The President said, “Obviously, Blake informed me of the events at Kate Rashid’s funeral, but this – I never expected anything like this.”
There was another pause. Blake said, “Is it really that bad, Mr. President? It’s not as if anything actually happened.”
Dillon said, “May I speak, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Your father, Senator Jake Cazalet – his position in all this is clear. He acted, under orders and in good faith, as President Roosevelt’s man in a most delicate and secret situation.”
“That is true.”
“In a strange way, Hitler’s emissary, General Walter Schellenberg of the SS, was in a similar situation. He was not a Nazi party member. In fact, after the war he was tried and found guilty only of being a member of an illegal organization, the SS.”
“So?”
“I could be found guilty of being a member of the IRA for more years than I care to remember, but that wouldn’t change what Schellenberg personally felt. He was simply the Führer’s mouthpiece and your father was Roosevelt’s mouthpiece.”
“Dillon, watch yourself,” Ferguson said.
“No.” Cazalet put his hand up. “He’s right.”
Dillon nodded. “But you need to explore deeper than that because, as sure as hell, the press will.”
“What do you mean?” Blake asked.
“Well, many experts would say that Roosevelt perhaps did show an interest, because Hitler’s overtures included the idea of halting the Red Menace seeping into Western Europe. So let’s say Roosevelt toyed with the idea, or why bother sending Cazalet in the first place?”
It was Cazalet who said, “Go on.”
“But he considers all the facts and changes his mind. That change of mind would be what all the experts, and the press, would seize on.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Dillon?” Ferguson asked.
“That close to the end of things, the American army crossed the Elbe. General George Patton’s tanks could have roared up the autobahn and reached Berlin in twenty-four hours. Only they didn’t. They were ordered to stay where they were by Eisenhower, because Roosevelt had decided, after word from Stalin, that the Russians were entitled to seize Berlin. And so began forty-five years of Cold War. Not to mention one hundred thousand German women raped.”
There was a heavy silence, and it was Jake Cazalet who said, “You’re right. Everything you say is right.”
“Everything I say is what the world will seize on. Because the President sent him there, your father will be part of it, and because he was your father, you, sir, will be part of it. In my opinion, that is what Baron Max von Berger has already worked out.”
Everyone stirred uneasily. It was Blake who said, “Then how on earth can one combat him? Do we try preempting the whole thing? Spilling the story first?”
It was Ferguson who said, “It’s the story that’s the trouble.”
“I agree,” the President said. “And the trouble is, gentlemen, I’m engaged in world affairs of great moment. To be arguing with the United Nations over Iraq, with the threat of a scandal like this hanging over us – it would be a disaster. My opponents at home would rip me to pieces. Our enemies abroad would immediately take advantage.”
“So that means-?” Ferguson said, looking directly at the President.
Cazalet smiled, but there was no humor to it.
“Mr. Dillon?” he said. “If we had that diary…”
Dillon nodded. “I’ll see what we can do, sir.” He looked at Johnson.
“You up for it, Blake?”
Blake grinned. “I’m your man, Sean.”
London
Scotland
Ireland
9.
MEANWHILE, MARCO ROSSI, trawling the security files at Rashid Investments, had discovered the scale of Kate Rashid’s involvement, not only in southern Arabia, but nearer to home in Ireland. In fact, she’d had very active arms deals brewing with both dissident IRA and Protestant Loyalist groups. Kate had been very evenhanded.
There was one name in particular he knew, a man once big with the Ulster Defence Association who, after a very public row, had moved to the Red Hand of Ulster, probably the most extremist Loyalist organization of all.
The sums of money involved were quite staggering. No sense letting that all go to waste, he thought.
This explained why he was walking through Kilburn, the most Irish area of London, on a dark evening, in a black bomber jacket, a Walther PPK snug against his back, to meet one Patrick Murphy. Mr. Murphy was the landlord of a public house called The Orange George, its outside wall painted in a way reminiscent of a Protestant area in Belfast.
Marco listened to the Irish music, then went in. The pub was full, and an Irish band was playing. He stood at one end, and a good-looking, middle-aged woman came up.
“Patrick Murphy is expecting me.”
“Is that so.” She looked him over and smiled. “You’re not having me on?”
He reached over and stroked her cheek. “I’d love to, and maybe later, but Pat Murphy is expecting me. Just say Marco. What’s your name?”
“Janet.”
“Well, who knows, Janet?”
She flushed and went into the back, more excited than she had been in a long time.
Murphy was seated in the back room, a late-middle-aged man with a belly on him, an account book open on the table, when Janet showed Marco in.
“Ah, Mr. Rossi. You’d better sit down.” He nodded to Janet, who went out. He reached for a whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses and poured.
“Good health.” He drank his whiskey. Marco ignored his and lit a cigarette.
“So, where are we?”
Murphy said, “I was quite thrown to get your phone call. I mean, Derry Gibson. How would I be knowing a desperate character like that?”
Marco saw him for what he was, a small man, a go-between, useful in his small way, probably in love with the idea that he was some kind of rebel.
“You’d know him because you had dealings with Kate Rashid a year ago and brokered a meeting for her with Derry Gibson, who had money from the drug trade and wanted to buy arms. Two cargoes off-loaded in County Down earlier this year, and a third was arranged just before Kate Rashid’s unfortunate death. A two-million-pound deal was supposed to take place in a week.”
“I don’t know Derry Gibson.”
“Then I’m wasting my time here. I’ll have to find another buyer for those AK47s and Stinger missiles. Maybe the IRA.” Marco picked up the glass, swallowed the whiskey and stood up.
The rear door creaked open and a hard, tough-looking man of around forty-five walked in, with blond hair, wearing a jacket in Donegal tweed, and an open-necked black shirt. His voice had the distinctive Ulster accent. In a strange way, it reminded Marco of Dillon’s.
“Just hold it right there. I’m Derry Gibson.”
“Why, what a surprise,” Marco said. “And me thinking you were at Drumgoole on the Down Coast.”
“Well, I was, until this idiot phoned me yesterday, so you might say I’ve flown here in a hurry. What’s going on?”
“It’s simple. You used to deal with Kate Rashid. Now she’s dead, and my father, Baron Max von Berger, has taken over the firm. I’m Marco Rossi, as I’m sure you know, and I’m in charge of all security matters for Rashid and Berger.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and some other affairs, as well. Though, to be frank, with all her money, I wonder why Kate bothered with little deals like this. Two million? She was a romantic, I suppose.”
And the strange thing was, Gibson’s face changed. “Damn you, don’t you put her down. She was a great lady.”
One hand went inside his jacket and Marco said, “Tell you what. Let’s put both our cards on the table. And everything else.” He put his hand behind him, found the Walther and put it on the table.
Derry Gibson hesitated, then took a Walther of his own from his right pocket and laid it on the table, as well. “You’ve got good taste in guns. Let’s talk.”