“Then let’s get on with it,” Ferguson said.
Ten minutes later, the three of them were strapping into a helicopter that took off almost instantly.
When Mark Gold went into Sammy’s Bar, it was early evening and the place was almost empty. The black man with dreadlocks at the corner table was Nelson Harker and just now he was reading the Washington Post.
Gold sat down. “Would you like a drink?”
“Not when I’m working.”
Harker looked up. He had an interesting face, a quick, intelligent look to him that Gold found surprising in a professional hit man, and Harker had killed often, sometimes for as little as one thousand dollars. This time, he was getting ten, but with Dillon’s reputation, it seemed merited. He took a photo from his pocket and passed it over.
“Another photo of Dillon, just to make sure.”
“Heh, I’ve already seen one. So he’s been a big name with the IRA, the kind of shitheads who bomb women and kids. That ain’t no way to be. I spit on them.”
“Well, spit on Dillon at the Charlton Hotel later tonight. I want you there no later than ten.”
“And then?”
“If we don’t see him around, you can take him in his suite. There’s a night elevator in the basement garage to all floors.”
“Sounds good to me. Where’s my money?”
Gold took out an envelope and slipped it across. “Half now, half after.” He stood up. “See you later,” and walked out.
SEVEN
On the beach, the surf roared in as the President walked with Blake Johnson and Teddy Grant. They all wore storm coats against the wind, and Murchison, barking madly, made occasional forays into the water. Clancey Smith trailed them over to the left.
“For God’s sake, Blake, what can it mean?” the President demanded.
“I don’t know, Mr. President. What I do know for certain is that if Charles Ferguson says that this is serious, then you’d better believe it. The very fact that he had Dillon with him speaks for itself.”
“Yes, of course.” The President turned to Teddy. “You were in the hospital last year when I made the London trip and those Protestant activists tried to kill me. Dillon proved his worth that day. A remarkable man.”
“That’s one way of putting it, Mr. President. I’ve looked him up. I mean, whose side is he on? He tried to mortar the British War Cabinet in ninety-one during the Gulf War and damn near succeeded.”
“Yes, well, he’s on our side now.”
It was at that moment that Clancey Smith called, “I’m getting the word, Mr. President. The chopper’s landed and they’re on their way.”
“Thank God,” Jake Cazalet said, and a moment later a black limousine appeared on the beach, speeding toward the President’s house. “This way, gentlemen.” He ran along the beach through clinging strands of mist, Murchison snapping at his heels, and arrived at the house as the helicopter settled.
There was a fire in the main room and they sat round it while Dillon delivered the bad news. When he was finished, the President seemed shocked but also incredulous.
“Let me get this straight. This Judas creature insists that he has access to our main computer systems. CIA at Langley, FBI, Department of Defense?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President.”
“So that if we make any inquiry, attempt to discover who he and his people are, he will kill my daughter.”
“Yes, that’s about the size of it,” Dillon said. “He takes a hard line. They not only killed Hakim and his men in Sicily, they killed the old couple and the girl.”
“And probably the prison guard, Jackson, in London,” Ferguson put in.
“And if I don’t sign Nemesis, he’ll kill her anyway?”
“I’m afraid so.” Dillon took the mobile phone Judas had given him and put it on the coffee table. “That’s what he gave me. Two chances to prove him right or wrong.”
“As we told you, Mr. President,” Ferguson said, “my check for any information on the Maccabees through British intelligence computer sources in London drew an almost instant response.”
“So now you want to try the Defense Department’s system.”
Ferguson nodded. “If we get the same response, we’ll know exactly where we are.”