“As you wish, Mr. President.”
Blake said, “I’d like to keep a low profile on this one. I’ll fly over in one of our private planes, with your permission, and use Farley Field outside London, Ferguson ’s base for special operations.”
“By all means. As soon as you can.” He hesitated. “When you asked me to cancel dinner with Senator Black, you didn’t tell me much, and I hesitated. Thank God I had enough faith in you.”
“Just doing my job, Mr. President.”
Blake went and opened the door, and Cazalet called, “And, Blake…”
“Mr. President?”
“Take them down. Whoever they are, take them down.”
“You can count on it, Mr. President,” and Blake went out.
LONDON
3
The Gulfstream came in to Farley Field right on time and Blake thanked the crew, alighted and walked across the tarmac, pausing to look around him. A lot of water under the bridge at this place, and not just the struggles with the Rashid empire.
A voice called, “Hey, Blake. Over here.”
Blake turned and saw a Daimler by the control tower, parked close to the entrance of the operations room. The man standing beside it was no more than five feet five, with hair so fair it was almost white. He wore an old black leather bomber jacket and jeans, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The man was Sean Dillon, once a feared enforcer for the IRA and now Ferguson ’s right hand.
Blake shook hands. “How are you, my fine Irish friend?”
“All the better for seeing you. The right royal treatment you’re getting, Ferguson sending the Daimler.”
They climbed in the back and the chauffeur drove away. Blake said, “So how are things?”
“Pretty warm since Ferguson heard from the President. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Blake, but that was a close call.”
“You know how it is, Sean, you’ve been there. I remember how you saved President Clinton and Prime Minister Major on that Thames riverboat years back, and took a knife in the back for your trouble.”