The White House Connection. Jack Higgins
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speculate again. His source of arms from Dublin has dried up. However, there’s family money in his background, he’s rich in his own right, so he’s dealing direct with Jobert. Semtex, guns, whatever, and you’re the middle man. Ryan was in London, but, alas, no more.’
‘That’s right,’ McGuire said eagerly. ‘I’m supposed to meet Barry in Belfast in three days.’
‘Really?’ Ferguson said. ‘Where exactly?’
‘I’m to book in at the Europa Hotel and wait. He’ll send for me when he’s ready.’
‘Send for you where?’ Hannah Bernstein asked.
‘How the hell would I know? I’ve already told you, I’ve never even met the guy.’
The room went very still. Ferguson said, ‘Is that really true?’
‘Of course it is.’
Ferguson stood up. ‘Serve the warrant on the prison governor, Chief Inspector. Deliver the prisoner to the Holland Park safe house.’
She pressed the bell and the prison officer entered. ‘Take him back to his cell and get him ready to leave.’
McGuire said, ‘Have we got a deal?’ but the prison officer was already hauling him out.
Dillon said, ‘Are you thinking what I am, you old bugger?’
‘You must admit it would be a wonderful sting,’ the Brigadier said. ‘When is McGuire not McGuire? This could lead us directly to Barry and, oh, how I’d love to lay hands on that one.’
‘There is one thing, sir,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘McGuire is an American and it’s too easy to spot a phoney American accent. Who are we going to get to play him? We need someone who can pass as American and who can handle himself.’
Ferguson said, ‘That’s a good point. In fact, it would seem to me there’s an American dimension to all this. I mean, the President wouldn’t be too happy to find out in the middle of peace negotiations for Ireland that there was an American citizen trying to sell arms to one of the worst terrorists in the business.’
Dillon, devious as usual, was ahead of him. ‘Are you suggesting that I speak to Blake Johnson?’
It was Hannah who said, ‘Well, that’s what the Basement is for, sir.’
‘Who knows?’ Dillon said. ‘Blake might feel like a holiday in Ireland. Who better to play an American than an American – especially one who can shoot a fly at twenty paces?’
‘Sometimes you really do get it right, Dillon.’ Ferguson smiled. ‘Now let’s get out of this dreadful place.’
Blake Johnson was still a handsome man at fifty, and looked younger. A Marine at nineteen, he’d left Vietnam with a Silver Star, a Vietnamese Cross of Valor and two Purple Hearts. A law degree at the University of Georgia had taken him into the FBI. When President Jake Cazalet had been a Senator and subject to right-wing threats, Blake had managed to get to him when a police escort had lost him, shot two men trying to assassinate him, and taken a bullet himself.
It had led to a special relationship with the man who became President, and an appointment as Director of the General Affairs Department at the White House, a cloak for the President’s private investigation squad, the Basement. Already during the present administration, Johnson had proved his worth, had engaged in a number of black operations, some of which had involved Ferguson and Dillon.
It was hot that afternoon, when Blake arrived at the Oval Office and found the President signing papers with his chief of staff, Henry Thornton. Blake liked Thornton, which was a good thing, because Thornton basically ran the place. It was his job to make sure the White House ran smoothly, that the President’s programmes were advancing through Congress, that the President’s image was protected. The pay was no big deal, but it was the ultimate prestige job. Besides, Thornton had enough money from running the family law firm in New York before joining the President in Washington.
Thornton was one of the few men who knew the true purpose of the Basement. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hey, Blake, you look thoughtful.’
‘As well I might,’ Blake said.
Cazalet sat back. ‘Bad?’
‘Let’s say tricky. I’ve had an interesting conversation with Charles Ferguson.’
‘Okay, Blake, let’s hear the worst.’
When Blake was finished, the President was frowning and so was Thornton. Cazalet said, ‘Are you seriously suggesting you go to Belfast, impersonate this McGuire and try to take Barry on his own turf?’
Blake smiled. ‘I haven’t had a vacation for a while, Mr President, and it would be nice to see Dillon again.’
‘Dear God, Blake, no one admires Dillon more than I do. The service you and he did for me – rescuing my daughter from those terrorists – I’ll never forget that. But this? You’re going into the war zone.’
Thornton said, ‘Think about it, Blake. You’d be going into harm’s way and is it really necessary?’
Blake said, ‘Gentlemen, we’ve worked our rocks off for peace in Northern Ireland. Sinn Fein have tried, the Loyalists have talked, but again and again it’s these terrorist splinter groups on both sides who keep things going. This man, Jack Barry, is a bad one. I must remind you, Mr President, that he is also an American citizen, a serving officer in Vietnam who was eased out for offences that can only be described as murder. He’s been a butcher for years, and he’s our responsibility as much as theirs. I say take him out.’
Jake Cazalet was smiling. He looked up at Thornton, who was smiling too.
‘You obviously feel strongly about this, Blake.’
‘I sure as hell do, Mr President.’
‘Then try and come back in one piece. It would seriously inconvenience me to lose you.’
‘Oh, I’d hate to do that, Mr President.’
In London in his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson put down the red secure phone and touched the intercom button.
‘Come in.’
A moment later, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein entered.
‘I’ve spoken to Blake Johnson. He’ll be at the Europa Hotel the day after tomorrow, booked in as Tommy McGuire. You two will join him.’
‘What kind of backup will we have, sir?’ Hannah asked.
‘You’re the backup, Chief Inspector. I don’t want the RUC in this or Army Intelligence from Lisburn. Even the cleaning women are nationalists there. Leaks all over the place. You, Dillon and Blake Johnson must handle it. You only need one pair of handcuffs for Barry.’
It was Dillon who said, ‘Consider it done, Brigadier.’
‘Can you guarantee that?’
‘As the coffin lid closing.’
As frequently happened in Belfast, a cold north wind drove rain across the city, stirring the waters of Belfast Lough, rattling the windows of Dillon’s room at the Europa, the most bombed hotel in the world. He looked out over the railway station, remembering the extent to which this city had figured in his life. His father’s death all those years ago, the bombings, the violence. Now the powers that be were trying to end all that.
He reached for the phone and called Hannah Bernstein in her room. ‘It’s me. Are you decent?’
‘No. Just out of the shower.’
‘I’ll be straight round.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Dillon.