'I can wait,' Barry said. 'Don't worry. She's history.' The computer whirred and switched off. Alice said, 'Who would have believed it?'
Dillon said, 'You mean you know who it is?' 'Oh, yes,' Blake said. 'I'd know that voice anywhere.' He turned to Dillon. 'That's the President's chief of staff. That's Henry Thornton.'
Dillon took a moment to digest it, then said, 'It's going to
knock the President for six when he knows what that bastard's been up to.'
'You can say that again.' Blake turned to Alice. 'Check his background, see if you can find a reason.' He glanced at his watch. 'I've got a few things to check myself, then book Dillon and me on the helicopter to Long Island in two hours.'
'I'll get right on it.'
She went out. Dillon said, 'A hard one, Blake, a hard one.'
'I'm an angry man, my Irish friend, I despise treachery.'
'And Ferguson?'
Blake thought about it, and nodded. 'I trust you, Sean, and I trust Ferguson. But this is for his ears only, not the Prime Minister's. It's up to the President to deal with that.'
At his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson listened, his face grave.
'It's really in Blake's hands and the President's,' he said. I'm glad you're there. I'm horrified at the identity of the traitor, of course. I'd like to take the bastard outside and shoot him myself. On the other hand, I'll be frank, Sean. We've known each other for some time.' He paused. 'Lady Helen Lang is a dear friend.'
'You don't need to go on, Brigadier. I'll do what I can."
'Thank you, Sean.'
The Gulfstream landed at Westhampton, and Lady Helen and Hedley were escorted through with a minimum of fuss. She had changed on the plane, and wore an evening outfit in black silk, a close-fitting dress and jacket. Hedley was in a grey uniform. It was just after five.
'Cocktails at six,' she said. 'Is the limousine ready?'
'Of course.'
'Tell Captain Frank I want a slot out of here back to the UK no later than ten.'
'You're sure about that?'
'Absolutely. See to it now.'
Hedley went off, leaving her in the private arrival lounge, and she got the mobile out and phoned Barry.
When he answered, she said, 'Hello, Mr Barry, it's me.'
'Yes, and I know who you are, bitch. I even know where you are, on Long Island.'
'My goodness, you are well informed.'
'It's all catching up, Lady Helen Lang. I know your London address, your house in Norfolk. What I did to your son is nothing to what I'm going to do to you.'
'Why, Mr Barry, you're quite worked up. It's not good for your heart,' she said, and rang off.
Chad Luther had started life in Charlesville, Texas, the third of six children of a farmer who was a failure from the day he was born. Five of the children had died, and the father had sunk into drink and apathy. Chad, caught in the draft, had spent two yean in Vietnam and had discovered he was a survivor. He'd returned home to find his father dead and his mother dying, and had inherited the four hundred and twenty-eight acres of farmland, bare and useless as they were — until someone discovered oil next door. The companies had descended and Chad had held out for ten million. It was the start of an empire. The ten was now eight hundred in oil, construction, and leisure parks, and Luther was in the company of the great and the good, including the President. His house on Quogue was his special pride, a magnificent mansion. There were lawns down to the sea, an inlet with a pier for his yacht and various motor boats. All life was there, as the velvet darkness descended. Lights blazed from the windows, music drifted out. Everyone who was anyone was there — and as Dillon had noted wryly, even if you weren't anyone, you were there anyway.
Luther, resplendent in a blue velvet evening jacket and ruffled shirt, greeted the President and Henry Thornton. 'A real pleasure, Mr President.'
'Glad to be here, Chad.'
'We've prepared an apartment on the ground floor.' Luther led the way, the President and Thornton following, Clancy Smith bringing up the rear. The sitting room was pleasant, with a log fire, wood-panelled walls, French windows open to the sea. The President moved out to the terrace. The water was close.
'Very nice.'
'I look forward to seeing you later at dinner, Mr President.'
'A pleasure.' Luther went out and Jake Cazalet said to his chief of staff, 'The things I do for America.'
The helicopter landed at Westhampton, where a limousine waited for Blake and Dillon. At the same time, Helen Lang was arriving at the mansion in a Lincoln driven by Hedley. She got out, straightened her skirt and stood there, her purse in one hand.
'Will I do?'
'As always.' He was wearing a plastic disc which had been sent to them to identify him.
'I'll see you later.'
She went up the steps to the open door and faced a pair of Secret Service men. 'Invitation, madam?'
She unsnapped her purse to get it out, and felt her blood run cold as her fingers brushed the pistol. God, how stupid could she have been! How had she expected to get the gun by the security people? Any moment now, they were going to inspect her purse and then what was she going to do? She froze, her hand in her purse, for what seemed an eternity, but must have only been a couple of seconds, when Chad Luther burst through the crowd. 'Don't be silly. This woman doesn't need to show her invitation. My darling girl.' He kissed her on the right cheek.
'You look marvellous, as usual. I've put you on the top table with me and the President for dinner.'
'You always were a sweetie, Chad.'
'It's easy with someone like you. Now, come on, come on, there's someone I'd like you to meet.' The Secret Servicemen started to object, but before they could say anything, Luther had swept her inside.
She smiled, took a glass of champagne from a waiter, and moved into the crowd.
Dillon and Blake arrived a little later, walked through the crowd and discovered the President besieged.
'There's no way you're going to get to him just yet,' Dillon said.
'There's time.'
There was a table plan to the dining room by the door and Dillon checked it out. 'What a shame, we're not eating.'
'Well, that's life,' Blake said. 'I've got arrangements to make. Keep an eye on our principal players.' He went off.
Dillon lit a cigarette and reached for a glass of champagne, then he walked through the crowd and out into the garden. It was cold and a little raw, a few people walking about. He stood at the balustrade and Helen Lang came up the steps.
She smiled. 'Why, it's you, Mr Dillon.'
'We do have a habit of bumping into each other. Can I get you anything?'
'A cigarette would be nice.'
He got his old silver case out and gave her one. 'There you
'And what brings you here, Mr Dillon?'
He took a chance then. 'Oh, maybe the same thing as you, Lady Helen. We have something in common, I think. A certain White House connection?'
He gave her a light from his old Zippo. Her expression didn't change. She simply said, 'How interesting.'
'It's over,' he said urgently. 'I don't know what you intend, but it's all over — '
Before he could continue, she smiled, the kind of smile that turned over the heart in him. 'Nonsense, my friend, nothing is over until I decide it is.' She smiled again. 'My poor Mr Dillon, you kill at the drop of a hat and yet you're such a good man,' and she turned and walked away.
Chad Luther managed to pull Cazalet away from the crowd surrounding him. 'The President needs a breather before dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Please.'
'Good for you, Chad,' Cazalet said, as they walked away, Clancy Smith following.
Luther took them back to the sitting room. 'Bathroom through there, Mr President, and if you need a drink I think you'll find everything you need in here.' He opened a panel in the wall and disclosed a superb mirrored bar.
'Chad, as always, you're the perfect host.'
'I'll leave you now.'
Luther went out and Clancy Smith moved into the study and did a quick inspection. He checked the bathroom, then opened the French windows to the terrace. He closed them again.
'Clancy, you're like a hound dog, you never stop sniffing,' Cazalet said.
'That's what I'm paid for, Mr President. There are Secret Servicemen in the garden. I'll be right outside.' He went into the corridor and closed the door.
Cazalet went to the bar and debated whether to indulge. He took a bottle of Scotch from a shelf, then changed his mind and replaced it. Better not. After all, it was going to be a long night. Instead, he took out a pack of Marlboros and selected one. Damn
it, a man was entitled to one vice. He lit the cigarette and went and opened the French windows.
There was a half moon and the rain had stopped. That part of the house was very close to the water. There was a lawn, pine trees and a bay almost encircled by two prongs of land. By the water was a boathouse and a wooden jetty, a rather magnificent speedboat moored beside it. He could see the odd couple walking about.
It was really very lovely. He took a deep breath, and a calm and pleasant voice said, 'I wonder if you could oblige me with a light?'
He turned, and Helen Lang moved out of the shrubbery at the bottom of the steps.
She had walked through the garden, strangely sad, as if at the final end of things. Another of her breathless attacks had led her to sit down on a convenient bench. She'd taken two of her pills, and stayed there for a while until she felt better.
It was Cazalet she thought about. It had to be now, before the evening got too late. For a moment, she hesitated, unexpectedly uncertain. Cazalet was a good man, a hero from a rich and powerful family, who could have avoided Vietnam and yet had chosen to serve and been decorated a number of times. Who had become a solid, progressive President, untainted by the arrogance of power. Who had for many years supported a wife dying by inches from leukaemia. A good man. But Peter had been a good man, too. And time was so very short.
She got up, followed the path back to the house, was aware of French windows opening, looked up and saw Cazalet on the terrace. She hesitated, then opened her purse, her fingers brushing the Colt as she produced her silver cigarette case.
'I wonder if you could oblige me with a light?'
'Why, of course.' He came down the steps, his lighter flared.
She held his wrist. 'That's unusual. An old Lee Enfield cartridge.'
'A souvenir from Vietnam, but how did you know it's a Lee Enfield?'
'My husband was a colonel in the British Army. He had a similar one. You won't remember me. We've only touched hands once, at a function in Boston. I'm Lady Helen Lang.'
He smiled warmly. 'But of course. My father and yours did business together back in Boston in the old days. You married an English baronet, as I recall.'
'Sir Roger Lang.'
'Is he here with you?'
'Oh, no, he died two years ago. Our only son was killed serving in Northern Ireland, and my husband was old and frail. The shock was too great for him.'
'I'm truly sorry.'
'Yes, I believe that.'
For some reason he took her hand, and she opened her mouth to speak, and then there came a knocking at the study door. 'Excuse me,' he said, and went up the steps. On the terrace he hesitated and glanced back, but she had faded away as if she had never been there.
Dillon and Blake were standing in a corner of the crowded ballroom when Blake's mobile rang. It was Alice Quarmby.
'I checked Thornton's background, boss, like you asked. Boy, did I come up with a lulu. Listen to this.'
She went on for several minutes, as Blake's face betrayed no expression. Finally, he said, 'Thanks, Alice, you're an angel.'
'Anything important?' Dillon asked.
'You could say that. Thornton's our man, all right, and now I know why. I'll explain later. Right now, we'd better find the President.'
'He doesn't seem to be here.'
'There's Luther over there. He'll know where he is,' Blake said.
But when they got there, they found Luther in conversation with Henry Thornton. The two men were laughing, each holding a glass of champagne as Dillon and Blake approached. 'Hey, you two, you're not drinking,' Luther told them.
'Duty calls, Chad,' Blake said lightly. 'This is a colleague of mine from London, Mr Dillon. The President asked to see him when he arrived.'
