The President's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Perhaps the odd occasion, some public function. You know the kind of thing.”
    “God, but this is painful,” he said.
    “You are my father and I love you, and not because you were that glorious young war hero who saved my mother in some godforsaken swamp. It’s the decency of a man who nursed his wife through an appalling illness to the very end and never wavered that I admire. I love you, Jake Cazalet, for yourself, and I’m truly glad to be your daughter.” She held him close and turned to Teddy, who had tears in his eyes. “Look after him, Teddy. I’m going now.” She stepped out into the rain and walked away.
    “God help me, Teddy, what am I going to do?” Jake Cazalet said brokenly.
    “You’re going to make her proud of you, Senator. You’re going to be the best damn President our country has ever seen. Now let’s go.”
    As they walked to the limousine, Cazalet said, “Kennedy was right. Anyone who believes in fairness in this life has been seriously misinformed.”
    “Sure, Senator, life’s a bitch, but it’s all we’ve got,” Teddy said as they got into the limousine. “Oh, and by the way, I just had a call on my mobile. Senator Freeman’s decided not to run. The nomination is yours. We’re on our way.”

LONDON • SICILY • CORFU
EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN
----

1997

TWO
    R ain swept in across London from the west during the night, driven by a cold wind, hard and relentless. By morning, the wind had dropped, but when the prison officer in a navy blue mackintosh opened the gate to the exercise yard at Wandsworth Prison, the rain itself was more relentless than ever. The officer was called Jackson and sported a clipped military moustache, which was hardly surprising as he was a former Grenadier Guard.
    He pushed Dermot Riley forward. “On your way.”
    Riley, dressed only in prison denims, peered out. The yard, surrounded by high brick walls, was empty.
    “I’ll get soaked,” he said in a hard Ulster accent.
    “No, you won’t. I’m being good to you.” Jackson held out a small folding umbrella.
    “I’d rather go back to my cell,” Riley said morosely.
    “One hour’s exercise a day, that’s what it says in regulations, then we bang you up for the other twenty-three. Can’t have you associating with honest crooks, can we? You know how much they’d like to get their hands on a piece of IRA scum like you. That bomb in the West Endlast week killed sixteen people and God knows how many injured. You’re not popular, Riley, not popular at all. Now get on with it.”
    He shoved Riley into the rain and locked the door behind him. Riley pressed the button on the folding umbrella and it opened. He took a tin of cigarettes from a pocket, lit one with a cheap plastic lighter, and started.
    Funny how walking in the rain gave him a lift and the cigarette tasted good. On the other hand, anything was better than the solitary life he led for twenty-three hours a day in that cell. So far he had endured six months of it, which only left fourteen and a half years to go. Sometimes he thought he was going mad when he considered the prospect of those years stretching into infinity. It wouldn’t have been so bad if they’d sent him back home to a prison in Ulster. At least he’d have been serving his time with old comrades, but here at Wandsworth . . .
    At that moment the door opened and Jackson appeared. “Get over here, Riley, you’ve got a visitor.”
    “A visitor?” Riley said.
    “Yes, your brief.” Riley stood there in the rain, the umbrella over his head, and Jackson added impatiently, “Your brief, your lawyer, you stupid Irish git. Now move it.”
     
    Jackson didn’t take him to the general visiting hall but opened a door at the end of a side corridor. There was a table, a chair at each end, and a large barred window. The man who stood there peering out of it wore a fawn Burberry trenchcoat over a dark brown suit. The white shirt was set off by a college-type striped tie. He had