Table of Contents
ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS
The Wolf at the Door
A Darker Place
Rough Justice
The Killing Ground
Without Mercy
Dark Justice
Bad Company
Midnight Runner
The Keys of Hell
Edge of Danger
Day of Reckoning
Pay the Devil
The White House Connection
Flight of Eagles
The Presidents Daughter
Year of the Tiger
Drink with the Devil
Angel of Death
Sheba
On Dangerous Ground
Thunder Point
Eye of the Storm
The Eagle Has Flown
Cold Harbour
Memoirs of a Dance-Hall Romeo
A Season in Hell
Night of the Fox
Confessional
Exocet
Touch the Devil
Lucianos Luck
Solo
Day of Judgment
Storm Warning
The Last Place God Made
A Prayer for the Dying
The Eagle Has Landed
The Run to Morning
Dillinger
To Catch a King
The Valhalla Exchange
For Ian Williams
Washington, D.C.
THE OVAL OFFICE
ONE
The Washington day in August had been almost subtropical, but by late evening an unexpected shower had cooled things.
The Hay-Adams Hotel was only a short walk from the White House, and outside the bar two men sat at a small table on the terrace, a canopy protecting them against the rain. The elder had an authoritative mustache and thick hair touched with silver, and wore a dark blue suit and Guards tie. He was General Charles Ferguson, Commander of the British Prime Ministers private hit squad, which was an unfortunate necessity in the era of international terrorism.
His companion, Major Harry Miller, was forty-seven, just under six feet, with gray eyes, a shrapnel scar on one cheek, and a calm and confident manner. A Member of Parliament, he served the Prime Minister as a general troubleshooter and bore the rank of Under Secretary of State. He had proven he could handle anything from the politicians at the United Nations to the hell of Afghanistan.
Just now, he was saying to Ferguson, Are you sure the President will be seeing us?
Ferguson nodded. Blake was quite certain. The President said hed make sure to clear time for us.
Sean Dillon stepped out onto the terrace, glass in hand, and joined them, his fair hair tousled and his shirt and velvet cord suit black as usual.
So there you are.
Before Ferguson could reply, Blake Johnson appeared from the bar and found them.
He wore a light trench coat draped over his shoulders to protect a tweed country suit. He was fifty-nine, his black hair flecked with gray. As a boy, hed lied about his age and when hed stepped out of the plane to start his first tour of Vietnam, hed been only eighteen. A longtime veteran of the Secret Service, he was now Personal Security Adviser to the new President, as he had been for several Presidents before him.
We thought wed been stood up, Dillon told him and shook hands.
Nonsense, Ferguson said. Its good of him to make time for us.
Your report on Afghanistan certainly interested him. Besides, hes wanted to meet you for some time now.
With all the new blood running around, I think thats very decent of the man, Dillon said. I thought wed have been kicked out of the door along with the special relationship.
Ferguson said to Blake, Take no notice of him. Lets get going.
For those who didnt want to make a fuss, the best way into the White House was through the east entrance, which was where Clancy Smith, a large, fit black Secret Service man assigned to the President, waited patiently. He had met them all over the years.
Great to see you, General, he told Ferguson.
So youre still speaking to us, Clancy? Dillon asked.
Dillon, shut up! Ferguson told him again.
Im only trying to make sure theres a welcome for Brits these days. I seem to remember there was a previous occasion when they burned the place down.
Clancy roared with laughter. Dillon, you never change.
He doesnt, does he? Ferguson said bitterly. But lets get moving. If youd be kind enough to lead the way.
Which Clancy did, escorting them through many corridors until he finally paused at a door. Gentlemen, the Oval Office.
He opened the door and led the way in and they discovered the President in his shirt sleeves working his way through a mound of paperwork.
The President and Blake were sitting on one side of the large coffee table, with Dillon, Ferguson, and Miller on the other. There was coffee available on a sideboard, and they had all helped themselves at the Presidents invitation.
Ferguson sipped some of his coffee. Trying times, Mr. President.
Afghanistan troubles me greatly. The casualties mount relentlessly, yet we cant just abandon them, the President said.
I agree, Ferguson told him.
The President glanced at Blake. What were those Vietnam statistics again?
At its worst, four hundred dead a week and four times as many wounded, Blake told him.
Two thousand casualties a week. Miller shook his head. It wasnt sustainable.
Which was why we got out, the President said. But what the hell do we do now? We have a large international army, excellent military personnel, backed up by air support and missiles. It should be no contest, and yet....
Harry Miller put in, Theres precedent, Mr. President. During the eighteen-forties at the height of its Empire, Britain sent an army of sixteen and a half thousand into Afghanistan to take Kabul. Only one man returned with his life, a regimental doctor. Ive always believed the Afghans were sending a message by allowing him to live.
My God, the President said softly. I never heard that story.
To Afghans, family comes first, and then the tribe, Miller told him. But they will always fight together to defend Afghanistan itself against an invader.
And thats us, Dillon put in. And they dont like it. And now even young men of Afghan extraction who were born in Britain end up joining the fight.
The President turned to Ferguson. Thats what was in your report. Tell me more.
Ferguson said, Are you familiar with Major Giles Roper, a member of my staff in London?
We havent met, but I know of him. Once a great bomb disposal expert, until an explosion put him in a wheelchair.
Yes. Well, hes since become the King of Cyberspace. Theres nothing he cant make his computers doand sometimes that means he can listen in to battlefield chat in Afghanistan. The people flying with the Taliban come from such a wide number of countries that English has sometimes become the language of communication.
Miller said, Its interesting to hear the voices. Yorkshire accents, many from Birmingham, Welsh, Scots.
Thats incredible, the President said.
But true. Young British-born Muslims are being recruited by doctrinaire preachers who not only encourage them to go but offer plane tickets and a training camp, all courtesy of Al Qaeda, who then introduce them to the Taliban, Miller added. Its an awfully big adventure when youre eighteen or so.
Just like joining the army, Dillon murmured.
