The White House Connection. Jack Higgins
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door opened again and Tim Pat Ryan, also unmistakable, rushed out.
‘Dillon, you bastard,’ he called, and in the light she saw the Smith & Wesson. ‘Here’s for you.’
Dillon laughed. ‘You couldn’t hit a barn door, you never could. Someone always had to do it for you.’
His hand found the butt of the Walther and he drew it, crouching as Ryan fired wildly. Dillon put a foot forward to steady himself, but there was a puddle of spilled oil there, and he slipped, falling headlong, the Walther skidding away.
Ryan laughed triumphantly. ‘I’ve got you now,’ and he fired again.
Dillon rolled frantically and went over the edge of the wharf, plunging into the dark waters below. It was bitterly cold and he surfaced to find Ryan peering down.
‘So there you are.’
He raised his Smith & Wesson, and then Dillon heard a voice call: ‘Mr Ryan.’
Ryan turned. Dillon heard a muted cough that he recognized as the sound of a silenced pistol, then Ryan came backwards over the edge of the wharf, hit the water beside Dillon and surfaced with a hole between his eyes. Dillon pushed him away and grabbed for a ring bolt. There was a footfall above, but no one looked over. When the voice spoke again, it was with an Irish accent.
‘Are you all right, Mr Dillon?’
‘As ever was, ma’am, and who in God’s name might you be?’
‘Your guardian angel. Take care, my friend.’
He heard her walk away, as he swam to a wooden ladder and climbed up. As his head rose above the edge of the wharf, he caught a brief glimpse of her disappearing into the shadows, a dark shape under an umbrella that was gone in a moment.
He pulled himself over and stood up, streaming water. His Walther lay where it had fallen and Ryan’s weapon was close by. He pushed the Walther into his waistband and picked up the Smith & Wesson, went to the edge of the wharf, looked down at Ryan’s half-submerged body, then hurled the gun far out into the river.
‘And you can chew on that, you bastard,’ he said, and hurried back to the Mini Cooper.
He had a mobile phone in the glove compartment, got it out and dialled Cavendish Square. Ferguson sounded irate. ‘Who is this?’
‘It’s me,’ Dillon told him.
‘Good God, do you know what time it is? I’m in bed. Can’t it wait until the morning?’
‘Not really. An old friend just passed on.’
Ferguson’s voice changed. ‘Permanently?’
‘Very much so.’
‘You’d better come round then.’
‘I need to go home first.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Because I’ve been swimming in the Thames, that’s why,’ and Dillon switched off and drove away.
Ferguson thought about it and then phoned Hannah Bernstein. She answered at once. ‘Are you in bed?’
‘No, reading actually. One of those nights. Can’t sleep.’
‘Phone through for one of the emergency cars and get round here. It would appear our Sean has been involved in some sort of mischief.’
‘Oh, dear, bad?’
‘The graveyard variety, or so it would seem. I’ll see you soon.’
He put down the phone, got out of bed and pulled on a robe, then he phoned through to Kim, his Ghurka manservant, woke him up and ordered tea.
Hedley had almost given up when he saw her at the end of the sidewalk in front of him, and as he coasted towards her, three youths came round the corner wearing bomber jackets and jeans, young animals of the kind to be found anywhere in the world, from New York to London. Hedley heard the ugly laughter and then they were on to her, one of them yanking her purse away. His anger was instant, he braked at the kerb and jumped out.
‘Leave it.’
One of them pushed Helen against the wall and they all turned. The one with the purse said, ‘Hey, nigger, get out of here, this is none of your business.’
They moved in on him and it all came back: ’Nam, the Delta, every dirty trick he’d ever learned. He grabbed the wrist of the one holding the purse, twisted the arm straight, and delivered a hammer blow that snapped the bone. His right elbow went back into the face of the one behind, breaking the nose, and his left foot scraped down the leg of the third, dislodging the kneecap.
They were on the sidewalk, crying in pain. He picked up the purse and took her arm. ‘Can we go now?’
‘My God, Hedley, you don’t take prisoners.’
‘Never could see the point.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I heard you leave, so I followed. Then I lost you when you went on foot.’
He held the door for her, she slipped in and he got in behind the wheel. Sounding a little breathless, she opened her purse, took out a bottle and shook a couple of pills into her palm.
‘The flask, Hedley.’
‘Lady Helen, you shouldn’t.’
‘The flask.’ Her voice was insistent and he passed the flask over reluctantly. She drank, washing the pills down, a warm glow spreading through her. ‘We’ll go back to South Audley Street now and pack. Compton Place in the morning.’
As he pulled away, he said anxiously, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Never better. You see, I just executed Tim Pat Ryan.’
He swerved slightly, then regained control. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘Not at all. Let me tell you about it.’
Kim opened the door to let Dillon in, and when the Irishman went into the drawing room, he found Hannah Bernstein, wearing a track suit, opposite Ferguson, who wore a robe over his pyjamas.
‘God bless all here,’ Dillon said.
‘Enough of the stage Irishman, Dillon. Just tell us the worst,’ Ferguson said wearily.
Dillon did, in a few brief sentences, then went and helped himself to the Bushmills.
‘For God’s sake, what am I to do with you?’ Ferguson demanded. ‘You know the present political situation. Hands off, no trouble, and yet out of some strange perversity, you went looking for it.’
‘I only intended to lean on the bastard.’
For once it was Hannah Bernstein who spoke up.
‘It’s no great loss, sir. Ryan was like something from under a stone.’
‘Yes, I admit to a certain satisfaction,’ the Brigadier told her. ‘But how does that fine Special Branch mind intend to handle it?’
‘By leaving it alone, sir. Someone will find Ryan down there by the wharf soon enough. That leaves Scotland Yard and a Murder Squad investigation. Let’s face it, a piece of filth like Ryan had more enemies than you could count. It’s not our problem, sir.’
‘I agree,’ Ferguson said.
Dillon shook his head. ‘Jesus, ’tis the hard woman you are. Whatever happened to that nice Jewish girl I fell in love with?’
‘Comes of working with you.’ She turned to Ferguson. ‘To business, sir, our business. This woman with the Irish accent may have done us a favour, but I’d like to know who she is. With your permission, I’ll trawl all intelligence sources on the computer at the Ministry of Defence and see what I can see.’
‘Be my guest,