Jack Higgins - Midnight Runner

He wanted out, he decided. He wanted to do something more with his life. And it was at that point that his old friend, fellow veteran and now President, Jake Cazalet, came to him and said that if Daniel wanted to give up his seat, he understood, but he hoped Daniel was not forsaking public service. He needed someone like Daniel to be a troubleshooter, a kind of roving ambassador, someone he trusted absolutely. And Daniel said yes. From then on, wherever there was trouble, from the Far East to Israel, Bosnia, Kosovo, he was there.

Meanwhile, his daughter followed family tradition and went to Harvard, while his wife held the fort back home. When she was diagnosed with leukaemia, she didn’t tell him until it was too late – she hadn’t wanted to interrupt his work. When she died, the guilt he felt was intolerable. They held a funeral reception at their Boston home, and after the guests had departed, he and his daughter walked in the gardens. She was small and slim, with golden hair and green eyes, the joy of his life, all he had left, he thought, of any worth.

‘You’re a great man, Dad,’ she said. ‘You do great things. You can’t blame yourself.’

‘But I let her down.’

‘No, it was Mum’s choice to play it the way she did.’ She hugged his arm. ‘I know one thing. You’ll never let me down. I love you, Dad, so much.’

The following year she won a Rhodes Scholarship for two years at Oxford University, at St Hugh’s College, and Quinn went to Kosovo to work for NATO on the President’s behalf. That was where things stood, until one miserable March day when the President asked to see Quinn at the White House, and Quinn went…

Washington, early evening, bad March weather, but the Hay-Adams Hotel, where Daniel Quinn was staying, was only a short walk from the White House.

Quinn liked the Hay-Adams, the wonderful antiques, the plush interior, the restaurant. Because of the hotel’s location, they all came there, the great and the good, the politicians and the powerbrokers. Daniel Quinn didn’t know where he fitted in on that spectrum any more, but he didn’t much care. He just liked the place.

Quinn stepped outside and the doorman said, ‘I heard you were here, Senator. Welcome back. Will you be needing a cab?’

‘No, thanks, George. The walk will do me good.’

‘At least take an umbrella. The rain might get worse. I insist, Sergeant.’

Quinn laughed. ‘One old Vietnam hand to another?’

George took an umbrella from his stand and opened it. ‘We saw enough of this stuff back in the jungle, sir. Who needs it now?’

‘That was a long time ago, George. I had my fifty-second birthday last month.’

‘Senator, I thought you were forty.’

Quinn laughed, suddenly looking just that. ‘I’ll see you later, you rogue.’

He crossed to Lafayette Square, and George was right, for the rain increased, sluicing down through the trees, as he passed the statue of Andrew Jackson.

It gave him the old enclosed feeling. The man who had everything – money, power, a beloved daughter – and yet, too often these days, he felt he had nothing. It was what he called his ‘what’s-it-all-about’ feeling. He was coming to the other side of the square, lost in his own thoughts, when he heard the voices. In the diffused light from a street lamp he saw them clearly enough: two street people wearing bomber jackets, wet with the rain, talking loudly. They were identical except for their hair – one had it down to his shoulders, the other had his skull shaved. They were drinking from cans, and as one of them kicked an empty out to the sidewalk, he saw Quinn and stepped in his way.

‘Hey, bitch, where do you think you’re going? Let’s see your wallet, man.’

Quinn ignored him and moved ahead. The one with long hair produced a knife, and the blade jumped.

Quinn closed the umbrella and smiled.

‘Can I help you?’ he said.

‘Yeah, you can give me your money, asshole, unless you want some of this.’ He waved the blade in the air.

Shaven-head was next to Longhair now and he laughed, an ugly sound, and Quinn swung the umbrella, the tip catching the man under the chin. He dropped to one knee and Quinn stamped in his face, suddenly thirty years younger, a Special Forces sergeant in the Mekong Delta. He turned to the one with the knife.

‘You sure about that?’

The knife swung as Quinn grabbed the wrist, straightened the arm, and snapped it with a hammer blow. The man screamed and staggered back, and as the other started to get up, Quinn stamped in his face again.

‘Just not your night, is it?’

A limousine braked hard and the driver came out, producing a Browning from under his left arm. He was very big and very black and Quinn knew him well: Clancy Smith, an ex-Marine and the President’s favourite Secret Service man. His passenger, who’d joined him, was just as familiar, a tall, handsome man around Quinn’s age, his hair still black, named Blake Johnson. Johnson was the director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, though everyone who knew about it – which wasn’t many – just called it the Basement.

‘Daniel, are you okay?’ Blake asked.

‘Never been better. What brings you here?’

‘We decided to come pick you up, though I should have guessed you’d be walking, even on a night like this. The hotel told us we’d just missed you.’ He surveyed the scene. ‘Looks like you’ve been having a little excitement.’

The two men were on their feet now and had retreated under the trees, a sorry sight. Clancy said, ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘No, don’t bother,’ Quinn told him. ‘I think they’ve got the point. Let’s go.’

He got in the rear of the limousine and Blake followed. Clancy got behind the wheel and drove away.

It was quiet, except for the whimpering of Shaven-head. ‘For God’s sake, shut up,’ the other one said.

‘He broke my nose.’

‘So what? It’s going to spoil your pretty face? Give me a cigarette.’

Half a block away, another limousine sheltered under the trees. The man who sat behind the wheel was of medium height, around thirty, handsome with blond hair. He wore a white shirt, dark tie, and leather Gucci overcoat. His passenger was of the same age, a very beautiful woman with jet-black hair and fierce, proud features. There was a slightly Arab look to her, which was not surprising, since she was half-Arab, half-English.

‘That was a poor showing, Rupert. You have a rather inferior class of employee, I’m afraid.’

‘Yes, very disappointing, Kate. Mind you, Quinn was impressive.’ Rupert Dauncey pulled on a pair of thin black leather gloves.

Lady Kate Rashid waved the thought aside. ‘We’d better get going. We’ll just have to try something else.’

‘Such as?’

‘I understand the President is dining tonight at the Lafayette Restaurant in the Hay-Adams. Perhaps he’d like some company.’

‘My God, cousin, you do like your fun.’ His voice was very pleasant, with a strong tinge of Boston. ‘Excuse me a moment. I’ll be back.’

As he got out, she said, ‘Rupert, where are you going?’

‘My money, sweetie, I want it back.’

‘But you’ve got money, Rupert.’

‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

He lit a cigarette as he crossed the avenue to the two men huddled under the trees.

‘Well, that was very entertaining.’

‘You told us he’d be a walkover,’ Shaven-head said.

‘Yes, life can be a bitch sometimes. But you two screwed up royally, didn’t you? I want my money back.’

‘Go to hell.’ Shaven-head turned to his friend. ‘Don’t give him nothing.’

‘Oh, dear.’