Frederick Forsyth - The Negotiator

“And deploying more, Senator?”

“If we have to, if we have to.”

“But these defense budgets are starting to cripple our economy. The deficits are becoming unmanageable.”

“You say so, Tom. There are others who think the damage to our economy is caused by too many welfare checks, too many foreign imports, too many federal foreign aid programs. We seem to spend more looking after foreign critics than our military. Believe me, Tom, it’s not a question of money for the defense industries, not at all.”

Tom Granger switched topics.

“Senator, apart from opposing U.S. help to the hungry of the Third World and backing protectionist trade tariffs, you have also called for the resignation of John Cormack. Can you justify that?”

Hapgood could cheerfully have strangled the newsman. Granger’s use of the words hungry and protectionist indicated where he stood on these issues. Instead, Hapgood kept his concerned expression in place and nodded soberly but regretfully.

“Tom, I just want to say this: I have opposed several issues espoused by President Cormack. That is my right in this free country. But…”

He turned away from the host, found the camera he wanted with its on-light dark, and stared at it for the half-second it took the director in the control booth to switch cameras and give him a personal close-up shot.

“… I yield to no man in my respect for the integrity and courage in adversity of John Cormack. And it is precisely because of this that I say…”

His bronzed face would have oozed sincerity from every pore had they not been clogged with pancake makeup.

“ ‘… John, you have taken more than any man should have to take. For the sake of the nation, but above all for the sake of yourself and Myra, lay down this intolerable burden of office, I beg you.’ ”

In his private study in the White House, President Cormack depressed a button on his remote control and switched off the TV screen across the room. He knew and disliked Hapgood, even though they were members of the same party; knew the man would never have dared call him “John” to his face.

And yet… He knew the man was right. He knew he could not go on much longer, was no longer capable of leadership. His misery was so great he had no further lust for the job he did, no further lust for life itself.

Though he did not know it, Dr. Armitage had noticed symptoms these past two weeks that had caused him profound concern. Once the psychiatrist, probably looking for what he found, had caught the President in the underground garage, descending from his car after one of his rare forays outside the White House grounds. He intercepted the Chief Executive staring at the exhaust pipe of the limousine, as if at an old friend to whom he might now turn to dull his pain.

John Cormack turned to the book he had been reading before the TV show. It was a book of poetry, something he had once taught his students at Yale. There was a verse he recalled. Something John Keats had written. The little English poet, dead at twenty-six, had known melancholy as few others had, and expressed it like no one else. He found the passage he sought: “Ode to a Nightingale.”

… and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain…

He left the book open and leaned back, stared at the rich scrollwork around the cornices of the private study of the most powerful man in the world. To cease upon the midnight with no pain . How tempting, he thought. How very tempting…

Quinn chose half past ten that evening, an hour when most people were back home but not yet in bed asleep for the night. He was in a phone booth in a good hotel, the sort of place where the booths still have doors to give the caller privacy. He heard the number ring three times; then the phone was lifted.

“Yes?”

He had heard the man speak before, but that one word was not enough to identify the voice.

Quinn spoke in the quiet, almost whispering voice of Moss, the words punctuated by the occasional whistle of breath through the damaged nose.

“It’s Moss,” he said.

There was a pause.

“You should never call me here, except in an emergency. I told you that.”

Pay dirt. Quinn let out a deep sigh.

“It is,” he said softly. “Quinn has been taken care of. The girl too. And McCrea, he’s been… terminated.”

“I don’t think I want to know these things,” said the voice.

“You should,” said Quinn before the man could cut the connection. “He left a manuscript behind. Quinn. I have it now, right here.”

“Manuscript?”

“That’s right. I don’t know where he got the details, how he worked them out, but it’s all here. The five names-you know, the men in back. Me, McCrea, Orsini, Zack, Marchais, Pretorius. Everything. Names, dates, places, times. What happened and why… and who.”

There was a long pause.

“That include me?” asked the voice.

“I said, everything .”

Quinn could hear the breathing.

“How many copies?”

“Just the one. He was in a cabin up in northern Vermont. No Xerox machines up there. I have the only copy right here.”

“I see. Where are you?”

“In Washington.”

“I think you had better hand it over to me.”

“Sure,” said Quinn. “No problem. It names me too. I’d destroy it myself, except…”

“Except what, Mr. Moss?”

“Except they still owe me.”

There was another long pause. The man at the other end of the line was swallowing saliva, several times.

“I understand you have been handsomely rewarded,” he said. “If there is more due you, it will be provided.”

“No good,” said Quinn. “There was a whole mess of things I had to clear up that were not foreseen. Those three guys in Europe, Quinn, the girl… All that caused a deal of extra… work.”

“What do you want, Mr. Moss?”

“I figure I ought to get what was offered to me originally, all over again. And doubled.”

Quinn could hear the intake of breath. Doubtless the man was learning the hard way that if you mess with killers, you may end up being blackmailed.

“I will have to consult on this,” said the man in Georgetown. “If… er… paperwork has to be prepared, it will take time. Don’t do anything rash. I’m sure things can be worked out.”

“Twenty-four hours,” said Quinn. “I call you back this time tomorrow. Tell those five down there you had better be ready. I get my fee-you get the manuscript. Then I’ll be gone, and you’ll all be safe… forever.”

He hung up the phone, leaving the other man to calculate the choice of paying up or facing ruin.

For transportation Quinn rented a motorcycle, and bought himself a chunky sheepskin bomber jacket to keep out the cold.

His call the next evening was picked up at the first ring.

“Well?” Quinn snuffled.

“Your… terms, excessive though they are, have been accepted,” said the owner of the Georgetown house.

“You have the paperwork?” asked Quinn.

“I do. In my hand. You have the manuscript?”

“In mine. Let’s swap and get it over with.”

“I agree. Not here. The usual place, two in the morning.”

“Alone. Unarmed. You get some hired muscle to try and jump me, you end up in a box.”

“No tricks-you have my word on it. Since we are prepared to pay, there’s no need. And none from your side either. A straight commercial deal, please.”

“Suits me. I just want the money,” said Quinn.