The President's Daughter (4 page)

She smiled gently and raised her eyebrows to Teddy, who said, “I’m sorry, Jake, but there would be talk. Hell, the press would jump on it. They’d think you’d found yourself a new girlfriend.”

Cazalet’s shoulders sagged. She touched his face gently. “Perhaps the odd occasion, some public function. You know the kind of thing.”

“God, but this is painful,” he said.

“You are my father and I love you, and not because you were that glorious young war hero who saved my mother in some godforsaken swamp. It’s the decency of a man who nursed his wife through an appalling illness to the very end and never wavered that I admire. I love you, Jake Cazalet, for yourself, and I’m truly glad to be your daughter.” She held him close and turned to Teddy, who had tears in his eyes. “Look after him, Teddy. I’m going now.” She stepped out into the rain and walked away.

“God help me, Teddy, what am I going to do?” Jake Cazalet said brokenly.

“You’re going to make her proud of you, Senator. You’re going to be the best damn President our country has ever seen. Now let’s go.”

As they walked to the limousine, Cazalet said, “Kennedy was right. Anyone who believes in fairness in this life has been seriously misinformed.”

“Sure, Senator, life’s a bitch, but it’s all we’ve got,” Teddy said as they got into the limousine. “Oh, and by the way, I just had a call on my mobile. Senator Freeman’s decided not to run. The nomination is yours. We’re on our way.”

R
ain swept in across London from the west during the night, driven by a cold wind, hard and relentless. By morning, the wind had dropped, but when the prison officer in a navy blue mackintosh opened the gate to the exercise yard at Wandsworth Prison, the rain itself was more relentless than ever. The officer was called Jackson and sported a clipped military moustache, which was hardly surprising as he was a former Grenadier Guard.

He pushed Dermot Riley forward. “On your way.”

Riley, dressed only in prison denims, peered out. The yard, surrounded by high brick walls, was empty.

“I’ll get soaked,” he said in a hard Ulster accent.

“No, you won’t. I’m being good to you.” Jackson held out a small folding umbrella.

“I’d rather go back to my cell,” Riley said morosely.

“One hour’s exercise a day, that’s what it says in regulations, then we bang you up for the other twenty-three. Can’t have you associating with honest crooks, can we? You know how much they’d like to get their hands on a piece of IRA scum like you. That bomb in the West End
last week killed sixteen people and God knows how many injured. You’re not popular, Riley, not popular at all. Now get on with it.”

He shoved Riley into the rain and locked the door behind him. Riley pressed the button on the folding umbrella and it opened. He took a tin of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one with a cheap plastic lighter, and started.

Funny how walking in the rain gave him a lift and the cigarette tasted good. On the other hand, anything was better than the solitary life he led for twenty-three hours a day in that cell. So far he had endured six months of it, which only left fourteen and a half years to go. Sometimes he thought he was going mad when he considered the prospect of those years stretching into infinity. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d sent him back home to a prison in Ulster. At least he’d have been serving his time with old comrades, but here at Wandsworth . . .

At that moment the door opened and Jackson appeared. “Get over here, Riley, you’ve got a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Riley said.

“Yes, your brief.” Riley stood there in the rain, the umbrella over his head, and Jackson added impatiently, “Your brief, your lawyer, you stupid Irish git. Now move it.”

Jackson didn’t take him to the general visiting hall but opened a door at the end of a side corridor. There was a table, a chair at each end, and a large barred window. The man who stood there peering out of it wore a fawn Burberry trenchcoat over a dark brown suit. The white shirt was set off by a college-type striped tie. He had black curling hair, a pleasant, open face and horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked around forty.

“Ah, Mr. Riley. I don’t know whether you will
remember me. I was in court the day you were sentenced. George Brown.”

Riley played it very cool indeed. “Oh, yes.”

“I’ve been retained by the Defense League to go into the question of an appeal on your case. There were certain irregularities, statements by witnesses which might well have been tainted.” He turned to Jackson, who stood by the door. “I wonder if you’d mind stepping outside, Mr. . . . ?”

“Jackson, sir.”

“I think you’ll find if you check Section Three regulations, that where a question of appeal is being considered, a lawyer and his client are entitled to privacy.”

“Suit yourself,” Jackson said.

The door closed behind him, and Riley said, “What the hell is going on? I’ve never seen you in my life before, and I’ve already had any hope of an appeal turned down by the Public Defender.”

Brown took a leather cigarette case from his inside pocket and offered him one. “Fifteen years,” he said as he gave Riley a light. “That’s a long time. Bad enough here, but they’ll be sending you to Parkhurst on the Isle of Wight soon. Toughest nick in Britain and the hardest cons. Like the coffin lid closing when they get you in there. I know about these things. I am a lawyer, although naturally, my name isn’t Brown.”

“What’s your game, fella?” Riley demanded.

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.” Riley did as he was told and Brown carried on. “I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse, just like the Godfather.”

“And what might that be? A fresh appeal?”

“No.” Brown walked to the window and peered out. “How would you like to be free?”

“Escape, you mean?” Riley said.

“No, I mean really free. Slate wiped clean.”

Riley was stunned and his voice was hoarse as he said, “I’d do anything for that—anything.”

“Yes, somehow I thought you might, but there’s even more to it. Do as I tell you and you’ll not only be a free man once more, you’ll have twenty thousand pounds in your hand to start fresh again.”

“My God,” Riley whispered. “And who would I have to kill?”

Brown smiled. “No one, I assure you, but let me ask you a question. Do you know Brigadier Charles Ferguson?”

“Not personally, no,” Riley said, “but I know of him. He runs an intelligence unit specializing in antiterrorism. They call it the Prime Minister’s private army. It’s got nothing to do with the SIS or MI5. I know one thing; it’s given the IRA a bad time in the last few years.”

“And Sean Dillon?”

“Jesus, is that bowser in this?” Riley laughed. “Sure and I know Sean like my own self. We fought the bloody war together in Derry back in the seventies, and little more than boys. Led those Brit soldiers a right old dance through the sewers, but the word is Sean works for Ferguson these days.”

“Tell me about him.”

“His mother died giving birth to him and he and his dad went to London. Sean had a genius for acting. He could change himself even without makeup. I’ve seen him do it. The Man of a Thousand Faces, that’s what Brit Intelligence called him, and they never managed to put a finger on him in twenty years.”

“His father was killed by British soldiers on a visit to Belfast, I understand,” Brown said.

“That’s right. Sean was nineteen, as I remember. He
went home, joined the Movement, and never looked back. At one time he was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA had.”

“So what went wrong?”

“He never liked the bombing, though they say he was behind that mortar attack on Ten Downing Street during the Gulf War. After that, he cleared off to Europe and offered himself as a sort of gun for hire to anybody who’d pay, and he was even-handed. One minute he’d be working for the PLO, the next blowing up Palestinian gunboats in Beirut.”

“And where did Ferguson come in? I’ve heard the story, but I’d like it confirmed.”

“Well, among his other talents, our Sean can fly just about anything that
can
fly. He was running medicine for children into Bosnia and got shot down. It seems the Serbs were going to shoot him and Ferguson turned up and did a deal of some sort, blackmailed Sean into going to work for him.”

“Set a thief to catch a thief,” Brown said.

“That’s about it. It hasn’t made him too popular with the Provos back home.”

“Well, it wouldn’t, would it?”

There was a pause. Finally, Riley said, “Look, what do you want?”

“Sean Dillon, actually.” Brown smiled and offered him another cigarette. “Or to put it another way, the people I represent want him.”

“And who might they be?”

“None of your business, Mr. Riley, but I think I can guarantee that if you do exactly as I say, you’ll have your freedom and we’ll have Dillon. Does that give you a problem?”

“Not in the slightest.” Riley smiled. “What do I have to do?”

“To start, you apply to see the Governor and ask for Ferguson. Say you have important information for his ears only.”

“Then what?”

“Ferguson is certain to want to see you. There’s been a series of small doorstep bombs in Hampstead and Camden during the past two weeks. It’s a known fact that the IRA have at least three Active Service Units operating in London at the moment.” He took a piece of paper from a wallet and passed it across. “You tell Ferguson he’ll find an Active Service Unit at that address plus a supply of Semtex and fuses and so forth.”

Riley looked at the paper. “Holland Park.” He looked up. “Is this kosher?”

“No ASU, just the Semtex and timers, enough to show you were telling the truth. Not your fault if there’s no one there.”

“And you expect Ferguson to get my sentence squashed for that?” Riley shook his head. “Maybe if he’d been able to nick an ASU.” He shrugged. “It won’t do.”

“Yes, he’ll want more and you’re going to give it to him. Two years ago, an Arab terrorist group called the Army of God blew up a Jumbo as it was lifting off from Manchester. More than two hundred people killed.”

“So.”

“Their leader was a man called Hakim al Sharif. I know where he’s been hiding. I’ll tell you and you tell Ferguson. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get his hands on that bastard, and he’s certain to use Dillon to pull the job off.”

“And what do I do?”

“You offer to go with him, to prove you’re genuine in
this thing.” Brown smiled. “It will work, Mr. Riley, but only if you do exactly as I tell you, so listen carefully.”

Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defense overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man with a shock of gray hair, wearing a crumpled fawn suit and a Guards Brigade tie. He was frowning slightly as he pressed his intercom.

“Brigadier?”

“Is Dillon there, Chief Inspector?”

“Just arrived.”

“I’ll see the both of you. Something’s come up.”

The woman who led the way was around thirty and wore a fawn Armani trouser suit. She had close-cropped red hair and black horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not so much beautiful as someone you would look at twice. She could have been a top secretary, a company director, and yet this was Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, product of an orthodox Jewish family, M.A. in Psychology from Cambridge, father a professor of surgery, grandfather a rabbi, both hugely shocked when she had elected to join the police. A fast-track career had taken her to Special Branch, from where Ferguson had procured her secondment as his assistant. In spite of her appearance and the crisp English upper-class voice, she had killed in the line of duty on three occasions to his knowledge, had taken a bullet herself.

The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was small, no more than five feet five, with the kind of fair hair that was almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. His eyes seemed to lack any kind of color and were very clear and he was handsome enough, a restless, animal vitality to him. The
left corner of his mouth was permanently lifted into the kind of smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously, perhaps never had.

“God save the good work, Brigadier,” he said cheerfully in the distinctive accent that was Ulster Irish.

Ferguson laid down his pen and removed his reading glasses. “Dermot Riley. He ring a bell for you, Dillon?”

Dillon took out an old silver case, selected a cigarette, and lit it with a Zippo lighter. “You could say that. We were not much more than boys fighting together in the hard days in the seventies in the Derry Brigade of the Provisional IRA.”

“Shooting British soldiers,” Hannah Bernstein said.

“Well, they shouldn’t have joined,” Dillon told her cheerfully and turned back to Ferguson. “He was lifted last year by Scotland Yard’s Antiterrorist Squad right here in London. Supposed to have been a member of one of the Active Service Units.”

“As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.”

“True,” Dillon said, “but when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.”

“And good riddance,” Hannah said.

“Ah, well, now, everyone has their own point of view,” Dillon told her. “To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Ferguson said. “I’ve just had a call from the Governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.”

“Really?” Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. “Now why would he want to do that?”

“Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? If
you had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.”

“And you want me?” Dillon said.

“Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, too, Chief Inspector. I’d like your input.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,” and he led the way out.