“You’re angry. That always worries me.”
“Yes, good and angry. I’m a bad man, Hannah. I’ve walked over plenty of corpses, but there’s something about Sara Hesser’s death that grinds at me. She deserved better.”
The waiter was pouring champagne when Max von Berger and Rossi appeared at the top of the steps by the bar.
The Baron sat opposite Ferguson and Hannah. Rossi and Dillon stood, in a way confronting each other.
“So what is this about, General?”
“Tell him, Superintendent.”
When she was finished, the Baron sighed. “So this poor lady falls off the jetty and your Professor Langley confirms she died of drowning, with no suspicious circumstances. So what does this have to do with me?”
“The fact that she died at all is a suspicious circumstance,” Dillon said.
Marco Rossi said, “You don’t have a leg to stand on, Dillon. This meeting is not only futile, it’s offensive.”
“Enough,” Ferguson said. “We’re not talking legalities, we’re talking truth. We may not be able to arrest you, but you know and we know what happened.”
“I know no such thing,” said the Baron. “Really, Marco is right. This is most offensive.” The Baron stood.
Dillon said to Rossi, “What did you do, push her over?”
Rossi took a step toward him and Hannah grabbed Sean’s arm. “Let it go.”
The Baron’s face was grim. “I think we’ll leave now,” and he walked out, followed by his son.
In the car outside, he said quietly, “You had nothing to do with this? Swear it to me.”
“On my life. She was an old woman who had a tragic accident. That’s all.”
“But, as Ferguson puts it, most fortunate for us.”
That his son was lying naturally occurred to him, but he pushed the thought away and leaned back.
In his own car, Ferguson clicked off his phone and immediately dialed again, his direct Codex Four line to the Basement office at the White House. Johnson, at his desk, answered at once.
“Yes?”
“Ferguson.”
“Charles, how goes it?”
“Rather badly. I’ve just talked to the Prime Minister. He wants me to go to Washington immediately and speak to the President personally. I’ll bring Dillon with me.”
“Sorry, Charles, but the President’s gone to his house on Nantucket for the weekend. Can I do anything?”
“It’s a very grave matter that affects him personally.”
There was a pause. “All right, go straight to Andrews Air Force Base. They’ll take you there by helicopter and make a beach landing. I’ll arrange it.” He hesitated. “This is a bad one, Charles?”
“Very much so.”
“Then I’ll get down there myself.”
“I think that would be wise, old boy. You’ll be going to war again, I assure you.” He hung up.
Johnson sat at his desk, frowning, then picked up the phone and rang the President on his direct line.
Nantucket
8.
THE DAIMLER ARRIVED at Farley Field, was passed through by RAF police and drove to where the Citation X waited, the Airstairs door down.
Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry stood waiting. Both held the Air Force Cross, an acknowledgment of many hazardous missions on Ferguson’s behalf; on more than one occasion, they’d dropped Sean Dillon by parachute into uncertain landings. They were essential parts of Ferguson’s tightly knit, highly secret group. Both were in RAF uniform.
“I see you’ve dressed appropriately for once,” Ferguson said.
“Some of our closest friends are at Andrews Air Force Base, sir.”
“You’re right.”
An RAF sergeant, a small energetic woman, came down the steps. “June Walters, General. I’ll be looking after you. Follow me, please.”
She led the way and Ferguson obeyed. “Hello, boys,” Dillon said. “Here we go again.”
Lacey said, “Is this serious business, Sean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t book any out-of-season holidays for the next few weeks.”
“Terrific,” Parry said. “It’s always so interesting when you appear.”
“Nice plane,” Dillon said.
“Yes. Brand-new. Do you like it? Fastest commercial plane in the world next to the Concorde,” Lacey told him.
“That’s impressive. Let’s get on with it, then,” and Dillon went up into the aircraft.
They took off shortly afterward, fast-tracked by air traffic control as a priority-one flight, climbed steadily west, and had lifted to fifty thousand feet as they reached the Atlantic. Sergeant Walters appeared.
“I’ve got minestrone soup, melon, steak, new potatoes and vegetables.” She turned to Dillon. “I understand you like plain food, sir. There’s an item called an Irish potato pie – lamb, onion and dumplings.”
Dillon said, “Jesus, woman, that’s what you call plain food?”
She smiled. “Apparently. A drink, gentlemen?”
“Bring me a Bushmills whiskey and open a bottle of a halfway decent champagne and we’ll share it.” She restrained laughter, glanced at Ferguson, who nodded, and she went away.
Dillon lit a cigarette. “So, what are you going to say to Cazalet?”
“The truth about this whole affair as we know it.”
“And what will he say?”
“God knows. He’s an admirable and decent man, and he’s suffered many blows in his personal life. His wife died of leukemia; his father, the elder Jake Cazalet who figures so prominently in the diary, was killed in a car accident years ago. The kidnapping of his daughter, no one knows better than you. It was you and Blake who saved her.”
Dillon held out his hand, took the whiskey Sergeant Walters offered and swallowed it. “But if this von Berger thing leaks, the great American public won’t give a stuff about what’s gone before, will it?”
Sergeant Walters handed them a glass of champagne each. “You’re a cynic, Sean,” Ferguson said.
“A realist, but there you go, calling me by my first name again.”
“Which means?”
“That you want me to handle it the hard way.” He raised his glass. “Cheers, Charlie.”
“Cheers, Sean. You’re always so dependable.”
On the beach at the old family house on Nantucket, the President walked with his favorite Secret Service man, an enormous black ex-Marine named Clancy Smith, and Blake Johnson. The President’s dog, Murchison, a flat-coated retriever, ran in and out of the surf. The sea was rough, the wind keen. Cazalet spoke to Clancy and asked for a cigarette, and Clancy lit a Marlboro inside his coat and passed it.
Blake said, “I’ve told you before, sir, there are voters who would hold that against you.”
“We’re all entitled to a weakness, Blake, and these things got you and me through the Vietnam War.” Murchison jumped up and he patted him. “Now if I should beat this wonderful dog, that would lose me votes by the thousands.”
Blake lit a cigarette for himself inside his storm coat. “I give in, Mr. President.”
“So, Ferguson gave you no idea of what all this is about?”
“Only that it’s a bad one.”
“Then that’s bad enough.” There was a roaring in the distance, and they turned and saw the helicopter landing on the beach beside the house.
“God, the sound of those things. It always takes me back to the war,” Cazalet said. “Let’s go and greet our guests and see what’s gone wrong.”
Cazalet had always cherished his quiet weekends on Nantucket. He preferred to have only the housekeeper cum cook, Mrs. Boulder, organize things, and bring in whoever she needed to clean or run the place when he wasn’t there. So when they sat down in the large drawing room, it was only Cazalet, Blake and Smith, with Ferguson and Dillon sitting opposite. Ferguson covered the entire story. There was silence.