The President's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

where did Ferguson come in? I’ve heard the story, but I’d like it confirmed.”
    “Well, among his other talents, our Sean can fly just about anything that can fly. He was running medicine for children into Bosnia and got shot down. It seems the Serbs were going to shoot him and Ferguson turned up and did a deal of some sort, blackmailed Sean into going to work for him.”
    “Set a thief to catch a thief,” Brown said.
    “That’s about it. It hasn’t made him too popular with the Provos back home.”
    “Well, it wouldn’t, would it?”
    There was a pause. Finally, Riley said, “Look, what do you want?”
    “Sean Dillon, actually.” Brown smiled and offered him another cigarette. “Or to put it another way, the people I represent want him.”
    “And who might they be?”
    “None of your business, Mr. Riley, but I think I can guarantee that if you do exactly as I say, you’ll have your freedom and we’ll have Dillon. Does that give you a problem?”
    “Not in the slightest.” Riley smiled. “What do I have to do?”
    “To start, you apply to see the Governor and ask for Ferguson. Say you have important information for his ears only.”
    “Then what?”
    “Ferguson is certain to want to see you. There’s been a series of small doorstep bombs in Hampstead and Camden during the past two weeks. It’s a known fact that the IRA have at least three Active Service Units operating in London at the moment.” He took a piece of paper from a wallet and passed it across. “You tell Ferguson he’ll find an Active Service Unit at that address plus a supply of Semtex and fuses and so forth.”
    Riley looked at the paper. “Holland Park.” He looked up. “Is this kosher?”
    “No ASU, just the Semtex and timers, enough to show you were telling the truth. Not your fault if there’s no one there.”
    “And you expect Ferguson to get my sentence squashed for that?” Riley shook his head. “Maybe if he’d been able to nick an ASU.” He shrugged. “It won’t do.”
    “Yes, he’ll want more and you’re going to give it to him. Two years ago, an Arab terrorist group called the Army of God blew up a Jumbo as it was lifting off from Manchester. More than two hundred people killed.”
    “So.”
    “Their leader was a man called Hakim al Sharif. I know where he’s been hiding. I’ll tell you and you tell Ferguson. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get his hands on that bastard, and he’s certain to use Dillon to pull the job off.”
    “And what do I do?”
    “You offer to go with him, to prove you’re genuine inthis thing.” Brown smiled. “It will work, Mr. Riley, but only if you do exactly as I tell you, so listen carefully.”
     
    Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defense overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man with a shock of gray hair, wearing a crumpled fawn suit and a Guards Brigade tie. He was frowning slightly as he pressed his intercom.
    “Brigadier?”
    “Is Dillon there, Chief Inspector?”
    “Just arrived.”
    “I’ll see the both of you. Something’s come up.”
    The woman who led the way was around thirty and wore a fawn Armani trouser suit. She had close-cropped red hair and black horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not so much beautiful as someone you would look at twice. She could have been a top secretary, a company director, and yet this was Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, product of an orthodox Jewish family, M.A. in Psychology from Cambridge, father a professor of surgery, grandfather a rabbi, both hugely shocked when she had elected to join the police. A fast-track career had taken her to Special Branch, from where Ferguson had procured her secondment as his assistant. In spite of her appearance and the crisp English upper-class voice, she had killed in the line of duty on three occasions to his knowledge, had taken a bullet herself.
    The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was