stump. Most people ignored him, but one guy, a swaggering bully whose last name was Kimberley, turned to look at him.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

“Teddy Grant.”

“You lose that over there in ’Nam?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Serves you right.” Kimberley patted his face. “How many kids did you butcher?”

It was the pain on Grant’s face that got to Cazalet and he pulled Kimberley away. “This man served his country. What have you ever done?”

“So what about you, rich boy?” Kimberley sneered. “I don’t see you over there. Only over here.” He turned and patted Grant’s face again. “If I come in anywhere, you step out.”

Jake Cazalet’s only sport was boxing and he was on the team. Kimberley had twenty pounds on him, but it didn’t matter. Spurred on by rage and deep shame, he gave Kimberley a double punch in the stomach that doubled him over. A boxing club he went to in downtown Boston was run by an old Englishman called Wally Short.

“If you’re ever in a real punch-up, here’s a useful extra. In England, we call it nutting somebody. Over here it’s head-butting. So, use your skull, nine inches of movement, nice and short, right into his forehead.”

Which was exactly what Cazalet did as Kimberley
came up to grapple with him, and the big man went crashing back over a table. Pandemonium followed, girls screaming, and then security arrived and the paramedics.

Cazalet felt good, better than he had in years. As he turned, Grant said, “You damn fool, you don’t even know me.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Jake Cazalet said.

Later, in the Dean’s office, he stood at the desk and listened to the lecture. The Dean said, “I’ve heard the facts and it would seem that Kimberley was out of line. However, I can’t tolerate violence, not on campus. I’ll have to suspend you for a month.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’ll make it easy for you. I’m dropping out.”

The Dean was truly shocked. “Dropping out? But why? What will your father say? I mean, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to go right down to that recruiting office downtown and I’m going to join the army.”

The Dean looked devastated. “Jake, think about this, I beg you.”

“Good-bye, sir,” Jake Cazalet told him and went out.

So here he was eighteen months later, a lieutenant in Special Forces by way of the paratroops—his knowledge of Vietnamese had seen to that—and halfway through his second tour, decorated, twice wounded, a combat veteran who felt about a thousand years old.

The Medevac helicopter drifted across the Delta at a thousand feet. Cazalet had hitched a lift because it was calling at a fortified camp at Katum and they needed him there to interrogate a high-ranking Vietnamese regular officer.

Cazalet was only five feet six or seven, with the kind
of hair that had red highlights. His eyes were brown, his broken nose a legacy of boxing days and, in spite of the tan, the bayonet scar that bisected his right cheek was white. It was to become his trademark in the years ahead.

Sitting there now in his camouflaged uniform, sleeves rolled up, the Special Forces beret tilted forward, he looked like what war had made him, a thoroughly dangerous man. The young medic-cum-air gunner, Harvey, and Hedley, the black crew chief, watched him and approved.

“He’s been everywhere, or so they say,” Hedley whispered. “Paratroops, Airborne Rangers, and now Special Forces. His old man’s a Senator.”

“Well, excuse me,” Harvey said. “So what do you get for the man who has everything?” He turned to toss his cigarette out of the door and stiffened. “Hey, what gives down there?”

Hedley glanced out, then reached for the heavy machine gun. “We got trouble, right here in River City, Lieutenant.”

Cazalet joined him. There were paddy fields below and banks of reeds stretching into infinity. A cart was blocking the causeway that crossed the area and a local bus of some sort had stopped, unable to continue.

Harvey peered over his shoulder. “Look, sir, it’s pajama night at the Ritz again.”

There were Vietcong down there, at least twenty, in their conical straw hats and black pajamas. A man got out of the bus, there was the distinctive crack of an AK47, and he fell. Two or three women emerged and ran, screaming, until the rifle fire cut them down.

Cazalet went to the pilot and leaned over. “Take us down and I’ll drop out and see what I can do.”

“You must be crazy,” the pilot said.

“Just do it. Go down, drop me off, and then get the hell out of here and fetch the cavalry, just like good old John Wayne.”

He turned, found himself an M16 and several pouches of magazines, and slung them around his neck. He clipped half a dozen grenades to his belt and stuck some signaling flares in the pockets of his camouflage jacket. They were going down fast and the V.C. were shooting at them, Hedley returning the fire with the heavy machine gun.

He turned, grinning. “You got a death wish or something?”

“Or something,” Cazalet said, and as the helicopter hovered just above the ground, he jumped.

There was a call. “Wait for me.” When he turned, Harvey was following him, his medical bag over one shoulder.

“Crazy man,” Cazalet said.

“Aren’t we all?” Harvey replied, and they ran through the paddy field to the causeway as the helicopter lifted and turned away.

There were more bodies now and the bus was under heavy rifle fire, windows shattering. Screams came from inside, and then several more women emerged, two of them running for the reeds, and three Vietcong emerged on the road farther along, rifles ready.

Cazalet raised his M16 and fired several short bursts, knocking two of them down. There was silence for a moment and Harvey knelt beside one of the women and tried for a pulse.

“She’s had it, for a start,” he said, turning to Cazalet, and then his eyes widened. “Behind you.”

In the same moment, a bullet took Harvey in the heart, lifting him onto his back. Cazalet swung, firing from the hip at the two who had emerged on the causeway behind
him. He caught one and the other slipped back into the reeds. Now there was only silence.

There were five people left alive in the bus, three Vietnamese women, an old man traveling to the next village, and a dark-haired, pretty young woman who looked badly frightened. She wore a khaki shirt and pants and the shirt was stained with blood, someone else’s, not hers.

She’d been speaking in French to the old man earlier, and now he turned to her as a single bullet hit the fuel tank of the bus and flames erupted.

“Not good staying here, we must hide in the reeds.” He repeated what was presumably the same message in Vietnamese to the women.

They shouted something back to him and he shrugged and said to the young woman, “They are afraid. You come with me now.”

She responded instantly to the urgency in his voice, sliding out of the door after him, crouching, then starting to move. A bullet took him in the back and she ran for her life down the side of the causeway and plunged into the great banks of reeds. Cazalet, who was in their shelter a little farther along the causeway, saw her go.

She forced her way through the water and mud, pushing the reeds aside, ploughing straight out into a dark pool to find two Vietcong confronting her on the other side, AKs at the ready. Fifteen yards away, no more, so that she could see every feature of these young faces, mere boys, not much more.

They raised their weapons, she braced herself for death, and then there was a terrible cry and Cazalet erupted from the reeds on her left, firing from the hip, blasting them both back into the water.

Voices called nearby and he said, “No talking.” He
stepped back into the reeds and she followed.

They seemed to move several hundred yards until he said, “This will do.” They were on the edge of the paddy fields protected by a final curtain of reeds. A small knoll rose above the water. He pulled her down beside him. “That’s a lot of blood. Where are you hit?”

“It’s not mine. I was trying to help the woman sitting next to me.”

“You’re French.”

“That’s right. Jacqueline de Brissac,” she said.

“Jake Cazalet, and I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you,” he replied in French.

“That’s good,” she said. “You didn’t learn that at school.”

“No, a year in Paris when I was sixteen. My dad was at the Embassy.” He grinned. “I learned all my languages that way. He moved around a lot.”

Her face was spotted with mud, hair tangled as she tried to straighten it. “I must look a mess,” she said and smiled.

Jake Cazalet fell instantly and gloriously in love. What was it the French called it, the thunderclap? It was everything he’d ever heard. What the poets wrote about.

“Have we had it?” she said, aware of voices calling nearby.

“No, the Medevac helicopter I was going to Katum in cleared off to call up the cavalry. If we keep our heads down, we stand a good chance.”

“But that’s strange. I’ve just been to Katum,” she said.

“Good God, what for? That really is the war zone.”