Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [9]
"What kind of research?"
Cazalet turned. "Blake?"
Blake Johnson said, "Europe has changed, Daniel, you know that. There are terrorist groups all over the place, and not only the Arab fundamentalists. The emerging problem is anarchism. Groups with names like the Marxist League, the Army of National Liberation, a new group called Act of Class Warfare."
"So?" Quinn asked.
"Before we get into the details," Cazalet said, "I must say this goes beyond any security classification you've ever had." He pushed a document across. "This is a Presidential Warrant, Daniel. It says you belong to me. It transcends all our laws. You don't even have the right to say no."
Quinn studied it. "I always thought these things were a myth."
"They're real enough, as you see. However, you're an old friend. I won't force you. Say no now and we'll tear this up."
Quinn took a deep breath. "If you need me, Mr. President, then I'm yours to command, sir."
Cazalet nodded. "Excellent. Now--how much do you actually know about what Blake does at the Basement?"
"I must confess, Mr. President, not a tremendous amount. It's some kind of private investigative squad, but the White House has done a pretty good job over the years of keeping a lid on it."
"I'm gratified to hear it. Yes, you're right. Many years ago, faced with the possibility of Communist infiltration at every level of the government, the then-President--I won't even tell you who--invented the Basement as a small operation answerable only to him, totally separate from the CIA, FBI, and the Secret Service. Since then, it's been handed from one President to another, and it's certainly been invaluable to me."
Blake cut in. "There's also a similar outfit in London, with which we are very close, run by a man named General Charles Ferguson. He works out of the Ministry of Defence and is responsible only to the Prime Minister of the day, irrespective of politics." He grinned. "They're known as the Prime Minister's private army."
"I can see why you'd like that," Quinn said.
"His chief assistant is a Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard. A hell of a woman. Smart as a whip, but she's also killed several men and been shot several times herself."
"Good God."
"The best is yet to come," Cazalet told Quinn. He passed him a file. "This is Sean Dillon, for years the Provisional IRA's most-feared enforcer."
Quinn opened the file. The photos showed a small man, no more than five feet five, with fair hair almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black flying jacket. He dangled a cigarette from one corner of his mouth and smiled the kind of smile that seemed to say he didn't take life too seriously.
Quinn said, "He looks like a dangerous man."
"You don't know the half of it. Several years ago, Ferguson saved him from a Serb firing squad, and then he blackmailed him into joining his outfit. Now he's Ferguson's best man." Cazalet paused. "He helped save my daughter a few years ago, when she was kidnapped by terrorists, he and Blake together."
Quinn looked from one to the other. "Your daughter? Kidnapped? I--I never knew--"
"Nobody knew, Daniel," Cazalet said. "We didn't want anybody to know. And he saved my life, too." He held up his hand as Quinn began to exclaim again. "And that brings us back to our original topic. Blake?"
Blake said, "Do you remember last Christmas when you stopped over in London?"
"Of course. It was a chance to see Helen at Oxford."
"That's right, and the President asked you to guest one or two functions through the Ambassador that would be attended by Lady Kate Rashid, the Countess of Loch Dhu."
"That's right, and I wondered why. It wasn't really made clear what I was trying to find out, except that I was to get to know her. So I met the lady briefly, made discreet inquiries, and had a code computer analysis done by my people on the Rashid organization."