The President’s Daughter

“I mean, what was it all for, Vietnam?” he asked himself softly. “Did it produce a better society? Hell, no. Downhill all the way.”

He opened the glove compartment, found his silencer, and clipped it on the end of the Colt and replaced it in his pocket. What was it Blake had said about Harker? That guys like that could get it on the street any night. Teddy smiled tightly and drove away.

When Nelson Harker turned onto Flower Street, he was more than a little drunk and soaked to the skin in the heavy rain. With cash in his pocket, he’d really hung one on and had also paid for the services of two prostitutes right off the street, just the way he liked it. He stumbled on the uneven pavement and paused, swaying.

“Excuse me.”

He turned and found a small one-armed man in a raincoat staring intently. Harker peered at him. “What do you want, you little creep?”

Teddy’s hand was on the butt of the Colt in his raincoat pocket. With all his being he wanted to pull it out and shoot the bastard—but suddenly he couldn’t. Some providential second sight had filtered in through the rage. It was not a question of morality. In Vietnam he had killed for poorer reasons, but if this all went wrong and he ended up in police hands, the ensuing scandal would bring down the President himself, the one human being he valued most. Jesus, what had he been thinking?

He took a deep breath. “Well, excuse me. I was only going to ask the way to Central.”

“Go on, fuck off,” Harker said and lurched drunkenly away.

Teddy walked off briskly, turning from one street to another until he reached the sedan. A mile further on, he had to cross the river. He paused halfway, got out, and dropped the Colt into dark waters. It was unregistered, untraceable, but that didn’t matter. It would sink in the mud and be there for all time, a memorial to what had almost been the stupidest action in his entire life.

“Damn fool,” he said softly. “What did you think you were playing at?” and he got in the sedan and drove away.

Dillon was enormously impressed with the Gulfstream. It was so quiet as to be unbelievable. There were enormous club chairs that tilted for sleep, a settee at one side, and the tables were maple wood veneer. He’d already noticed the galley and the crew-rest quarters, and there was even a stand-up shower.

“You do yourself well,” he said to Johnson.

“It’s the best,” Blake said. “The best in the world, and that’s what I need. It can even use runways half the length of those required for commercial airliners.”

“I like the way they’ve done the five after Gulfstream,” Dillon said. “Roman with a V.”

“That’s style for you,” Blake told him. “We also have a state-of-the-art satellite communications system.”

“I’ll try that right now.”

Captain Vernon’s voice came over the speaker. “We’re cruising at fifty thousand feet and we have a brisk tail wind. By the way, Ireland is five hours ahead of us, so I suggest you adjust your watches.”

Kersey brought coffee, and tea for Dillon. “There you go, gentlemen. Sing out if you want anything. I’ll serve dinner in an hour if that suits.”

“Well, a large Bushmills whiskey would go down fine right now,” Dillon told him. “If you have such a thing.”

“We’ve got everything.” Kersey was back with the Bushmills in seconds. “Okay, sir?”

“Very okay,” Dillon said.

After Kersey had gone, closing the door to the galley, Blake said, “You wanted to make a call?”

“Yes, to my old friend Liam Devlin, the greatest expert on the IRA alive. He helped us out considerably with the Irish Rose affair, remember?”

“I surely do.” Blake was adjusting his watch. “But it’s two-thirty in the morning over there.”

“So I’ll wake him,” and Dillon picked up the phone.

• • •

In bed at his cottage in the village of Kilrea outside Dublin, Liam Devlin was aware of the phone’s incessant ringing. He cursed, switched on the light, and picked up the phone, checking the time on the bedside clock.

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