Rain on the Dead (15 page)

“A great pleasure to have you here once again, Mr. President,” the manager said formally. “Let me show you to your suite.”

He led the way, people staring in recognition as they passed. When they reached the elevator, a white-haired old man in a tan suit was leaning on a cane, waiting.

“Good afternoon, Professor Khan,” the manager said. “Going up?”

Khan seemed mesmerized by Cazalet’s presence. “Mr. President, I wouldn’t dream of intruding.”

“Nonsense,” Cazalet told him as the door opened. “Join us by all means. Are you on vacation?”

“No, I’ve lived in Washington for many years. I’m staying here while my house is being renovated. This is a great honor, sir.”

“Not at all. Nice to meet you.” Cazalet shook his hand, Khan got out on his own floor, and the elevator continued.

“The Penthouse, sir,” the manager said. “The White House insisted.”

“Top of the world, eh?” Cazalet said cheerfully. “Well, isn’t that kind of them?” And as the door opened, he followed the manager out.

—

The suite was perfection, and the views of Washington from the balcony were extraordinary. Standing there, taking it all in, tiredness washed over him in a great wave. In a few short hours, his life had totally changed. The assassination attempt, the gunplay and deaths, the uncertainty of what lay before him. There was only one sensible answer to that, so he went to bed and slept soundly until ten o’clock the following morning, when he awakened to a day of heavy rain.

There were no messages when he tried reception, so he spent some time in the pool and sauna and worked his way through a selection of newspapers. Just after lunch he was surprised to see himself on local television arriving at the hotel the day before. No reason was given for his presence in Washington. Cazalet didn’t like that and thought about reaching for a phone, but there was pride to consider, so he hung in there as if nothing was wrong, dined openly in the restaurant that night, and went to bed early again.

Three days of this was definitely enough, four if you included his day of arrival. A rerun on television of him arriving at the hotel was the final straw, and he phoned Blake Johnson.

“I presume they can’t decide what to do with me, but I object to find myself playing the invisible man. If he won’t grant me an audience, I’m out of here tonight.”

“Calm down, Jake, it’s the President we’re talking about.”

“I’ve been there and done that, Blake. I’m sixty-five years of age, lost the two most important women in my life to cancer and my beloved daughter to a car accident in Spain. So what have I got? The fortune my mother brought into the family when she married my father. When I last checked, that stood at four billion, and the board is clamoring to have me as chairman. I’ll leave you to decide.”

He was smiling when he went up to his suite, smiled again half an hour later when his phone sounded. He picked it up and said, “That’s what I call service, Blake.”

A familiar voice replied, “Can’t help you there. This is Charles Ferguson.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“London. You’ve got the number.”

“Of course I have. How did you know I was here?”

“Well, we do have an embassy in Washington, and I was just curious to know what the President is doing with you.”

“Absolutely nothing. Haven’t even seen him, only Blake when I arrived. I’ve been killing time for four days. What about your end?”

“The four days since we parted have been filled with death and destruction. Among other things, we discovered who was behind Nantucket.”

—

It took Ferguson some time to cover everything. When he was finished, there was a long pause before Jake Cazalet said, “So Dillon’s pretending this man Tod Flynn’s still alive whenever the Master phones, Sara Gideon has taken his niece Hannah to live at her place, and the Salters are alive and well?”

“And on the other side, this woman, Myra Tully, and her gang are likely to be trouble,” Ferguson said. “And, of course, there’s still Hamid Bey and his Army of God.”

“And the two men in ski masks who saved Sara when she was attacked. That was certainly lucky. It’d be nice to know who they were,” Cazalet put in. “But enough, Charles, I’ve got to hear from Blake and the President. I’ll get back to you when I can. And Charles? Thank you, old friend.”

—

Three hours later, angry that he still hadn’t heard from the White House, he changed into a black tracksuit, went down to the hotel entrance, and passed the night doorman. It was dusk, still raining, streetlights on in Lafayette Square. Running head down as he pulled up his hood, he emerged through trees and bumped into another man in a tracksuit who stumbled to one knee, came up fast, and punched him on the side of the face.

Larger than Cazalet, he snarled, “Stupid bastard!” and struck out again. Cazalet could smell the alcohol, parried the blow to one side, and delivered two savage knuckle strikes under the ribs that had the man yell, stumble over a bench, and fall to the ground. He pulled himself up, groaning.

“Get the hell out of here or I’ll break your arm,” Cazalet told him.

“Sorry, bud,” the man croaked. “My mistake.”

He limped away, and Cazalet stood there shaking his head, the rain pouring down. “What comes next, Jake?” he asked softly. “Are you going to kill somebody? Vietnam was a long time ago.”

He turned away through the trees, started back toward the hotel, and saw a Mercedes parked outside the entrance, Blake Johnson in a trench coat and rain hat standing under an umbrella being held by the night doorman.

“So there you are!” Blake called. “What are you trying to do? Drown yourself? You’re expected in the Oval Office.” He shook his head as Cazalet got close. “You’re soaking. I’m driving you myself in case you want to talk.”

Cazalet said, “Wait for me in the hall.”

He jumped out of the car and made for the elevator on the run, to the astonishment of those seated in the reception area, among them Professor Ali Khan seated at a table enjoying a coffee and reading the
Washington Post.
Blake moved in out of the rain and stood waiting for him.

Within ten minutes he reappeared, wearing a tweed jacket over khaki pants.

“Will I do?” he demanded.

“Of course you will,” Blake told him.

“Then let’s get going. One shouldn’t keep POTUS waiting.” He hurried outside, Blake following.

Two white-haired ladies were enjoying coffee at the table close to Ali Khan, and one said to the other, “POTUS? That’s a strange word. What on earth does it mean?”

Khan beamed at them over his newspaper. “It’s an acronym, ladies. President of the United States.”

They were surprised and a bit shocked. “Well, I must say that’s very clever, isn’t it, Mary?” She nodded to Khan. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and returned to his newspaper.

—

When Blake ushered Cazalet into the Oval Office, it was in shadows, a table light on the desk, the President sitting behind, papers scattered in front of him, which he had obviously been reading. He looked up, didn’t bother to smile, just nodded.

“Ah, there you are.”

There was the hint of reproof, and Blake said, “Shall I wait outside, Mr. President?”

“No, I’d like you to stay.”

The door to the Chief of Staff’s office stood slightly ajar, although the room itself was in darkness. In spite of that, it probably meant that someone was in there, not that the possibility bothered Cazalet in the slightest, although he could see there was no light on.

“Now then, Jake,” the President said stiffly. “Bad business, this Nantucket thing. What’s to be done, that’s what I’d like to know.”

There was somehow a suggestion that it was all Cazalet’s fault, which he quickly countered. “It was lucky for me that you wanted me to thank Ferguson on your behalf. I’m pretty certain I’d have been dead meat if Dillon and Captain Sara Gideon hadn’t upset al-Qaeda’s apple cart.”

“Yes, it goes without saying that was fortunate. Anyway, the thing is what are we going to do with you now?”

“I understood the idea was that I hang around Washington on display to prove I’m alive if any false rumors of my death started to circulate, while our experts do all the work needed to make my house in Nantucket totally secure.”

“Which can’t be done, I’m afraid,” the President said. “Apparently, the house is far too old, and I can’t possibly allow you to go back to living in it. I was going to discuss that with you when you arrived, but all the current fuss with the Ukraine got in the way.”

“It usually does,” Cazalet said.

“On top of that, there’s a UN committee, chaired by the French President, meeting in Paris at the Elysée Palace to discuss the plight of Syrian refugees. When their business is done there, they intend to carry on to London and repeat the process with the British Prime Minister.”

“Were they hoping you might put in an appearance?” Cazalet asked.

“There’s no way I can do that. I’ve made my decision to run for reelection. Life’s going to be busy from now on.”

“Congratulations,” Cazalet said. “But maybe I could sit in for you in Paris and in London if you want—simply as an observer, of course. The kind of international coverage it’d get would certainly make it clear that I was in the land of the living.”

“Trying to get your face on screen again, Jake? Thanks for the offer, but the CIA, with the FBI, have now concluded that a repeat of the Nantucket affair is unlikely.”

Cazalet laughed out loud. “You mean that al-Qaeda won’t have another try at shooting me? Well, thanks very much. There’s a comforting thought.”

The President didn’t like it. “You know what your problem is?
You’re
you,
which is sometimes a handicap. The gallant war hero bit doesn’t cut it anymore, or your attempt at a man-of-the-people image. The CIA is here to protect the citizens of this country, including you, and I can’t accept your constant criticism of their actions.”

“Of course, Mr. President. It wasn’t their fault that they weren’t there when the assassins struck in Nantucket, and forgive me if I appeared to be suggesting otherwise.”

It seemed to mollify the President.

“That’s understandable, Jake, you’ve been through a pretty dreadful experience. I think you should take some time off. As I recall, you’ve got a wonderful place down there in the Virgin Islands. Why don’t you pay it a visit, get some diving in, try a little fishing?”

“Do a Hemingway?” Cazalet said. “You know, that’s a very good idea. Thanks for the thought.”

“What are friends for? You’ll come back a new man. We can decide what to do with you then.”

“I look forward to it.” Cazalet reached across and shook his hand. “You’ve been very understanding.”

“Think nothing of it,” the President said. “Blake will drop you back at the hotel.”

—

As they eased into the traffic outside the White House, Blake smiled. “I don’t know why, but I get a feeling the Virgin Islands is not likely to figure in your future plans, whatever they are.”

“Careful, Blake, you could be faced with a conflict of interest here,” Cazalet told him.

“Oh, I’ll do my duty for my president, just like I did for you. I seem to recall that meant taking a bullet for you on more than one occasion.”

“True enough,” Cazalet said. “And let me assure you, Blake, nothing I do now will be detrimental to my country or its leaders.”

They turned into the hotel at that moment and parked by the entrance. “Well, that being so, I’m your man. Maybe I can provide a little helpful advice,” Blake said.

“I’m sure you can.” Cazalet nodded. “I have to make a couple of important phone calls, but I’ll be as quick as I can.” He beckoned to the duty manager, who was standing nearby. “Alonzo, if you could see to Mr. Johnson. Nice table in the supper bar. Open a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll be right back,” Cazalet said, and hurried to the elevator.

—

His private secretary, Carol Shaw, had been a soldier’s wife, widowed by Desert Storm when she started working in Senator Jake Cazalet’s office. She had moved with him to the White House, and these days was based in the chairman’s suite at Cazalet Plaza in Manhattan. Because of the time, he called her at home.

“I’ve finally seen the President.”

“How did it go?”

“Not too well, but never mind that. I’m going to stay here tomorrow, do some shopping, but I’ll want a plane around noon. The President says I need a holiday after all the stress lately, so I’ve decided to take him at his word.”

“Are you going to fly down to the Virgins?”

“That was what he suggested, but I have other ideas. I need to be in Paris by Wednesday. Book me a suite at the Ritz. I should be there two days, then London. The Dorchester. See if you can get me the Oliver Messel Suite. I love the vista of London from up there.”

She was surprised. “Is this something you’re doing for the President?”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, Carol. There is nothing for me in his camp, nor will there be.”

“So what’s in Paris?”

“A UN meeting chaired by the French President to discuss Syria. I intend to be there.”

“In what capacity?”

“That of a concerned human being who happens to be in Paris, and like everyone else in the audience, wants to know what they’re going to do about it.”

“I’m amazed the White House would allow it.”

“They won’t know until it happens, will they? I’ll have flown off into the wild blue yonder. I offered to observe for the President in Paris, but he turned me down flat. He’s entitled to do that. I suppose he’d see me as competition.”

“So all this is about you getting back at the President?”

“It’s got nothing to do with him. In Paris, I’ll be an American citizen on holiday, and what I do there is my business.”

“But you’re not an ordinary American citizen.” Her voice rose. “You were once president of these United States.”

“Yes, many years ago. Since then, my red hair has turned to gray and I’m just a civilian. Last year, I spent three days in London on business, shopped in Harrods and the West End, and went to the theater twice, and nobody recognized me.”