by Jack Higgins
Quinn paused as he put books into the bag. "What? Are you sure?"
"You twist and put the top down. It has a surprising amount of volume."
"But what was Alan Grant doing with that?"
"Let's find out," and Dillon turned it on.
And he was right. The sound was particularly clear as Rupert Dauncey said, "There are three pieces of candy in there, chocolates. Each has an Ecstasy tablet inside. I want you to offer the girl one..."
Dillon pressed down with his thumb. There was silence. Quinn stared at him, his face drained, the skin stretched tightly over the cheekbones.
"I know that voice," he whispered.
"Rupert Dauncey."
Quinn sat on the edge of the bed. "Let's hear the rest of it."
Afterwards, he sat with his head in his hands for a while. Finally, he looked up. "That bastard was responsible for my daughter's death."
"I'm afraid so."
"But why did Grant go along with it?"
"I don't know. Dauncey may have had something on him--it's clear from the recording he was under pressure. And he might not have thought it was any big deal. Lots of students try that stuff. A pound to a penny, he'd experimented himself." Dillon shook his head. "He didn't mean for Helen to die."
"Which is why he killed himself?"
"If he killed himself. The more we look into this, the more we see Dauncey's fingerprints. I've a hunch we'll find even more before we're through. Dauncey's capable of anything."
"Well, so am I." Quinn got up. "Let's get back to London, Sean. Can the recording on that pen be copied?"
"I believe so. I have a friend who could probably handle it for us."
"Then let's get moving." He picked up the two suitcases, Dillon got the carrying bag, and they left.
A t Regency Square, Dillon made the introductions and Roper examined the pen. "Yes, I know how these things work. I can put it onto a cassette tape. That would enhance the sound."
"Just the one," Quinn said. "No other copies."
"As you wish. I'll need to run it through first." He pointed Dillon toward the kitchen. "After your comments about my wine, Sean, I got a bottle of Irish whiskey in. It's not Bushmills, but I presume it will do. On the shelf next to the icebox."
Roper moved to a bench piled with electronic devices and got to work. Dillon found the whiskey bottle and two glasses and poured him and Quinn one each. They sat side by side on the window seat.
Dillon said, "What do you intend to do?"
"I intend to meet with Rashid and Dauncey."
"Are you certain about that?"
"Oh, yes." Quinn was calm. "Don't worry, Sean, I won't have a gun in my pocket, however much I'd like to. There are other ways."
Roper turned his wheelchair. "One pen and one tape." Before Dillon could move, Quinn took them. "Mine, I think. Many thanks, Major."
"My pleasure." He said to Dillon, "Let me know what's happening, won't you?"
T hey found Ferguson at Cavendish Place, and when they went in, Hannah was seated at his side, going through a batch of papers.
Ferguson said, "Things okay at Oxford?"
"Well, you could say it was a revealing experience," Dillon told him.
Hannah frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll leave it to the Senator."
It was Ferguson's turn to frown. "Quinn?"
"Before I explain, I'd like to raise a question. Superintendent, you're a serving police officer. What you're going to hear now is evidence of criminal conduct, but it's my business. If you can't treat it in confidence, then I'd prefer you to leave--and no offense intended."
Hannah looked shocked, but Ferguson stayed calm. "The Superintendent is seconded to my department and is subject to the restrictions of the Official Secrets Act. What's said in here stays in here." He turned to Hannah. "Please confirm that."
Hannah looked troubled but said, "Of course, sir."
Ferguson turned back to Quinn. "So, what have you got?"
"In Alan Grant's mailbox, we found a pen."
"A secret recording pen," Dillon put in.
Quinn held the tape up. "Major Roper has just made a copy for me that enhances the sound quality. You'll find it interesting."
Ferguson said, "Superintendent?"
Hannah got up, took the tape from Quinn, and went and inserted it in the cassette player on the corner of the sideboard. When she switched it on, it was loud and clear.
"There are three pieces of candy in there, chocolates," Rupert Dauncey said. "Each has an Ecstasy tablet inside..."
When they were done, Hannah said, "That's one of the most cold-blooded things I've ever heard."
"A bastard of the first order," Ferguson said.
Hannah carried on. "With that evidence, the police will be able to arrest him at once."
"And charge him with what? Murder? No. Manslaughter? No. A good lawyer would claim that all Dauncey intended was to get my daughter into trouble to embarrass me. At the worst, he might be charged with contributing to her death, but I'm not even confident of that."
"But there's much more to it, Senator, you know there is."
"Of course I do. But with Rashid's resources, how do I know he'll get more than a slap on the wrist? Dauncey could say he was sorry, that his personal antipathy had taken things too far, and what kind of sentence would he draw? Come on, you tell me."
"I will," Dillon put in. "And you're right. The tape's damaging, but it's not enough."
"And I couldn't put any of the background into evidence, any of the history of the Rashids and the President. All the events involving you people are classified."
Hannah said, "So Dauncey and Rashid get away with it?"
"I didn't say that. If necessary, I'd have no hesitation in taking Rupert Dauncey's life myself." There was silence, and then he added, "But I have other ideas. I'm going to South Audley Street to confront them now. Dillon, are you coming with me?"
"I'm your man," Dillon said.
Ferguson sighed and got up. "Then I suppose I'd better come, too, as the voice of sanity." He turned to Hannah, "Not you, Superintendent. I have a hunch it would be better if you weren't there, Official Secrets Act or not."
L uke delivered them to the Rashid house, where a maid in a black dress and white apron answered the door.
"Is the Countess at home?" Ferguson asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Be kind enough to tell her that General Ferguson, Senator Quinn, and Mr. Dillon would appreciate a word."
They waited in the hall while the maid went upstairs. She was back in a moment, stood at the top, and called, "Please come up, gentlemen."
She showed them into the drawing room, where Kate Rashid sat by the fire, Dauncey standing behind her.
"Well, well," she said. "What do we have here? The Three Musketeers? All for one and one for all?"
"That's not funny, Kate," Dillon said. "And I don't think you'll find it funny yourself when you hear what we have."
"Such as?"
Quinn took out the pen. "We found this at Oxford. It belonged to Alan Grant. I know you know who he is, so don't pretend you don't."
"Of course we know," said Kate Rashid. "Don't be melodramatic, Senator."
"Well, this is what you don't know. This pen is really a recording device. And Alan Grant turned it on when your cousin started threatening him."
Kate Rashid looked taken aback. Then she rallied. "Nonsense. Where would someone like him get a thing like that?"
"His brother's in the security business," Dillon said. "It was a present."
Quinn took the tape from his pocket and held it up. "We took the liberty of making a copy. The quality is much better. You'll see."
There was a sound deck in the corner and he switched it on and slipped the tape in place. There was a moment's silence, then Rupert Dauncey started to speak...
Afterwards, Dillon said, "Any way you try to spin it, it's bad for you, Kate." He looked at Dauncey. "And you."
"Guaranteed prison time, I'd say," Ferguson said.
But, remarkably, Rupert was unfazed. He lit a cigarette, face calm. "Do what you like," he said. "You won't get far. You must realize that, Ferguson, don't you?"
"No, that's the wrong way of putting it," Quinn said. "What you mean is, we won't get far enough. You'll get some stupid piddling sentence, of which you'll only serve half anyway. And you know what? You're right. You know what this is worth?" He held up the pen. "Nothing. Its only useful function is to tell me you were responsible for my daughter's death."
And he tossed the pen and the tape into the fire.
Ferguson said, "For God's sake!" as the tape flamed and the pen melted. Even Dillon looked surprised.
Quinn continued. "I'll be flying to Boston tomorrow morning with my daughter's ashes. When she's laid to rest, I'll be back. Then we'll get started."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Kate Rashid asked, visibly rattled.
"Countess, I intend to go to war on you and your company. I intend to ruin you. And ruin you I will, if it's the last thing I do."
"And you," he said, turning to Rupert Dauncey. "You are a dead man walking."
He turned and led the way out.
A fter they'd gone, Kate Rashid said, "Well. That was rather nasty, darling. Though you have to admire that gesture. Do you think it's true, that those were the only copies of the tape?"
"I've never been more certain of anything in my life." He lit another cigarette. "I'll have his house watched, so we know when he's back."
"Then what?"
"Then I'll handle it." He smiled. "The 'last thing I do' will come somewhat sooner than he expects." He turned. "And what about you? What about this bomb thing of yours?"
"I'm still waiting to hear from Colum McGee. Once he's arranged things with Barry Keenan, we'll fly to and drive down to Drumcree."
"Do I finally find out why?"
"Of course. Just not yet. Everything comes to he who waits, darling." She seemed to have regained her spirits.
"So what would you like to do while we wait?"
"Oh, let's have a little fun. I was thinking of going down to Dauncey Place. I keep my little plane there at the air club, my Black Eagle. I was thinking we could fly over to the Isle of Wight and have a picnic."
"But what about Ferguson and his crew?"
"My dear Rupert, that's exactly the point. They'll never believe we're going over there just to have a picnic. It'll drive them crazy!"
A t Ferguson's suggestion, Luke drove them to The Dorchester. They went in and sat in a corner.
"Champagne hardly seems in order," Ferguson said.
"No, but a brandy would be," Quinn said, and held up his right hand, which shook slightly. "I've got to learn to control myself from now on."
"I thought you did a remarkable job of doing just that," Ferguson said. "But, look, Senator, we have to tread carefully here. Before your daughter's death, we had nothing concrete, nothing that in law would allow us to take on Kate Rashid and her organization in an appropriate way. That recording gave us a foothold, but you chose to destroy it, which leaves us back where we started."
"It was my decision." Quinn swallowed his brandy.
"But an unwise one if you intend a violent response."
"No, General. You misunderstood. My action left me with my options wide open. And I do intend a violent response."
"In which case," Dillon said, "you can count on me."
"Dillon, I must remind you who you work for."
"That could be remedied, General," Dillon told him easily.
Ferguson gave him a long look. "I'd be sorry to hear that." He turned to Quinn. "It's your welfare I'm concerned about."
"I know that." Quinn got up. "I must go. I've got things to do."
"You'll need to speak to Blake Johnson. The President has an interest in this," Ferguson reminded him.
"Now there you can help me." Quinn nodded. "You bring Blake up to date for me, General. Tell him everything." He smiled. "Thanks, Sean," and he went out.
"Underneath the calm, he's an angry man," Ferguson said gloomily. "That's not good."
"It never is," Dillon told him, and they finished their brandies.
LONDON BOSTON WASHINGTON LONDON
12
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING, KATE RASHID AND RUPERT Dauncey left the house in a maroon Bentley. Dillon was parked a little way along the street, wearing a helmet and black leathers, pretending to be working on his Suzuki motorcycle. He got on and followed them.
There was no particular reason for the trip, and he hadn't told Ferguson or Hannah he wasn't reporting in. It was a fine bright morning, with plenty of traffic, so he was able to stay back and the Bentley was conspicuous enough. They took the motorway for most of the time until Hampshire, then country roads, where he had to take more care.
He was surprised when they didn't take the turn to Dauncey Place. He was able to stay behind a couple of farm trucks, the Bentley up ahead, and then it turned left and Dillon saw the sign DAUNCEY AERO CLUB.
It was the sort of place that had probably been an RAF station in the Second World War and then developed over the years. He saw a central building, a control tower, and something like thirty planes parked at the edge of two grass run-ways. Several vehicles were there as well, and the Bentley was one of them.
Dillon parked down toward the first runway and got out his binoculars. As Ferguson often liked to boast, Dillon could fly anything, and most of the planes he knew.
There was a rather nice Black Eagle taxiing along the side of the nearest runway. It stopped not too far away and a man in white overalls got out. Rupert Dauncey and Kate Rashid appeared from the main building and walked toward him. She wore dark Ray-Bans and a black jumpsuit. Rupert was in a bomber jacket and slacks. They paused to speak to the other man, then got into the Eagle. It taxied to the far end of the runway, turned, and took off.
Dillon moved to the end of the railings as the man in the white overalls approached and said cheerfully, "Nice Eagle, a real beauty. It's a collector's item these days."
"Owned by the Countess of Loch Dhu," the man said. "Flies it herself, and she's good."
"Where to today?" Dillon asked, and offered him a cigarette.
The man accepted. "She sometimes likes a day out of France, but she told me she was going to the Isle of Wight today. First, she was going to drop in at the big house, Dauncey Place. She has an airstrip there."
"Is that legal?"
"It is if you own half the county." The man laughed. "There's a cafe inside if you want anything."
"No, thanks, I'd better get going."
Dillon got on the Suzuki and drove away. He rode back up to London, thinking.
The next time he parked was at the Dark Man on the wharf at Wapping. Harry Salter, Billy, Baxter, and Hall were eating shepherd's pie, and everyone, except Billy, was drinking beer.
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.
