A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [10]
“What’s your point?”
“The chief witness for the defense was one of the most brilliant British Secret Service agents operating in occupied France. He admitted he’d been responsible for many operations in which his men had fought and killed German soldiers while wearing German uniforms. He also spoke of his superiors handing out such orders that could only be concluded by assassination. He told the court that if Skorzeny was guilty of a war crime, then he was just as guilty.”
There was a brief silence, and the President said, “What was the verdict?”
“The case was thrown out of court. Skorzeny was acquitted of all charges.”
There was a long silence, and then the President said bleakly, “So what is the answer?”
“That the kind of war we now face is a nasty business,” Miller said. “And you can only survive if you play as dirty as the other side. That’s what twenty years of army service during the Irish Troubles taught me.”
The President sighed heavily. “I suppose I could have picked a better time to take up the highest office in the land, but here I am and, by God, I’ll see it through.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We’ll meet again on Friday.”
Blake insisted on returning them to the hotel personally. In spite of the rain, there were a number of people outside the White House gates, mainly tourists by the look of them.
“I told you how it would be,” Blake said. “This is America, land of the free. The President has a difficult path to tread. We tried the Guantánamo Bay solution and received hate mail from all over the world. And there are even those who disapprove of the way we handled Osama.”
“We know that, Blake. The trouble is that you can say what you want about universal freedom, individual liberty, the rule of law, but when you get into power, the intelligence services pass confidential dossiers across your desk full of information that proves how bloody awful the threat really is. More nine-elevens have been foiled by the skin of our teeth than the public could imagine.”
“And often because the Sean Dillons and Daniel Holleys of this world are prepared to act in the way they do,” Harry Miller said, “and take responsibility for it in a way other people can’t.”
“And thank God for it,” Ferguson said. “You know, we’ve been good friends with the French Secret Service for some time now.”
Blake said, “I’m surprised. I thought you used to be at odds with them?”
“Not anymore. Their agents, some of whom have Algerian Muslim roots, infiltrate Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan and Pakistan, and the information gained has enabled the French to crush many terrorist cells in France since nine-eleven. But not only in France.” Ferguson laughed grimly. “They call our capital city Londistan—did you know that? From time to time, they pass over information to us of crazy plots to blow up Nelson’s Column, the Tower Bridge, Harrods. You get the picture?”
“I surely do,” Blake said. “I suppose in Paris it’s the Eiffel Tower.”
“I’d hate to be a Muslim living in Paris,” Miller said. “I remember how the French reacted in the Algerian War. Nobody would want that.”
“Al Qaeda would,” Ferguson said as the limousine turned in to the hotel. “It would suit them down to the ground to return to the bad old days, so they could produce a few martyrs who’d been fixed up for sound.”
“Dillon and Holley would seem tame by comparison,” Miller said.
The limousine drove away with Blake and they watched it go. Harry Miller said, “What do you think?”
“That I’d like a large bourbon on the rocks, but I’ll leave it until we’re on the Gulfstream. Let’s get our things and go,” Ferguson said, and he led the way into the hotel.
When Captain Sara Gideon boarded the plane at Tucson for her flight to New York, she wore combat fatigues. This was America, where patriotism ruled and the military were received with enthusiasm, especially when the wearer was a good-looking young woman with cropped red hair. The shrapnel scar that slanted down from the hairline to just above the left eye made