President Cormack was fully dressed in a dark suit, but he looked pale and tired, the lines of strain showing around his mouth, smudges of insomnia beneath his eyes. He shook hands and nodded at the Vice President, who withdrew.
Gesturing Quinn to a chair, he took his own seat behind his desk. A defense mechanism, creating a barrier, not wanting to unbend. He was about to speak when Quinn got in first.
“How is Mrs. Cormack?”
Not “the First Lady.” Just Mrs. Cormack, his wife. He was startled.
“Oh, she’s sleeping. It has been a terrible shock. She’s under sedation.” He paused. “You have been through this before, Mr. Quinn.”
“Many times, sir.”
“Well, as you see, behind the pomp and the circumstance is just a man, a very worried man.”
“Yes, sir. I know. Tell me about Simon, please.”
“Simon? What about him?”
“What he is like. How he will react to ... to this. Why did you have him so late in life?”
There was no one in the White House who would have dared ask that. John Cormack looked across the desk. He was tall himself, but this man matched him at six feet two inches. Neat gray suit, striped tie, white shirt—all borrowed, though he did not know that. Clean-shaven, deeply suntanned. A craggy face, calm gray eyes, an impression of strength and patience.
“So late? Well, I don’t know. I married when I was thirty; Myra was twenty-one. I was a young professor then. We thought we would start a family in two or three years. But it didn’t happen. We waited. The doctors said there was no reason ... Then, after ten years of marriage, Simon came. I was forty by then, Myra thirty-one. There was only ever the one child ... just Simon.”
“You love him very much, don’t you?”
President Cormack stared at Quinn in surprise. The question was so unexpected. He knew Odell was completely estranged from his own two grown-up offspring, but it had never occurred to him how much he loved his only son. He rose, came around the desk, and seated himself on the edge of an upright chair, much closer to Quinn.
“Mr. Quinn, he is the sun and the moon to me—to us both. Get him back for us.”
“Tell me about his childhood, when he was very young.”
The President jumped up.
“I have a picture,” he said triumphantly. He walked to a cabinet and returned with a framed snapshot. It showed a sturdy toddler of four or five, in swim trunks on a beach, holding a pail and shovel. A proud father was crouched behind him, grinning.
“That was taken at Nantucket in ’75. I had just been elected congressman from New Haven.”
“Tell me about Nantucket,” said Quinn gently.
President Cormack talked for an hour. It seemed to help him. When Quinn rose to leave, Cormack scribbled a number on a pad and handed it to Quinn.
“This is my private number. Very few people have it. It will reach me directly, night or day.” He held out his hand. “Good luck, Mr. Quinn. God go with you.” He was trying to control himself. Quinn nodded and left quickly. He had seen it before, the effect, the dreadful effect.
While Quinn was still in the washroom, Philip Kelly had driven back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building, where he knew his Deputy Assistant Director, CID, would be waiting for him. He and Kevin Brown had a lot in common, which was why he had pressed for Brown’s appointment.
When he entered his office his deputy was there, reading Quinn’s file. Kelly nodded toward it as he took his seat.
“So, that’s our hotshot. What do you think?”
“He was brave enough in combat,” conceded Brown. “Otherwise a smartass. About the only thing I like about the guy is his name.”
“Well,” said Kelly, “they’ve put him in there over the Bureau’s head. Don Edmonds didn’t object. Maybe he figures if it all turns out badly ... Still and all, the sleazeballs who did this thing have contravened at least three U.S. statutes. The Bureau still has jurisdiction, even though it happened on British territory. And I don’t want this yo-yo operating out on his own with no supervision, no matter who says so.”
“Right,” agreed Brown.
“The Bureau’s man in London, Patrick Seymour—do you know him?”
“Know of him,” grunted Brown. “Hear he’s very pally with the Brits. Maybe too much so.”
Kevin Brown had come out of the Boston police force, an Irishman like Kelly, whose admiration for Britain and the British could be written on the back of a postage stamp with room left over. Not that he was soft on the I.R.A.; he had pulled in two arms dealers trading with the I.R.A., who would have gone to jail but for the courts.
He was an old-style law-enforcement officer who had no truck with criminals of any ilk. He also remembered as a small boy in the slums of Boston listening wide-eyed to his grandmother’s tales of people dying with mouths green from grass-eating during the famine of 1848, and of the hangings and the shootings of 1916. He thought of Ireland, a place he had never visited, as a land of mists and gentle green hills, enlivened by the fiddle and the chaunter, where poets like Yeats and O’Faolain wandered and composed. He knew Dublin was full of friendly bars where peaceable folk sat over a stout in front of peat fires, immersed in the works of Joyce and O’Casey.
He had been told that Dublin had the worst teenage drug problem in Europe but knew it was just London’s propaganda. He had heard Irish Prime Ministers on American soil pleading for no more money to be sent to the I.R.A. Well, people were entitled to their views. And he had his. Being a crime-buster did not require him to like the people he saw as the timeless persecutors of the land of his forefathers. Across the desk, Kelly came to a decision.
“Seymour is close to Buck Revell, but Revell’s away sick. The Director has put me in charge of this from the Bureau’s point of view. And I don’t want this Quinn getting out of hand. I want you to get together a good team and take the midday flight and get over there. You’ll be behind the Concorde by a few hours, but no matter. Base yourself at the embassy—I’ll tell Seymour you’re in charge, just for the emergency.”
Brown rose, pleased.
“One more thing, Kevin. I want one special agent in close on Quinn. All the time, day and night. If that guy burps, we want to know.”
“I know just the one,” said Brown grimly. “A good operative, tenacious and clever. Also personable. Agent Sam Somerville. I’ll do the briefing myself. Now.”
Out at Langley, David Weintraub was wondering when he would ever sleep again. During his absence the work had piled up in a mountain. Much of it had to do with the files on all the known terrorist groups in Europe—latest updates, penetration agents inside the groups, known locations of the leading members, possible incursions into Britain over the previous forty days ... the list of headings alone was almost endless. So it was the Chief of the European Section who briefed Duncan McCrea.
“You’ll meet Lou Collins from our embassy,” he said, “but he’ll be keeping us posted from outside the inner circle. We have to have somebody close in on this man Quinn. We need to identify those abductors and I wouldn’t be displeased if we could do it before the Brits. And especially before the Bureau. Okay, the British are pals, but I’d like this one for the Agency. If the abductors are foreigners, that gives us an edge; we have better files on foreigners than the Bureau, maybe than the Brits. If Quinn gets any smell, any instinct about them, and lets anything slip, you pass it on to us.”
Operative McCrea was awestruck. A GS-12 with ten years in the Agency since recruitment abroad—his father had been a businessman in Central America—he had had two foreign postings but never London. The responsibility was enormous, but matched by the opportunity.
“You can rely on m—m—me, sir.”
Quinn had insisted that no one known to the media accompany him to Dulles International Airport. He had left the White House in a plain compact car, driven by his escort, an officer of the Secret Service in plain clothes. Quinn had ducked into the backseat, down near the floor, as they passed the
knot of press grouped at Alexander Hamilton Place at the extreme east end of the White House complex and farthest away from the West Wing. The press glanced at the car, saw nothing of importance, and took no notice.
At Dulles, Quinn checked in with his escort, who refused to leave him until he actually walked onto the Concorde and who raised eyebrows by flashing his White House ID card to get past passport control. He did at least serve one purpose; Quinn went to the duty-free shop and bought a number of items: toiletries, shirts, ties, underwear, socks, shoes, a raincoat, a valise, and a small tape recorder with a dozen batteries and spools. When the time came to pay he jerked a thumb at the Secret Service man.
“My friend here will pay by credit card,” he said.
The limpet detached himself at the door of the Concorde. The British stewardess showed Quinn to his seat near the front, giving him no more attention than anyone else. He settled into his aisle seat. A few moments later someone took the aisle seat across the way. He glanced across. Blond, short shining hair, about thirty-five, a good, strong face. The heels were a smidgen too flat, the suit a mite too severe for the figure beneath.
The Concorde swung into line, paused, trembled, and then hurled herself down the runway. The bird-of-prey nose lifted, the claws of the rear wheels lost contact, the ground below tilted forty-five degrees, and Washington dropped quickly away.
There was something else. Two tiny holes in her lapel, the sort of holes that might be made by a safety pin. The sort of safety pin that might hold an ID card. He leaned across.
“Which department are you from?”
She looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Bureau. Which department in the Bureau are you from?”
She had the grace to blush. She bit her lip and thought it over. Well, it had to come sooner or later.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. My name’s Somerville. Agent Sam Somerville. I’ve been told ...”
“It’s all right, Miss Sam Somerville. I know what you’ve been told.”
The no-smoking lights flicked off. The addicts in the rear lit up. A stewardess approached, dispensing glasses of champagne. The businessman in the window seat to Quinn’s left took the last one. She turned to go. Quinn stopped her, apologized, took her silver salver, whipped away the doily that covered it, and held up the tray. In the reflection he surveyed the rows behind him. It took seven seconds. Then he thanked the puzzled stewardess and gave her back the tray.
“When the seat-belt lights go off, you’d better tell that young sprig from Langley in Row Twenty-one to get his butt up here,” he said to Agent Somerville. Five minutes later she returned with the young man from the rear. He was flushed and apologetic, pushing back his floppy blond hair and managing a boy-next-door grin.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quinn. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just that they told me ...”
“Yes, I know. Take a seat.” Quinn gestured to a vacant seat one row forward. “Someone as badly troubled by cigarette smoke stands out, sitting back there.”
“Oh.” The young man was subdued, did as he was told.
Quinn glanced out. The Concorde wheeled over the New England coast, preparing to go supersonic. Not yet out of America and the promises were being broken already. It was 10:15 Eastern Daylight time and 3:15 P.M. in London, and three hours to Heathrow.
Chapter 6
Simon Cormack spent the first twenty-four hours of his captivity in total isolation. Experts would know this was part of the softening-up process, a long opportunity for the hostage to dwell upon his isolation and his helplessness. Also a chance for hunger and tiredness to set in. A hostage full of pep, prepared to argue and complain, or even plan some kind of escape, simply makes problems for his abductors. A victim reduced to hopelessness and pathetic gratitude for small mercies is much easier to handle.
At 10:00 A.M. of the second day, about the time Quinn strode into the Cabinet Room in Washington, Simon was in a fitful doze when he heard the click of the peephole in the cellar door. Looking at it, he could make out a single eye watching him; his bed was exactly opposite the door and even when his ten-foot chain was fully extended he could never be out of view from the peephole.
After several seconds he heard the rasp of two bolts being drawn back. The door opened three inches and a black-gloved hand came around the edge. It gripped a white card with a message written with a marker pen in block capitals:
YOU HEAR THREE KNOCKS YOU PUT ON THE HOOD.
UNDERSTAND? ACKNOWLEDGE.
He waited for several seconds, unsure what to do. The card waggled impatiently.
“Yes,” he said, “I understand. Three knocks on that door and I put on the hood.”
The card was withdrawn and replaced by another. The second card said:
TWO KNOCKS YOU CAN TAKE THE HOOD OFF AGAIN.
ANY TRICKS—YOU DIE.
“I understand that,” he called toward the door. The card was withdrawn. The door closed. After several seconds there were three loud knocks. Obediently the youth reached for the thick black cowl hood, which lay on the end of his bed. He pulled it over his head and even down to his shoulders, placed his hands on his knees, and waited, trembling. Through the thickness of the material he heard nothing, just sensed that someone in soft shoes had entered the cellar.
In fact the kidnapper who came in was still dressed in black from head to foot, complete with ski mask, only his eyes visible, despite Simon Cormack’s inability to see a thing. These were the leader’s instructions. The man placed something near the bed and withdrew. Under his hood Simon heard the door close, the rasp of bolts, then two clear knocks. Slowly he pulled off the hood. On the floor lay a plastic tray. It bore a plastic plate, knife, fork, and tumbler. On the plate were sausages, baked beans, bacon, and a hunk of bread. The tumbler held water.
He was ravenous, having eaten nothing since the dinner of the night before his run, and without thinking called “Thank you” at the door. As he said it he could have kicked himself. He should not be thanking these bastards. He did not realize in his innocence that the Stockholm syndrome was beginning to take effect: that strange empathy that builds up from a victim to his persecutors, so that the victim turns his rage against the authorities who allowed it all to happen, rather than against the abductors.
He ate every last scrap of food, drank the water slowly and with deep satisfaction, and fell asleep. An hour later the signals were repeated, the process was reversed, and the tray disappeared. Simon used the bucket for the fourth time, then lay back on the bed and thought of home, and what they might be doing for him.
As he lay there Commander Williams returned from Leicester to London and reported to Deputy A.C. Cramer at the latter’s office in New Scotland Yard. Conveniently, the Yard, headquarters of the Met., is only four hundred yards from the Cabinet Office.
The former owner of the Ford Transit had been in Leicester police station under guard, a frightened and, as it turned out, innocent man. He protested that his Transit van had been neither stolen nor sold; it had been written off in a crash two months earlier. As he was moving to a new home at the time, he had forgotten to inform the Licensing Center at Swansea.
Step by step Commander Williams had checked out the story. The man, a jobbing builder, had been picking up two marble fireplaces from a dealer in south London. Swerving around a corner near the demolition site from which the fireplaces had been stripped, he had an argument with a steam shovel. The steam shovel won. The Transit van, then still its original blue, had to be written off completely. Although visible damage had been small, and mainly concentrated in the radiator area, the chassis had been twisted out of alignment.
He had returned to Nottingham alone. His insurance company had examined the Transit in the yard of a local recovery firm, pronounced it unmendable, but declined to pay him because his coverage was not comprehensive and he was at fault for hitting the steam shovel. Much aggrieved, he had accepted £20 for the wreck, by telephone from the recovery firm, and had nev
er returned to London.
“Someone put it back on the road,” said Williams.
“Good,” said Cramer. “That means they’re ‘bent.’ It checks. The lab boys said someone had worked on the chassis with a welder. Also the green paint had been laid over the maker’s blue cellulose finish. A rough spray job. Find out who did it and whom they sold it to.”
“I’m going down to Balham,” said Williams. “The crash-recovery firm is based there.”
Cramer went back to his work. He had a mountain of it, coming in from a dozen different teams. The forensic reports were almost all in and were brilliant as far as they went. The trouble was, that was not far enough. The slugs taken from the bodies matched the bullet cases from the Skorpion, not surprisingly. No further witnesses had come forward from the Oxford area. The abductors had left no fingerprints, or any other traces except car tire tracks. The van tracks were useless—they had the van, albeit fire-gutted. No one had seen anyone near the barn. The sedan tire tracks leading from the barn had been identified by make and model, but would fit half a million sedans.
A dozen county forces were quietly checking with real estate agents for a property leased over the past six months with enough space and privacy to suit the kidnappers. The Met. was doing the same inside London, in case the criminals were holed up right in the capital itself. That meant thousands of house rentals to be checked out. Cash deals were top of the list, and there were still hundreds of those. Already a dozen discreet little love nests, two rented by national celebrities, had come to light.
Underworld informants, the “grasses,” were being leaned on to see if they had heard whispers of a team of known villains, preparing a big one, or of “slags” and “faces” (slang for known criminals) suddenly disappearing from their haunts. The underworld was being turned over in a big way but had come up with nothing so far.