The President’s Daughter

“Exactly. By the way, he said he was a big admirer of yours.”

“The cheek of it. I’ve never even met him.”

“How do you know? How do I know? Interesting point. The fellas who kidnapped me, the others at the castle, all showed their faces, and why?”

“Because they’re just foot soldiers,” Hannah said.

“Exactly, but Judas wore a hood. Now put your fine police mind to that, Chief Inspector.”

“It’s obvious,” she said. “He has a face that could be recognized.”

“What you’re saying is he’s a somebody.”

Ferguson cut in. “Never mind any of this. What we’ve established is that he’s telling the truth. We’ve just put a question to our most powerful intelligence information computer and he has instant access. In other words, he’s cut our legs off.”

“So what do we do?” Dillon asked.

“Go to Washington and see the President, but first, I’m going to phone Blake Johnson. As for you, Chief Inspector, make sure the Lear is standing by at Farley Field.”

• • •

Blake Johnson was forty-eight, a tall and handsome man with jet-black hair who looked years younger than he was. A Marine at nineteen, he’d come out of Vietnam with a Silver Star, two Purple Hearts, and a Vietnamese Cross of Valor. His law degree at Georgia State had taken him into the FBI.

One day in June three years earlier, he had been shadowing Senator Jake Cazalet because of death threats received from certain right-wing fascist groups. The police escort had lost the Senator’s limousine, but Blake Johnson, carving his way through heavy evening traffic, had arrived just as an attack was taking place. He had shot both men involved, had taken a bullet in his left thigh.

It was the start of an enduring relationship with Jake Cazalet and had brought him to his present appointment as Director of the General Affairs Department at the White House.

This was supposed to be an outfit responsible for various administration matters and was known, because it was downstairs, as the Basement. In fact, to those in the know, it was the President’s private investigative squad and one of the most closely guarded secrets of the administration. It was totally separate from the CIA, the FBI, the Secret Service. In fact, the whispers about it were so faint that few people believed it existed. Cazalet had inherited it, and had taken advantage of the retirement of the previous incumbent to offer the job to Blake Johnson.

Ferguson used his direct Codex Four line to the Basement office, and Johnson, at his desk, answered at once.

“Say who you are.”

“Charles Ferguson, you bugger.”

“Charles, how goes it?”

“Bad, I’m afraid. I’ve got very serious trouble for you and the President, and I mean serious. I know it’s strange, but no communication with the Prime Minister, please.”

“That bad?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll leave in an hour with Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein. Dillon’s been up to his neck in this thing. We must see the President at the White House the moment we get in.”

“Not possible. He’s gone down to his own house for a couple of days on the beach at Nantucket. Time to reflect.”

“This is life and death, Blake.”

There was a pause. “I see.”

Ferguson took a deep breath. “You’re his friend, Blake. Tell him it refers to the safety of . . . one who was lost but now is found.”

“Jesus, Charles, what is this, a parlor game?”

“I can’t say more, not now. Just tell him. He’ll know what I mean. So will Teddy Grant. You’ve got to trust me on this, Blake—this is as important as it comes.”

And Johnson was all efficiency now. “Okay. Don’t come into Washington International. Make it Andrews Air Force Base. I’ll tell them to expect you. They’ll arrange a helicopter to drop you on the beach at Nantucket as they do for the President.”

Ferguson said, “No CIA, Blake, no security services of any description. Just come yourself.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Charles. Okay, I’ll go ahead and prepare the President. I’ll see you there,” and he put down the phone.

Ferguson said, “Right, let’s get moving. No time to waste on this one,” and he led the way out.