Midnight Runner (2002)

by Jack - Sd 10 Higgins

  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 organ music was subdued now. The young priest picked up the ashes and nodded to Quinn, who went forward and received them.

  A procession formed up, the two cemetery attendants at the front, then the two priests, Quinn following with the ashes, Tom Jackson, and Blake Johnson bringing up the rear. True to form, it started to rain as they came out. The two attendants produced umbrellas for Blake and Jackson, one held an umbrella over Quinn, the other over the two priests.

  The little procession wound its way through the cemetery, which was very old. There were pines and cypresses, winged angels and Gothic monuments, the sentiments on the gravestones recording an implacable faith in the possibility of life in the hereafter.

  The attendants stopped at a large pillared mausoleum, with angels on either side of a bronze door. One of them produced a key and pulled the door open.

  Quinn walked between the two priests. "If no one minds, I'd like to do this on my own."

  Inside, there were several ornate coffins: his mother and father, his wife, and three other members of his extended family. Flowers had been placed beneath a niche in the wall. The cask with her ashes fit quite well. He knew, because Jackson had told him, that her name would be chiseled into the granite beneath the niche, enhanced with gold leaf.

  He stood there quietly, his head not bowed in prayer, for he was beyond prayer. "Good-bye, love," he said softly, then went out.

  One of the attendants shut the door and locked it. Monsignor Walsh moved close. "Daniel, don't close out the world, don't close out God. There is a purpose in all things."

  "Well, you'll forgive me if I'm not buying that this morning, but thanks for coming. She was always very fond of you. You must excuse me," and Quinn walked off, followed by Jackson and Blake.

  They reached the parking lot by the church and he paused. "Sorry, Blake, it's not my best day. I'm grateful you've come."

  "The President himself wanted to be here, Daniel, but it would have turned into a circus, which he knew was the last thing you would have wanted."

  "I appreciate his thoughtfulness."

  "You're going back to London?"

  "As soon as possible."

  "The President wants to see you."

  "Why?"

  "General Ferguson spoke to us. He's concerned. We all are. I'm sorry to have to remind you that you're bound to the President by the Presidential Warrant. You can't say no."

  Tom Jackson said, "Presidential Warrant? I thought that was an old wives' story."

  "Well, it isn't," Blake said.

  Quinn said, "Okay, I'll go home, pack a few things for the return journey, and I'll see you at the airport. You can give Tom a lift."

  Jackson said, "For God's sake, what's going on?"

  Quinn said to Blake, "Did Ferguson tell you everything?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. You can tell Tom on the way back. Like I said, I'll see you at the airport."

  He climbed in beside the chauffeur, gave him an order, and they drove away.

  B lake had arrived in a Presidential Gulfstream. Quinn spoke to his own pilots, told them to follow to Washington and book a slot for London. Jackson was there to see him off.

  "Daniel, if you want that bastard dead, let me do it, but not you. He's not worth it."

  "It's my affair, Tom, don't worry about me. I'm kicking you out of the Legal Affairs department, by the way."

  Jackson looked shocked. "But, Daniel, what have I done?"

  "Nothing but do a good job at everything to which you turned your hand. Bert Hanley spoke to me. That heart of his is worse than ever. The doctors want him out. So, you're President, effective immediately. I'll still be around as Chairman, but you'll manage pretty damn well without me." He hugged Jackson. "God bless, Tom, but I've got things to do." He smiled bleakly. "Bo Din all over again."

  "No, Daniel," Tom Jackson called, but Quinn was already passing through security.

  Later, on the plane, Blake said, "He thinks the world of you."

  "He's a great guy and I'd go to hell for him, but what I've got to do, I've got to do. I'm determined about it." He tipped his seat back and closed his eyes.

  C lancy Smith opened the door for them and they entered the Oval Office. Cazalet, in shirtsleeves, was wearing reading glasses, signing one letter after another. He glanced up, got to his feet, and came around the desk.

  "Daniel. I'd like to say it's good to see you."

  "Mr. President, let's take it as read and get on with things. What can I do for you?"

  "Let's sit down," which they did, and Cazalet carried on. "General Ferguson has spoken to us, Blake and myself, on a conference call. I'm truly shocked at what he told me about Rupert Dauncey's conduct in this matter."

  "It wasn't really aimed at me, you realize. Dauncey didn't intend my daughter's death. He simply wanted her on drugs at that rally, hoping she might be arrested and become a serious embarrassment to me personally and to you politically."

  "And the whole thing went hideously wrong," Blake said.

  "Ferguson explained your reasons for destroying the recording," Cazalet said. "And I must be honest and say I'm dismayed. You could have nailed Dauncey in Court."

  "He'd have gotten off lightly, Mr. President, and that's not good enough. He didn't murder my daughter, but he's responsible for her death, not that wretched young man, and I intend to see that he pays."

  "But legally and properly, Daniel. We must operate within the confines of the law."

  "That wouldn't even put a dent in the Rashid empire. And tell me this--what happens if the law doesn't work? Aren't I entitled to justice?"

  "No," the President said, "because justice is nothing without the law. It's what binds us all together, it's the framework of all our lives. Without it, we're nothing."

  "Which is exactly what the bad guys count on. I'm tired, Mr. President, and a lot of people would say the same thing. Tired of the wrongdoers getting away with it."

  "What I say still holds true."

  "Then, on this matter, we must agree to differ."

  He stood up and Cazalet said, "If you're determined to follow this course, Daniel, I can't protect you. You realize that, don't you?"

  "I would expect it."

  "Then I have to tell you, you no longer have any official status for me in London. The Embassy will no longer offer you any kind of assistance."

  "And I am no longer bound by Presidential Warrant?"

  "I suppose that, too, yes."

  "May I go now? I have a plane waiting to take me to London."

  "One last thing. General Ferguson feels as I do. He will not involve himself or his people in this course of action. That means you won't be able to rely on any assistance from Sean Dillon."

  "Mr. Dillon has indicated differently, and he strikes me as a man of strong views."

  "I regret to hear it. Good-bye, Senator."

  Blake ushered Quinn out. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "Never more so."

  Quinn walked away and Blake went back in the Oval Office. Cazalet was back behind the desk. "Do you think I was wrong?"

  "No, sir, you weren't. But he's right about one thing. Nobody is going to break Kate Rashid and her organization using the law or any other straight-up-and-down methods. This is one of those scenarios that calls for the Dillons of this world."

  "But Daniel Quinn isn't a Dillon. There isn't a devious bon
e in his body."

  "Perhaps he'll turn out to be a fast learner, Mr. President."

  L ate that night in London, Rupert Dauncey had a phone call from one of the security people he'd put on duty outside Daniel Quinn's house, in a telecom van. There were two of them, Newton and Cook, both ex-SAS.

  "He's back, sir," Cook said.

  "When did he arrive?"

  "An hour ago. I tried you, but your phone wasn't on."

  Dauncey said, "I was out for a run."

  "Well, I thought you'd like to know that that chauffeur of his has come out in full uniform and he's standing by the Mercedes. I'd say Quinn's about to move."

  "I'll be there in three minutes." Dauncey slammed down the receiver, picked up his mobile, and was out of the flat in seconds. A moment later, he drove Kate's Porsche out of the garage. As he approached the corner of Park Place, the Mercedes turned out and he had a quick flash of Quinn sitting beside Luke. He followed and called Newton and Cook.

  "I've got him and I'm close behind. You stay where you are."

  T he traffic was light because of the lateness of the hour. Quinn lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat. He'd always liked cities at night, particularly late at night. Rain-washed deserted streets, that feeling of loneliness. What the hell am I doing? he asked himself, and the thought had been immediately overwhelming.

  They moved down toward the river, the Tower of London, St. Katherine's Dock, and finally came to Wapping High Street and pulled in at St. Mary's Priory. He'd last been here a year before, on one of his London trips for the President. It was a grim building in gray stone, with a great, well-worn oak door which stood open. A bell tower could be seen, and the roof of a chapel beyond the high walls.

  "I won't be long," Quinn told Luke, got out, and crossed the road.

  A sign said ST. MARY'S PRIORY, LITTLE SISTERS OF PITY: MOTHER SUPERIOR, SISTER SARAH PALMER.

  "We never close," Quinn said softly, and passed inside. In a cubbyhole, the night porter sat drinking tea and reading the Evening Standard. He glanced up.

  "Good evening."

  A notice on the wall said: The chapel is open to all for private worship.

  "Is the Mother Superior in?"

  "I saw her go into the chapel a little while ago, sir."

  "Thank you."

  Quinn crossed to the chapel door, which stood open, and passed inside.

  R upert, parked some distance behind the Mercedes, had seen Quinn cross the road and followed him, pausing only to read the sign before venturing in.

  He adopted the simple approach and said to the porter, "Where did my friend go?"

  "The chapel, sir, he was looking for the Mother Superior."

  "Thank you."

  Rupert moved to the open chapel door and could hear voices. He peered in. It was very dark, the only light the candles up by the altar. He went and sheltered behind a pillar and had no difficulty in hearing what was being said.

  W hen Quinn stepped into the chapel he paused and looked toward the image of the Virgin, the candles burning in front of it so that it seemed to float in the darkness beside the altar. Sister Sarah Palmer was on her knees scrubbing the floor, a menial task usually performed by novices, but in her case designed to teach her humility, in spite of being Mother Superior. It was cold and damp and there was the unmistakable chapel smell.

  "Candles, incense, and holy water," he said softly. "You'll have me crossing myself next."

  She paused and looked up at him calmly. "Why, Daniel, what a surprise. Where have you come from?"

  "Kosovo."

  "Was it bad?"

  "Too many bodies in the streets."

  She dropped the scrubbing brush in her pail and mopped the floor with a rag. "As bad as Bo Din?"

  "Different, but as bad in its own way."

  She squeezed out the rag. "What is it, Daniel?"

  "Helen's dead."

  She stayed there on her knees, staring at him. "Oh, dear Lord." She got up as he dropped into one of the pews, and sat in front, half-turned toward him. "What happened?"

  He started, then, and told her everything.

  Afterwards, she said, "God has placed a burden on you, Daniel. What has happened is a terrible thing, but you must not allow it to destroy you."

  "And how would I do that?"

  "By seeking refuge in prayer, by reaching out for God's support..."

  "Instead of seeking revenge?" Quinn shook his head. "But that's all I feel. It's a strange thing, suffering. I've discovered that there is the possibility of solace in making the other person suffer. It's as if nothing is enough. By letting Rupert Dauncey off the hook, I've extended his suffering, his punishment."

  "Such thoughts will destroy you."

  "If that is the price, I'll pay it." He got up, and so did she.

  "Why did you come here, Daniel? You knew I couldn't condone your intention."

  "Yes, but it was important that you hear the facts from me and perhaps understand my future conduct."

  "So what do you expect, a blessing?"

  "It wouldn't come amiss."

  There was steel in her voice, a kind of anger, and for a moment she seemed the young nun at Bo Din again.

  What she did then was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. She said, "Go, Christian soul, from this world, in the name of God the Father Almighty who created thee."

  "Ah, very apt." Quinn smiled gently. "Good-bye and God bless you, Sarah." And he turned and went out.

  Filled with despair, she dropped to her knees in the pew and started to pray. There was a movement nearby, and she opened her eyes, half-turned, and found a man squatting beside her. The blond hair, the handsome face was the Devil's face, she knew that at once.

  "It's all right, Sister, I mean you no harm. I followed him here and, of course, saw your name at the door. I know who you are. You're the remarkable young nun from Bo Din."

  "And who are you?"

  "Many things. A bad Catholic, for one. Don't worry, I'd never harm you. God wouldn't forgive that."

  "You're crazy."

  "Possibly. I'm also the man he blames for his daughter's death."

  "Rupert Dauncey," she whispered.

  "That's me." He stood. "I liked your idea of a blessing. A prayer for the dying. That could well be appropriate." He smiled. "Don't forget to give him a call. Tell him I was here."

  His footsteps echoed away and she pushed herself up and sat again in the pew, more afraid than she had ever been.

  B ack at Park Place, Newton and Cook saw the Mercedes drive into the yard. Quinn and Luke got out, and Quinn said, "I won't need you first thing, Luke. I'll go for a run in Hyde Park around seven-thirty, so tell Mary breakfast at nine."

  The two men across the street heard it, and Cook phoned Dauncey, who had just got in, and relayed the information.

  Rupert said, "Very good. Go home, but be back in the morning, dressed for running. When he leaves the house, follow him to the park."

  "Then what?"

  "Do what you have to do."

  He didn't go to see his cousin and bring her up to date. Sister Sarah Palmer was too personal, and Kate would never understand his feelings. He poured a Jack Daniel's, found the evening paper, and sat down to read it. A moment later, his phone rang and he picked it up.

  "It's Quinn. I've had Sister Sarah Palmer on the phone. I swear to God, if you harm that lady..."

  "Don't be stupid, Senator, she's the last person in the world I'd harm, a marvelous woman like that. So goodnight and sleep tight." He hung up.

  Quinn replaced his receiver, conscious that he actually believed Dauncey. He stood there thinking about it, and, on impulse, rang Sean Dillon at Stable Mews.

  "It's Quinn." He told him the story. "I believe it when he says he wouldn't harm her. I don't know why, but I do."

  "All right. The important thing, though, is that he followed you to this St. Mary's Priory, obviously from your house. I'd say you have watchers. Anything unusual in your street?"

>   "Hang on a minute." Quinn went to the window and peered out. "There's a British Telecom van."

  "Telecom, my arse."

  "Thanks for the tip."

  "How did things go in Boston?"

  "Much as you'd expect. It was Washington that was the disappointment." He told him about it, finishing, "And he made it clear Ferguson agrees with him."

  "Well, we'll see about that. I'm my own man, and always have been. I'll see you in the morning and we'll discuss it."

  "I'm going for a run in Hyde Park at seven-thirty. Have breakfast with me at nine."

  "It's a date," and Dillon put down the phone.

  H e woke early the next morning and, looking at the clock, realized he had time to join Quinn on the run. He got up, dressed in a tracksuit, went downstairs, found his helmet, opened the mews garage, and drove away on the Suzuki.

  On the way to Park Place, he thought about the Telecom van that Quinn had mentioned and wondered about the best way to handle that. Possibly an anonymous call to the police. Simple and direct.

  He turned into South Audley Street from Grosvenor Square and, as he moved toward Park Place, Quinn emerged and darted across the road. A moment later, Cook and Newton, in tracksuits, showed up and followed him. Dillon cursed, swerved into Park Place, and turned in through Quinn's gates. He pulled the Suzuki up on its stand, reached into the right-hand saddlebag, lifted the secret flap at the bottom, and found his Walther. He slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his tracksuit and went after them, running fast.

  Q uinn crossed Park Lane using the underpass, ran up the steps on the other side, and entered Hyde Park, followed by Newton and Cook, but Dillon, pressing hard, was not far behind.

  It was a misty morning, with a light drizzle. Half a dozen soldiers of the Household Cavalry cantered by, exercising their mounts, and there was the odd solitary rider. Quinn cut across the grass toward the trees. The mist was thicker there and there was no one about.