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.”
“More ghosts on the runways like those Dakotas of his. Piston engines, not even jets,” Dolan said.
“But just the thing for African rough spots. If they break down, they can be repaired just like you’d repair an old car, whereas a jet plane in the middle of Gambia would stand there and decay.”
“So there really could be money in these old planes?”
“More than you could imagine. It would depend on how they were handled, of course.”
“Some of the country the private military companies operate in is pretty rough. I imagine that’s why you’re interested in Havoc.”
“Why, Sergeant Dolan, you know my involvement in the company would preclude that,” Hunter said. “Not to mention my connection with the CIA. But if national security is at stake, well, we must be prepared, don’t you think?” and he laughed harshly.
AT THE AIRPORT, the Gulfstream waited in the rain as Alice and Blake parted. He’d told her of the President’s worries, and she nodded.
“I think there’s something else, too,” she said. “Even at sixty-five, Jake Cazalet is still full of incredible energy and, more than that, a touch of wildness. You never know what he’s going to do next. Presidents aren’t supposed to behave like that, even former ones.”
“I think I could mention a few who did, Alice, but you’re right—he’s unpredictable, likely to charge right at danger.”
“So bring him home safe,” she said.
He kissed her on the cheek, nodded to the flight attendant, and then ran to the Gulfstream. A few moments later, he was settled in his seat and peering out of the window, but Alice was no longer there.
The Gulfstream climbed very fast toward the Atlantic, leveling at forty thousand feet, and the second pilot visited the kitchen area, emerged with three coffees on a tray, and passed one to Blake.
“Six hours to arrival if we’re lucky. Storms threatening in the mid-Atlantic, so belt up if you want to sleep.”
Blake, however, didn’t feel like sleeping. His quick return to London might cause some surprise, so he realized he should give them a heads-up. There was one person available day or night at the Holland Park safe house, so he produced his Codex and called Roper. In spite of the hour, he knew that Major Giles Roper would be seated in his wheelchair in the computer room checking his screens, searching for intelligence. And Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, would be near. A Jamaican Cockney born in London, Doyle had joined the army to see the world but had got no farther than Belfast and the IRA. Now his mission was to take care of Roper—and supply him with endless tea, whiskey, and bacon sandwiches.
Roper had his phone on speaker so Tony could hear. “What’s going on, Blake? I’ve heard of quick returns, but this is ridiculous.”
“The President wants Cazalet back the moment he’s available, so he’s sent me to make sure. He worries about the free spirit gathering too much publicity.”
“He’s worrying too much,” Doyle called. “Jake’s doing just fine.”
“For a man who was once leader of the free world, Tony,” Blake called back, “he might just consider stepping away for a while and making himself less of a target.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Roper said. “But it will be great to see you back here. I’ll let you get a little shut-eye and check in later to see how you’re getting on.”
IT WAS QUIET except for the drone of the engines, and Blake lay back and dozed, thinking how first al-Qaeda and then ISIS had altered the world. International terrorism of the most murderous kind was the name of the game now, al-Qaeda disrupting the lives of millions, each of its branches controlled by an anonymous leader known as the Master. Ferguson and his people had been responsible for the death of two Masters, so al-Qaeda would want their revenge.
He got up and went to the kitchen area for the bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey he knew was kept there. As he opened it, rain hammered on the fuselage of the Gulfstream and there was the roll of distant thunder. He tossed his drink down and his Codex sounded.
“Who is this?”
The voice on the other end of the line was not one he knew. It was cultured and mature, an older man, the English perfect with only the slightest of French accents. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Johnson. A dirty night to be crossing the Atlantic. I trust the President was in the best of health when you left Washington?”
“Who the hell are you?” Blake demanded, coldly aware that he probably knew the answer to that one already.
“Ah,
