Nantucket
8.
THE DAIMLER ARRIVED at Farley Field, was passed through by RAF police and drove to where the Citation X waited, the Airstairs door down.
Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry stood waiting. Both held the Air Force Cross, an acknowledgment of many hazardous missions on Ferguson’s behalf; on more than one occasion, they’d dropped Sean Dillon by parachute into uncertain landings. They were essential parts of Ferguson’s tightly knit, highly secret group. Both were in RAF uniform.
“I see you’ve dressed appropriately for once,” Ferguson said.
“Some of our closest friends are at Andrews Air Force Base, sir.”
“You’re right.”
An RAF sergeant, a small energetic woman, came down the steps. “June Walters, General. I’ll be looking after you. Follow me, please.”
She led the way and Ferguson obeyed. “Hello, boys,” Dillon said. “Here we go again.”
Lacey said, “Is this serious business, Sean?”
“Well, I wouldn’t book any out-of-season holidays for the next few weeks.”
“Terrific,” Parry said. “It’s always so interesting when you appear.”
“Nice plane,” Dillon said.
“Yes. Brand-new. Do you like it? Fastest commercial plane in the world next to the Concorde,” Lacey told him.
“That’s impressive. Let’s get on with it, then,” and Dillon went up into the aircraft.
They took off shortly afterward, fast-tracked by air traffic control as a priority-one flight, climbed steadily west, and had lifted to fifty thousand feet as they reached the Atlantic. Sergeant Walters appeared.
“I’ve got minestrone soup, melon, steak, new potatoes and vegetables.” She turned to Dillon. “I understand you like plain food, sir. There’s an item called an Irish potato pie – lamb, onion and dumplings.”
Dillon said, “Jesus, woman, that’s what you call plain food?”
She smiled. “Apparently. A drink, gentlemen?”
“Bring me a Bushmills whiskey and open a bottle of a halfway decent champagne and we’ll share it.” She restrained laughter, glanced at Ferguson, who nodded, and she went away.
Dillon lit a cigarette. “So, what are you going to say to Cazalet?”
“The truth about this whole affair as we know it.”
“And what will he say?”
“God knows. He’s an admirable and decent man, and he’s suffered many blows in his personal life. His wife died of leukemia; his father, the elder Jake Cazalet who figures so prominently in the diary, was killed in a car accident years ago. The kidnapping of his daughter, no one knows better than you. It was you and Blake who saved her.”
Dillon held out his hand, took the whiskey Sergeant Walters offered and swallowed it. “But if this von Berger thing leaks, the great American public won’t give a stuff about what’s gone before, will it?”
Sergeant Walters handed them a glass of champagne each. “You’re a cynic, Sean,” Ferguson said.
“A realist, but there you go, calling me by my first name again.”
“Which means?”
“That you want me to handle it the hard way.” He raised his glass. “Cheers, Charlie.”
“Cheers, Sean. You’re always so dependable.”
On the beach at the old family house on Nantucket, the President walked with his favorite Secret Service man, an enormous black ex-Marine named Clancy Smith, and Blake Johnson. The President’s dog, Murchison, a flat- coated retriever, ran in and out of the surf. The sea was rough, the wind keen. Cazalet spoke to Clancy and asked for a cigarette, and Clancy lit a Marlboro inside his coat and passed it.
Blake said, “I’ve told you before, sir, there are voters who would hold that against you.”
“We’re all entitled to a weakness, Blake, and these things got you and me through the Vietnam War.” Murchison jumped up and he patted him. “Now if I should beat this wonderful dog,
Blake lit a cigarette for himself inside his storm coat. “I give in, Mr. President.”
“So, Ferguson gave you no idea of what all this is about?”
“Only that it’s a bad one.”
“Then that’s bad enough.” There was a roaring in the distance, and they turned and saw the helicopter landing on the beach beside the house.
“God, the sound of those things. It always takes me back to the war,” Cazalet said. “Let’s go and greet our guests and see what’s gone wrong.”
Cazalet had always cherished his quiet weekends on Nantucket. He preferred to have only the housekeeper
The President said, “Obviously, Blake informed me of the events at Kate Rashid’s funeral, but this – I never expected anything like this.”
There was another pause. Blake said, “Is it really that bad, Mr. President? It’s not as if anything actually happened.”
Dillon said, “May I speak, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Your father, Senator Jake Cazalet – his position in all this is clear. He acted, under orders and in good faith, as President Roosevelt’s man in a most delicate and secret situation.”
“That is true.”
“In a strange way, Hitler’s emissary, General Walter Schellenberg of the SS, was in a similar situation. He was not a Nazi party member. In fact, after the war he was tried and found guilty only of being a member of an illegal organization, the SS.”
“So?”
“I could be found guilty of being a member of the IRA for more years than I care to remember, but that wouldn’t change what Schellenberg personally felt. He was simply the Fuhrer’s mouthpiece and your father was Roosevelt’s mouthpiece.”
“Dillon, watch yourself,” Ferguson said.
“No.” Cazalet put his hand up. “He’s right.”
Dillon nodded. “But you need to explore deeper than that because, as sure as hell, the press will.”
“What do you mean?” Blake asked.
“Well, many experts would say that Roosevelt perhaps
It was Cazalet who said, “Go on.”
“But he considers all the facts and changes his mind. That change of mind would be what all the experts, and the press, would seize on.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Dillon?” Ferguson asked.
“That close to the end of things, the American army crossed the Elbe. General George Patton’s tanks could have roared up the autobahn and reached Berlin in twenty-four hours. Only they didn’t. They were ordered to stay
