Jack Higgins - The Midnight Bell

“Not in Nigeria, I think. My research suggests the CIA wouldn’t touch this one with a barge pole if left to their own devices.”

“Like that, is it?” Blake said.

“That’s what they say, but who knows?”

“Exactly,” he said. “You’re an old cynic, Alice, but somehow you always get it right.”

“Blame it on the White House, Blake. I’ve been there longer than anyone else. It breeds cynicism.”

THEY WERE MOVINGalong Constitution Avenue toward the White House, where they found demonstrators in spite of the hour and the heavy rain.

“Try the East Entrance,” Blake suggested. Alice did, and a Secret Service man on duty saw to the Mercedes, then escorted them to the President’s secretary, who delivered them to the Oval Office and withdrew.

The inclement weather outside had darkened the room, and yet the President kept it in shadow, glancing up from papers now and smiling hugely.

“There you are at last. And you, Alice, it was way beyond the call of duty for you to pick this rascal up at such an hour.”

“I guess it’s gotten to be a habit, Mr. President, after all these years.”

“You’re the wonder of the world. Now, if you would, go and get yourself a coffee while Blake and I talk.”

Alice withdrew, and the President called, “Join us, Colonel Hunter. I’d like you to meet Blake Johnson.”

Hunter emerged from the chief of staff’s office, a man much as Blake had expected, around sixty, with a mustache, tanned face, and an expensive suit of blue flannel.

He held out his hand briefly. “Your fame precedes you, Mr. Johnson.”

“Colonel,” Blake said formally.

Hunter’s smile was false and dismissive as he turned to a more important quarry. “As I was saying earlier, Mr. President, we must present our opponents with the unexpected and seize the day. It’s been one of the greatest precepts of warfare since Roman times.”

The President turned to Blake. “Would you agree?”

“My experience of warfare was being up to my armpits in some swamp in the Mekong Delta in Vietnam, so I guess I never had time to find out,” Blake said.

Hunter was annoyed and let it show. “We all have to move with the times,” he said to Blake. “Modern thinking, that’s what we need. For instance, I’m surprised that a man in your position has an elderly woman as his secretary. How computer savvy can she be?”

“She could write the book on the White House,” Blake said. “She’s better than any computer.”

“And apparently has been poking her nose into Langley’s business illegally for her department’s purposes,” Hunter said.

“That would be my personal security department,” the President said. “It’s called the Basement. Blake Johnson runs it, and Alice Quarmby has served every president in office since the Basement was first conceived.”

Hunter apologized hurriedly. “Of course you are right, Mr. President. Still, this unauthorized accessing of CIA files—it’s disturbing.”

“You may be right, Colonel, but as I am the president, I’m the one who’ll make the decision about it. If you’d show the colonel out, Blake.”

Blake was at the door in a moment. Hunter followed, hesitated, and turned. “And what we discussed, Mr. President—about Havoc and the support system?”

“We’ll see, Colonel,” the President said, and as Blake closed the door, he added, “Come and sit down and bring me up-to-date. Did you bring President Cazalet back?”

“Unfortunately, no, Mr. President. He said he’s agreed to deliver a lecture at the London School of Economics about terrorism and ISIS, and he can’t leave just yet.”

The President frowned. “You did give him the envelope that contained the presidential warrant ordering him home again?”

“Of course. He said he was going to leave, but then Downing Street informed him that they’d all be attending the lecture—so he felt he had to stay. The profits, by the way, are going to charity—the Children of Syria.”

“So how can I possibly complain about that?” the President said, then laughed reluctantly. “Damn you, Jake Cazalet, you’ve left me wrong-footed on this one.”

“Actually, Mr. President, if I could make a suggestion?”

“By all means.”

“Why don’t you send a message to the Cabinet Office congratulating the Prime Minister and President Cazalet on their joint efforts—and announcing that the U.S. will match the money raised for the Children of Syria. That way, it’s as if you’d been a part of it the whole time.”

The President was smiling now. “What a great idea. I’ll see to it at once. With one stipulation.”

“What would that be, Mr. President?”

“You climb in that Gulfstream, return to London tonight, and don’t show your face back here without him. When he’s finished his gig, I want him back, and no arguments, even if he is a billionaire. Let’s have a drink on it.” The President was smiling as he rose, went to a cupboard, and produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses, one of which he handed to Blake. “Sit down for a moment.”

The President settled onto a couch. “I imagine you think I’m crazy, being so concerned about Cazalet, but I can’t help thinking about what happened last year.” The President had sent General Charles Ferguson, the head of the Prime Minister’s “private army,” and his people to Cazalet’s house on Nantucket, so that Cazalet could thank them on the President’s behalf for the success of a recent operation. But al-Qaeda assassins had been waiting for them. “Charles Ferguson, Sean Dillon, Captain Sara Gideon, and Cazalet himself, they could all have died.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Blake said. “None of it’s your fault. Besides, Sean Dillon is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met. They picked the wrong target.”

“But they’ll try again. Especially after Dillon and company shot the al-Qaeda Master behind the attack.”

“I agree with you there. I’ve a feeling in my gut that al-Qaeda won’t let us forget that,” Blake said. “Which is why we’ve spent so much time keeping in touch across the Atlantic.”

“My Basement,” the President said. “And the Prime Minister’s private army.” He shook his head. “United by a common purpose and yet so far away from each other.”

Blake finished his drink and stood up. “Not in the world we live in, not these days. I’d better get going.”

“Of course. Take care.”

Blake turned. “Always do, Mr. President,” he said, and left.

The President sat there, thinking of what Blake had said. Not in the world we live in, not these days . For a moment, he was touched by despair, but that would never do. There was work to be done, and he sat at the desk and started to go through his papers.

FRANK DOLAN,once a master sergeant in the Rangers, now Hunter’s personal assistant and chauffeur, was waiting for the colonel as he left the White House, an umbrella high against the pouring rain.

“Everything go according to plan, sir?”

“Sergeant, some truly crazy people work in there, and that includes this president, his security guy, and the old bag working for them.”

“That must be her dozing in the Mercedes over there,” Dolan said, as he started to drive away. “I looked him up. Blake Johnson, right? Decorated three times in Vietnam.”

“Hell, they gave medals away like candy in those days,” Hunter said.

“He was FBI for a while, too. Took a bullet meant for Cazalet when Cazalet was a senator.”

“Well, bully for him,” Hunter said, staring out. “Washington in the rain. I loathe it.”

“Have we anything special planned this trip, sir?”

“London. I want to have another look at Hans Weber’s Havoc operation, the one working out of that old RAF base at Charnley. Maybe he’s found more planes from the Second World War.”