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“I figure I ought to get what was offered to me originally, all over again. And doubled.”
Quinn could hear the intake of breath. Doubtless t
he man was learning the hard way that if you mess with killers, you may end up being blackmailed.
“I will have to consult on this,” said the man in Georgetown. “If ... er ... paperwork has to be prepared, it will take time. Don’t do anything rash. I’m sure things can be worked out.”
“Twenty-four hours,” said Quinn. “I call you back this time tomorrow. Tell those five down there you had better be ready. I get my fee—you get the manuscript. Then I’ll be gone, and you’ll all be safe ... forever.”
He hung up the phone, leaving the other man to calculate the choice of paying up or facing ruin.
For transportation Quinn rented a motorcycle, and bought himself a chunky sheepskin bomber jacket to keep out the cold.
His call the next evening was picked up at the first ring.
“Well?” Quinn snuffled.
“Your ... terms, excessive though they are, have been accepted,” said the owner of the Georgetown house.
“You have the paperwork?” asked Quinn.
“I do. In my hand. You have the manuscript?”
“In mine. Let’s swap and get it over with.”
“I agree. Not here. The usual place, two in the morning.”
“Alone. Unarmed. You get some hired muscle to try and jump me, you end up in a box.”
“No tricks—you have my word on it. Since we are prepared to pay, there’s no need. And none from your side either. A straight commercial deal, please.”
“Suits me. I just want the money,” said Quinn.
The other man cut off the call.
At five minutes to eleven John Cormack sat at his desk and surveyed the handwritten letter to the American people. It was gracious and regretful. Others would have to read it aloud, reproduce it in their newspapers and magazines, on their radio programs and TV shows. After he was gone. It was eight days to Christmas. But this year another man would celebrate the festive season in the Mansion. A good man, a man he trusted. Michael Odell, forty-first President of the United States. The phone rang. He glanced at it with some irritation. It was his personal and private number, the one he gave only to close and trusted friends who might call him without introduction at any hour.
“Yes?”
“Mr. President?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Quinn. The negotiator.”
“Ah ... yes, Mr. Quinn.”
“I don’t know what you think of me, Mr. President. It matters little now. I failed to get your son back to you. But I have discovered why. And who killed him. Please, sir, just listen. I have little time.
“At five tomorrow morning a motorcyclist will stop at the Secret Service post at the public entrance to the White House on Alexander Hamilton Place. He will hand over a package, a flat cardboard box. It will contain a manuscript. It is for your eyes and yours only. There are no copies. Please give orders for it to be brought to you personally when it arrives. When you have read it, you will make the dispositions you see fit. Trust me, Mr. President. This one last time. Good night, sir.”
John Cormack stared at the buzzing phone. Still perplexed, he put it down, lifted another, and gave the order to the Secret Service duty officer.
Quinn had a small problem. He did not know “the usual place,” and to have admitted that would have blown away his chances of the meeting. At midnight he found the Georgetown address Sam had given him, parked the big Honda down the street, and took up his station in the deep shadow of a gap between two other houses across the street and twenty yards up.
The house he watched was an elegant five-story redbrick mansion at the western end of N Street, a quiet avenue that terminates there with the campus of Georgetown University. Quinn calculated such a place would have to cost over $2 million.
Beside the house were the electronically operated doors of a double garage. Lights burned in the house on three floors. Just after midnight those in the topmost floor, the staff quarters, went out. At one o’clock only one floor remained illuminated. Someone was still awake.
