Gold had gone to Israel, too late for any funeral, but to pay his respects, had stood at the grave of a much-loved brother, filled with a deep rage, so that when Aaron Eitan had accosted him, ostensibly for sympathy, but sounding him out, it was good to have someone to pour out his anger to.
It had ended with him being picked up by car, blindfolded, and delivered to a back street house in Jerusalem. When his blindfold had been removed, there was Judas in his black hood seated at a table.
So, Mark Gold was a Maccabee and proud to serve. It gave his life a sense of purpose, and his ability to access Defense Department computers was more than useful to the organization. He could even hack in to CIA records at Langley.
Before starting the car, he took out the special satellite-linked mobile phone and punched the coded series. Judas answered very quickly.
“It’s Gold. The President’s gone to his house at Nantucket for the weekend. I presume that’s where our friends will go.”
“Did you check the hotel?”
“Yes, reservations confirmed.”
“They’re certain to go there after Nantucket. Dillon, of course, will have performed his task. You can take care of him at the Charlton as we agreed.”
“Consider it done.”
Gold put the phone in his pocket, switched on the engine, and drove away.
When the Lear jet landed at Andrews Air Force Base, the news wasn’t good. The young major who was waiting to greet them saluted formally.
“My respects, General.”
“Brigadier,” Ferguson told him.
“We could have a problem. Nantucket, the whole area, is subject to fog a lot. We usually drop the President on the beach right outside his home by helicopter. That may not be possible today.”
“So where would we go?”
“There’s an air force base nearby. You’ll proceed onwards by limousine. It’s all been taken care of.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” Ferguson said.
Ten minutes later, the three of them were strapping into a helicopter that took off almost instantly.
When Mark Gold went into Sammy’s Bar, it was early evening and the place was almost empty. The black man with dreadlocks at the corner table was Nelson Harker and just now he was reading the Washington Post.
Gold sat down. “Would you like a drink?”
“Not when I’m working.”
Harker looked up. He had an interesting face, a quick, intelligent look to him that Gold found surprising in a professional hit man, and Harker had killed often, sometimes for as little as one thousand dollars. This time, he was getting ten, but with Dillon’s reputation, it seemed merited. He took a photo from his pocket and passed it over.
“Another photo of Dillon, just to make sure.”
“Heh, I’ve already seen one. So he’s been a big name with the IRA, the kind of shitheads who bomb women and kids. That ain’t no way to be. I spit on them.”
“Well, spit on Dillon at the Charlton Hotel later tonight. I want you there no later than ten.”
“And then?”
“If we don’t see him around, you can take him in his suite. There’s a night elevator in the basement garage to all floors.”
“Sounds good to me. Where’s my money?”
Gold took out an envelope and slipped it across. “Half now, half after.” He stood up. “See you later,” and walked out.
SEVEN
On the beach, the surf roared in as the President walked with Blake Johnson and Teddy Grant. They all wore storm coats against the wind, and Murchison, barking madly, made occasional forays into the water. Clancey Smith trailed them over to the left.
“For God’s sake, Blake, what can it mean?” the President demanded.
“I don’t know, Mr. President. What I do know for certain is that if Charles Ferguson says that this is serious, then you’d better believe it. The very fact that he had Dillon with him speaks for itself.”
“Yes, of course.” The President turned to Teddy. “You were in the hospital last year when I made the London trip and those Protestant activists tried to kill me. Dillon proved his worth that day. A remarkable man.”
“That’s one way of putting it, Mr. President. I’ve looked him up. I mean, whose side is he on? He tried to mortar the British War Cabinet in ninety-one during the Gulf War and damn near succeeded.”
“Yes, well, he’s on our side now.”
It was at that moment that Clancey Smith called, “I’m getting the word, Mr. President. The chopper’s landed and they’re on their way.”
“Thank God,” Jake Cazalet said, and a moment later a black limousine appeared on the beach, speeding toward the President’s house. “This way, gentlemen.” He ran along the beach through clinging strands of mist, Murchison snapping at his heels, and arrived at the house as the helicopter settled.
There was a fire in the main room and they sat round it while Dillon delivered the bad news. When he was finished, the President seemed shocked but also incredulous.
“Let me get this straight. This Judas creature insists that he has access to our main computer systems. CIA at Langley, FBI, Department of Defense?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President.”
“So that if we make any inquiry, attempt to discover who he and his people are, he will kill my daughter.”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Dillon said. “He takes a hard line. They not only killed Hakim and his men in Sicily, they killed the old couple and the girl.”
“And probably the prison guard, Jackson, in London,” Ferguson put in.
“And if I don’t sign Nemesis, he’ll kill her anyway?”
“I’m afraid so.” Dillon took the mobile phone Judas had given him and put it on the coffee table. “That’s what he gave me. Two chances to prove him right or wrong.”
“As we told you, Mr. President,” Ferguson said, “my check for any information on the Maccabees through British intelligence computer sources in London drew an almost instant response.”
“So now you want to try the Defense Department’s system.”
Ferguson nodded. “If we get the same response, we’ll know exactly where we are.”
It was Hannah Bernstein who interrupted. “I wonder if you mind my asking you something, Mr. President. It’s the policeman’s mind, I’m afraid. In my job you develop a nose for things, just a hunch with nothing to back it up.”
“And you have one now, Chief Inspector?” Cazalet asked her. “Okay, fire ahead.”
“The Basement, who knows about it? Is it as secret as they say?”
The President turned to Blake Johnson. “You have my permission.”
Blake said, “Officially, I’m the General Affairs Department, and that’s all people know. I have a secretary named Alice Quarmby, a widow and entirely trustworthy, and that’s it: no other staff. People imagine I’ve something to do with White House administration.”
“Then how do you manage?”
“Rather like Judas. I have a circle of people in other employment, former FBI, for example, scientists, university professors, whom I call on for a specific job. Always totally reliable people.”
“Are you saying the Secretary of Defense or the National Security Advisor, people like that, don’t realize the true nature of the Basement?” Ferguson asked.
“Teddy knows, but then Teddy knows everything.” The President managed a grin. “Let me explain. Several Presidents ago, and I won’t say which one, there were a series of scandals to do with Communist infiltration of the CIA and the Defense Department. You may recall the legend of the Russian mole in the Pentagon.”
“I do indeed, Mr. President.”
“The President of the day, on his own initiative, charged an old personal friend, an ex-CIA man, to set up the General Affairs Department, which meant that he had someone totally trustworthy to rely on. It worked very well, and when his successor took office, the President spoke to him privately on the matter and the Basement carried on.”