Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [64]
Salter looked up with a frown. "Here, what's this?" and then Dillon took his helmet off. "Jesus, it's you, Dillon," and Salter laughed. "You up for a part in a road movie or something?"
"No, I've been for a run in the country, Rashid country. Dauncey village and beyond."
Harry stopped smiling. "Trouble?"
"You could say that."
"Then you'd better have a drink on it." He nodded to Billy, who went behind the bar and came back with half a bottle of Bollinger and a glass.
Dillon thumbed off the cork and poured. "What do you think, Billy? There's an aero club six miles from the house down there and she flies out of it in a Black Eagle, similar to the plane Carver flew when you and I went down to Hazar that time."
"You mean she flies it herself?"
"It was news to me, Billy--I never knew she was a pilot."
"Well, you learn something new every day," Harry said, "but that's not what you came to tell us, is it?"
"No, it isn't," and he gave them the full story: Quinn, his daughter, Alan Grant, everything.
When he was finished, there was silence for a few moments, and Billy said, "What a bastard."
"That doesn't even begin to describe him," Harry said. "I knew he was trouble the minute I set eyes on him. What happens now?"
"Quinn will be back in a few days. Then we'll see."
"He was crazy to destroy that pen and tape," Harry said. "Dauncey would have gone down the steps for what he did."
"And for how long?" Billy demanded. "No, Quinn was right. He wants more than the law can give him, and I say more power to him."
"So you'll be helping him go to war when he gets back?" Harry asked.
"That's about the size of it."
"And the General?"
"Doesn't approve."
Billy said, "What in the hell are we talking about here? Kate Rashid sentenced us all to death, didn't she? And that includes Ferguson. I think we should be in this together."
"And so do I." Harry held out his hand. "Count us in, Dillon, whatever Ferguson says."
B efore leaving London, Daniel Quinn had spoken to his old friend from Vietnam days, Tom Jackson, at Quinn Industries in Boston, shocking him greatly with the news of Helen's death. Quinn didn't go into the details of what had really happened. He didn't see the point.
"Is there anything I can do?" Jackson asked.
"Yes. I'm bringing Helen's ashes with me. I want you to get in touch with Monsignor Walsh. I want a funeral tomorrow, and I want it very low key, with very few people."
"Of course."
"I want to stave off for as long as possible any newspapers that might want to make something out of the suggestion of drug involvement in her death."
"I understand."
"To that end, I'm not informing the extended family. I'd like you to be there, Tom, but I'll be frank. It's mainly because I may need your good offices."
"Anything."
"Telephone Blake Johnson at the White House. Let him know what's happening. He has my permission to inform the President. I'll leave it with you."
Tom Jackson, an astute and clever attorney, said, "Daniel, is there more to this?"
"One of these days I'll tell you, old buddy."
T he following afternoon, he sat in the church at Lavery Cemetery, where the Quinn family had a mausoleum. There was Monsignor Walsh, who had been the family priest for so many years that he had christened Helen. He was assisted by a much younger priest, a Father Doyle. Two attendants from the cemetery staff waited in sober black at the rear of the church.
Monsignor Walsh was doing his best in trying circumstances. In a way, it was reminiscent of the crematorium in London, and Quinn let it drift over his head, the usual familiar words: I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.
But it's not true, Quinn thought. There is no resurrection here, only death.
Behind him, the church door opened and banged shut, steps approached along the aisle, there was a hand on his shoulder and he looked up to see Blake Johnson, who managed a smile and sat in the opposite pew.
They stood for the Lord's Prayer and Walsh sprinkled the ornate cask containing the ashes. The taped