“This is the President of the United States you’re talking about,” said Lee Alexander of the CIA.
“He’s also the father of the hostage,” said Quinn. “There are things I need to know about Simon Cormack that only he can tell me.”
“He’s terribly distressed,” said Odell. “Can’t you spare him that?”
“My experience is that fathers often want to talk to someone, even a stranger. Maybe especially a stranger. Trust me.”
Even as he said it, Quinn knew there was no hope of that. Odell sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do. Jim, would you clear it with London? Tell them Quinn is coming. Tell them this is what we want. Someone has to get him some fresh clothes. Mr. Quinn, would you care to use the washroom down the hall to freshen up? I’ll call the President. What’s the fastest way to London?”
“The Concorde out of Dulles in three hours,” said Weintraub without hesitation.
“Hold space on it,” said Odell, and rose. They all did.
Nigel Cramer had news for the COBRA committee under Whitehall at 10:00 A.M. The Driver and Vehicle Licensing Center in Swansea had come up with a lead. A man with the same name as the missing former owner of the Transit van had purchased and registered another van, a Sherpa, a month earlier. There was now an address, in Leicester. Commander Williams, the hea
d of S.O. 13 and the official investigating officer, was on his way there by police helicopter. If the man no longer owned it, he must have sold it to somebody. It had never been reported stolen.
After the conference Sir Harry Marriott took Cramer to one side.
“Washington wants to handle the negotiations, if there are any,” he said. “They’re sending their own man over.”
“Home Secretary, I must insist that the Met. has primacy in all areas,” said Cramer. “I want to use two men from Criminal Intelligence Branch as negotiators. This is not American territory.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sir Harry. “I have to overrule you on this one. I’ve cleared it with Downing Street. If they want it that way, the view is we have to let them have it.”
Cramer was affronted, but he had made his protest. The loss of his primacy in negotiation simply made him more determined than ever to end the abduction by finding the kidnappers through police detective work.
“May I ask who their man is, Home Secretary?”
“Apparently he’s called Quinn.”
“Quinn?”
“Yes. Have you heard of him?”
“Certainly, Home Secretary. He used to work for a firm in Lloyd’s. I thought he’d retired.”
“Well, Washington tells us he’s back. Is he any good?”
“Extremely good. Excellent record in five countries, including Ireland years ago. I met him on that one. The victim was a British citizen, a businessman snatched by some renegade I.R.A. men.”
Privately, Cramer was relieved. He had feared some behavioral theorist who would be amazed to find that the British drove on the left.
“Splendid,” said Sir Harry. “Then I think we should concede the point with good grace. Our complete cooperation, all right?”
The Home Secretary, who had also heard of CYA—though he would have pronounced and spelled the last word “arse”—was not displeased by Washington’s demand. After all, if anything went wrong ...
Quinn was shown into the private study on the second floor of the Executive Mansion an hour after leaving the Cabinet Room. Odell had led him personally, not via the holly and box hedges of the Rose Garden, but through the basement corridor that emerged to a set of stairs giving onto the Mansion’s ground-floor corridor. Long Tom cameras were now ranged on the garden from half a mile away.
President Cormack was fully dressed in a dark suit, but he looked pale and tired, the lines of strain showing around his mouth, smudges of insomnia beneath his eyes. He shook hands and nodded at the Vice President, who withdrew.
Gesturing Quinn to a chair, he took his own seat behind his desk. A defense mechanism, creating a barrier, not wanting to unbend. He was about to speak when Quinn got in first.
“How is Mrs. Cormack?”
Not “the First Lady.” Just Mrs. Cormack, his wife. He was startled.