Dark Justice Read online

  “With the new technology, thirty minutes.”

  “Then get on with it. Put him in, but I need to see.” He held out the documents and video. “And these.”

  The other man opened one of the oven doors, Coffin pushed the gurney forward, Henry Morgan slid inside. Coffin pulled the gurney away, the glass door closed, a button was pressed. The oven flared at once, the gas jets peaking, and the body bag flared instantly, also the video and documents.

  Blake turned to Clancy. “We’ll wait,” and led the way outside.

  In the office, they smoked cigarettes. Clancy said, “You want coffee?”

  “Not in a million years. A good stiff drink is what I need, but we’ll have to wait until we’re on the plane.”

  Rain hammered against the window. Clancy said, “Does it ever bother you, this kind of thing?”

  “Clancy, I went to war for my country in Vietnam when I was very young and full of ideals. I never really regretted it. Someone had to do it. Now, all these years later, we’re at war with the world – a world where global terrorism is the name of the game.” He stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “And Clancy, I’ll do anything it takes. I took an oath to my President and I take that to be an oath to my country.” He smiled slightly. “Does that give you a problem?”

  And Clancy Smith, once the youngest sergeant major in the Marine Corps, smiled. “Not in the slightest.”

  At that moment, the door opened and Coffin entered, holding a plastic urn. “Henry Morgan, six pounds of gray ash.”

  “Excellent,” Blake said, and Clancy took the urn.

  “Many thanks,” Blake told Coffin. “Believe me, you’ve never done anything more important.”

  “I accept your word for that, Mr. Johnson,” and Coffin went out.

  “Let’s go,” Blake said, and added, “Bring the urn with you.”

  He led the way out to the parking lot, where the rain poured down relentlessly. They walked to their limousine, which was parked by what, in season, would obviously be a flower bed.

  Blake said, “I was going to put those ashes down the toilet, but let’s be more civilized and do something for next year’s flowers.”

  “Good idea.”

  Clancy unscrewed the top of the urn and poured the ashes over the flower bed.

  “I believe it’s called strewing.”

  “I don’t care what it’s called. Washington next, so let’s catch that plane.”

  WASHINGTON

  2

  But a cold front moving in from the Atlantic had done unmentionable things to the weather, and in spite of the rain, or because of it, low clouds produced heavy fog and closed things down at Kennedy.

  Blake and Clancy made the best of things in one of the VIP lounges, dozing fitfully, but were still there at six the following morning when they got word that their Gulfstream had managed to get in.

  As they walked out through the terminal, bags in hand, Clancy said, “There’s no romance in this work anymore. I must have seen every James Bond movie on TV at one time or another, and he never got held up by bad weather at any airport, not once. Here we’ve got a Gulfstream, one of the classiest aircraft in the world, and it still couldn’t get to us.”

  “Nature rules,” Blake said. “Face up to it and shut up. We’ll be on our way in fifteen minutes.”

  They rose up very quickly to thirty thousand feet. The crew was air force and their stewardess a young sergeant who introduced herself as Mary.

  “Now, what can I get you gentlemen?”

  “Well, I know it’s only six-thirty in the morning,” Blake told her, “but for very special reasons I think a bottle of champagne is in order. Could you manage that?”

  “I think that could be arranged.” She gave them a dazzling smile and moved down to the galley.

  “We didn’t do too badly, did we?” Clancy said. “Considering that the President could have been facedown on the pavement.”

  “That he isn’t is due to Major Roper warning us that there was something fishy about Morgan in the first place. But I anticipated taking him alive, Clancy, squeezing the juice out of him.”

  “It’s not your fault, Blake. We did everything right. The tooth thing was just unfortunate.”

  Sergeant Mary appeared with two glasses of champagne, which they took gratefully.

  Blake toasted Clancy. “Let’s hope the President agrees with you.”

  In Washington, the rain was even heavier when they arrived, but a limousine was waiting and they were taken through at once and on their way, moving along Constitution Avenue toward the White House. In spite of the weather, there was a sizable crowd of demonstrators, a kind of moonscape of umbrellas against the rain, shepherded by police.

  “Which war are they protesting against?” Clancy asked.

  “Who knows? There’s some sort of war going on in nearly every country in the world these days. Don’t ask me, Clancy. All I know is some people seem to make a profession out of protest.”

  The chauffeur lowered the glass screen that separated him from them. “Too difficult from the front, Mr. Johnson. May I try the East Entrance?”

  “That’s fine by me.”

  They turned up East Executive Avenue and stopped at the gate. Blake leaned out and the guard, recognizing him at once, waved them through. The East Entrance was much used by White House staff, especially when wishing to avoid the media. The limousine pulled up, Blake and Clancy got out and went up the steps. A young marine lieutenant was on duty, and a Secret Service agent named Huntley greeted them warmly.

  “Mr. Johnson, Clancy. You’re looking stretched, if I may say so.”

  “Don’t ask,” Blake said. “We spent most of the night stranded by fog at Kennedy, and the President’s expecting us.”

  “You know where he is, sir, but I’ll lead the way. It’ll give my legs some exercise.”

  The President’s secretary, a pleasant woman in her mid-forties, admitted them to the Oval Office, where they found Jake Cazalet in shirtsleeves at the desk, working his way through a raft of documents, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. He glanced up, smiled.

  “The return of the heroes. Have you eaten?”

  “Early breakfast at Kennedy. Congealed scrambled eggs and fries at five-thirty, and that was the VIP lounge,” Blake said.

  Cazalet laughed and turned to the secretary. “We can manage our own coffee, Millie, but speak to the chef and find them something exotic like bacon sandwiches.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  She withdrew, and the President said, “Okay, gentlemen. Let’s hear the worst.”

  “The worst didn’t happen, Mr. President. The worst would have been Morgan shooting you from the first-floor window of Gould amp; Co. when you got out of your car outside Senator Harvey Black’s town house to join him for dinner.”

  “Which invitation I canceled on your advice a week ago. You said then you wished to handle this business yourself. No one from the FBI, no police, no military. Even the head of the Secret Service was excluded, which makes it puzzling that you got away with using Clancy in this affair.”

  Clancy intruded. “I was served a presidential warrant, Mr. President, so I had to do as I was told.”

  “I have a stack of them in my safe,” Blake said. “All signed by you.”

  “Really. And you just fill in a name?”

  “Correct, Mr. President. You know how the Basement works.”

  During the Cold War, when it appeared the Communists were infiltrating at every level of government, the then-President had invented the Basement as a small operation answerable only to him. Since then, it had been handed from one President to another. It was one of his most valuable assets. All other agencies were tied up in rules and regulations, the legal system. This was not. The presidential warrant cut through the crap. People thought Johnson was a deskman. In fact, he had a file of names of ex-FBI and Secret Service men he could pull in on an ad hoc basis. He could connect at any time with Gener
al Charles Ferguson in London, who ran a similar organization for the British Prime Minister.

  “I can, in effect, kill for you,” Blake went on. “I can have, for example, someone like Morgan disposed of without a trace, but only if I’m left alone to do things my way. The war on terrorism can’t be won unless we’re willing to fight back on our own terms. Fight fire with fire.”

  “And where does that leave the rule of law?”

  “I’m not sure. People at Al Qa’eda would have their own answer to that. All I know is that we won’t beat them by playing patty-cake.”

  “Okay, I take your point. Tell me about this Morgan business. You said you didn’t want me to know too many details before. Tell me now.”

  “It was Major Roper who came up with it.”

  “Yes, I know about him. The bomb-disposal hero who ended up in a wheelchair.”

  “And made a new career for himself in computers. Anything you want in cyberspace, Roper can find for you, but his great gift is developing new programs in which millions of facts can be overviewed in seconds. Take your evening out with Senator Black. The computer imaged that town house on Park Avenue, the surrounding properties. He then tapped in to every detail about the buildings, what was going on there, the personnel involved, and so on.”

  At that moment, Millie came in with a tray and the bacon sandwiches. “They smell good enough to eat, Millie. I might have one myself. Eat up, gentlemen, but carry on, Blake. What’s so special about what Roper’s up to, surely our people can do that?”

  “Frankly, not as brilliantly as he can. His programs can show given nationalities, religious backgrounds, family, anything you want, and all at lightning speed. It also indicates anomalies, things that shouldn’t be. It means his computer is thinking for itself and making deductions, but doing it at a speed beyond human comprehension.”

  “Conceptual thought by a machine. Quite something,” Cazalet said.

  “Anyway, to cut it short, the computer threw up the nationalities of the people working in the area of Black’s town house, which were many. Some of them were English, and Roper, interested, cross-referenced the identities, passports, birthplaces and religions, and in no time at all, one Henry Morgan, who’d been working as a security guard at Gould amp; Co. opposite Black’s house, popped up. He was English, but with a Muslim mother.”

  “Really. Is that unusual?”

  “Just enough so that what Roper saw next rang bells: Morgan was a highly qualified pharmacist with a master’s degree, who also taught at London University, and he entered our country on a tourist visa.”

  It was Clancy who put in, “So why does a guy like that take a job as a security guard, Mr. President – and on a forged green card?”

  “Something else Roper discovered.”

  “Everything about us is on some sort of record these days,” the President said. “So General Ferguson tipped you off.”

  “No, there was more to it than that. Ferguson found Roper’s discovery interesting enough to check it out a little on his side. He sent his assistant, Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch at Scotland Yard, to visit Morgan’s home address in London. She discovered that the mother was in a wheelchair after a bad automobile accident that had killed the father five years ago. Bernstein posed as a welfare officer to gain her confidence. Discovered many interesting things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The mother had been disowned by her family for marrying out of the Muslim faith. Her son had been raised a Christian. After the accident, however, she rediscovered her faith and her son would take her to the local mosque, where she was received well. And the truly interesting thing was that she said her son had discovered Islam himself, and embraced it.”

  Cazalet was looking grim. “So it all begins to fit.”

  “Especially when she said he’d gone to New York on vacation.”

  “Has Ferguson taken it any further?”

  “No, he’s waiting to hear from us.”

  Cazalet nodded. “So Morgan obviously arrived on somebody’s orders.”

  “Exactly. An organization in the UK with some sort of contacts in New York.”

  “Why didn’t you arrest him the minute you got the story from London?”

  “I wanted to see where it would lead, and Charles Ferguson agreed. It was highly unlikely he was just a deranged loner, so there was a chance he could lead us to his New York contacts.”

  “Only he didn’t.”

  “The few days he was here, he didn’t meet a soul. I had two old FBI hands follow him when we found that the address he’d given Icon Security was false. He was staying in a small hotel; they discreetly gained access to his room and found nothing. No ID on him, no passport at his death. I’d say they’d all been destroyed, probably on orders from his handlers in London.”

  “They obviously were hanging him out to dry.”

  “Exactly, and the cyanide tooth indicates the equivalent of a suicide bombing. He wasn’t meant to survive.”

  Cazalet said, “Okay, I know there’s a lot of supposition here, but I admit it makes a hell of a lot of sense. It still leaves the question of the AK. Where did that come from?”

  “It certainly wasn’t in his hotel room,” Clancy said. “We figure it was probably left in some locker, maybe a train or bus station.”

  “By his unknown contacts in New York,” Blake put in. “By prearrangement. He’d have been given the location, supplied with a key. Again, it’s supposition, but I’d say he didn’t pick that bag up until he was on his way to work.”

  “Yes, it makes sense, all of it,” Cazalet said. “He would have made an interesting prisoner, but now he’s dead, which leaves us with a dead end.” He frowned. “Except for Ferguson and his people.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, Mr. President. Maybe we can find out more from the English end.”

  “The mother,” Cazalet said, “maybe she knows something.”

  “I don’t know. A handicapped, aging lady in a wheelchair is hardly the sort of person that Al Qa’eda would be recruiting,” Blake said. “But she and her son were welcomed warmly at the local mosque.”

  “Which is where we should look.” Cazalet nodded. “ Ferguson ’s the man to handle it.” He smiled. “It’s London next stop for you, Blake. I’ll speak to Ferguson myself and promise him every assistance.”

  “What about me, Mr. President?” Clancy said.

  “No way. I need you to watch my back. You took a bullet for me once, Clancy. You’re my good-luck charm.”

  “As you wish, Mr. President.”

  Blake said, “I’d like to keep a low profile on this one. I’ll fly over in one of our private planes, with your permission, and use Farley Field outside London, Ferguson ’s base for special operations.”

  “By all means. As soon as you can.” He hesitated. “When you asked me to cancel dinner with Senator Black, you didn’t tell me much, and I hesitated. Thank God I had enough faith in you.”

  “Just doing my job, Mr. President.”

  Blake went and opened the door, and Cazalet called, “And, Blake…”

  “Mr. President?”

  “Take them down. Whoever they are, take them down.”

  “You can count on it, Mr. President,” and Blake went out.

  LONDON

  3

  The Gulfstream came in to Farley Field right on time and Blake thanked the crew, alighted and walked across the tarmac, pausing to look around him. A lot of water under the bridge at this place, and not just the struggles with the Rashid empire.

  A voice called, “Hey, Blake. Over here.”

  Blake turned and saw a Daimler by the control tower, parked close to the entrance of the operations room. The man standing beside it was no more than five feet five, with hair so fair it was almost white. He wore an old black leather bomber jacket and jeans, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The man was Sean Dillon, once a feared enforcer for the IRA and now Ferguson ’s right han
d.

  Blake shook hands. “How are you, my fine Irish friend?”

  “All the better for seeing you. The right royal treatment you’re getting, Ferguson sending the Daimler.”

  They climbed in the back and the chauffeur drove away. Blake said, “So how are things?”

  “Pretty warm since Ferguson heard from the President. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Blake, but that was a close call.”

  “You know how it is, Sean, you’ve been there. I remember how you saved President Clinton and Prime Minister Major on that Thames riverboat years back, and took a knife in the back for your trouble.”

  “From Norah Bell, the original bitch and worse than any man, and it took a decent woman like Hannah Bernstein to shoot her dead.”

  “How is Hannah?”

  “Wonderful, as usual. If she didn’t work for Ferguson, I think she’d have been Chief Superintendent by now or even Commander at Scotland Yard.”

  “But she loves you all too much to move on?”

  “Blake, she’s still trying to reform the lot of us. You know her grandfather is a rabbi. It’s that moral perception of hers. She’s been shot to bits, had her life shortened in any number of ways, and still hangs in there trying to keep Ferguson and me in check.”

  “And fails in that respect.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Dillon said, “Blake, the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket. Terrorism, Al Qa’eda, all that stuff since nine-eleven, has changed everything. It can’t be combated by the old-fashioned rules of war. It isn’t like that.”

  “I agree.” Blake shrugged. “A few years ago, I’d never have said that, in spite of what I had to do during my time in Vietnam. I believed in the decencies, the rule of law, justice, all that stuff. But the people we have to deal with these days – there are no rules as far as they’re concerned, so there are no rules as far as I’m concerned. I’ll take them down any way I can.”

  “Good man yourself, I couldn’t agree more.” Dillon lit another cigarette. “I speak Arabic, you know that, and I’ve spent my share of time in the Middle East. Even worked for the PLO in the old days when I was a naughty boy, and I think I know the Arab mind a bit. Most Muslims in the States or the UK are decent people, interested only in making a living and raising their families, but there’s a few of them who have a different political agenda, and it’s dealing with them that’s the problem.”